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With a quick glance to the notification popping up on his screen, Minho barely pays any mind to the displayed number of digits—blinding as they shine against the cracked screen protector he refuses to get fixed for the past two weeks. At first, it had been a quite simple stroke of laziness which made him disregard the horrendous cracks in the favor of collapsing into the warmth of his covers after a long day, but later Minho had found within it a reason to keep himself entertained; Somehow the image of walking into a house made of the most beautiful of interiors with an imperfection proudly at display everyday being satisfying enough for Minho’s rebellious tendencies, no matter how much Hyunjin tried to convince him otherwise. He might have been domesticated by the forces of adulthood, but he’s still Lee Minho after all. 

He doesn’t soak in the glory of his salary figure or gloat about it to the cashier who digs daggers into his side as he scans yet another grocery item from a seemingly never-ending pile, instead choosing to flash the other a polite thin-lipped smile as he pockets his phone back into his trouser’s pocket. It’s a weak defense against the sigh that escapes the youngster in front of him, but he’s glad that the paper bags are nearly filled to the brim with all the foods he had picked off the shelf over the last half hour. It gives him a reason to give up trying to play nice and simply pull out the debit card sitting in his pocket—hands swiping against the payment machine in a routine habit before he enters the security pin. 

It’s not a conventional groaning alarm of a Monday morning or the sound of an email notification popping up, but this—the successful transaction made for the week’s grocery supply—that registers in his head as the official beginning of another work week. 

It’s funny because Minho doesn’t need to worry about the big numbers on the bill causing a dent in his bank account or anything, and yet he feels the exhaustion creep into him as the cashier dismisses him with a polite nod towards the bags lined on the counter. 

“Thank you for shopping with us. We look forward to having you again,” the cashier announces, eyes barely leaving the computer screen. 

A polite request for Minho to pick up his order and get the fuck out.

It’s a bit jarring to have the reminder of a cruel world being thrown in his face—Monday mornings showing no consideration for his thinning hope in humane politeness—but the feeling only staggers him for so long. He understands the other’s sentiment within a heartbeat of picking up the crushing weight of groceries in his arms.

It’s a wonder even to himself when Minho makes it back to his car without toppling over under the weight, and actually manages to get the bags balanced in the trunk. The loose apples glaring from the top of a somewhat stretched paper bag looks strikingly like a challenge, but Minho needs to conserve his energy. He has an entire week ahead of pulling portions of meals together, fancy enough to have him yearning for the taste of simple home-cooked ramen and fried eggs by Tuesday night itself.

It’s not common knowledge though—he would never allow it to be—not when it would sprout within the listener a doubt that Minho doesn’t like the process; That he doesn’t like cooking meals that blend nameless hours together into sophisticatedly plated dishes. Because it’s anything but that, anything but Minho’s love for cooking, that leaves him dreading the confirmed ping of another transaction over groceries or the half an hour drive from his place to the Han residence.

Cooking has been his to cherish for as long as he can remember.

Just because he had enjoyed pouring random ingredients into a bowl and watched them intertwine into an indistinguishable mess since childhood, with even a more unprecedented promise of what it would bring on his dinner plate, didn’t mean it had come easy. He had his frustrating moments and teary eyes when his tiny hands would fail to roll the perfect sphere for cookies, with no amount of effort poured into it ever amounting to the perfection that would result from his mother’s skilled hands. It was hard when she would sit there giggling at his pout, easing the frown from his forehead with her featherlight touch, before she would patiently demonstrate to him again the right amount of force and an essential sprinkle of care.

And then it became harder, when she wasn’t there to laugh away his mistakes; Instead, the disappointing sighs of professional chefs and professors being the only sound filling his space as he failed to roll a perfect sphere or make a meal delectable enough to satisfy even his own taste. It was always difficult, and yet Minho couldn’t find it in himself to stop—something about the perfect cut of a tenderloin steak and the symmetrically sliced vegetables for kimbap exciting and soothing at the same time. It was warm enough to have him motivated for freezing morning winter lectures, and meaningful enough to have sustained him through years of casual interest to a professional degree.

If there was anything that Minho was sure of until now in his life, it was the fact that cooking was his thing—one which he could do equally well in the eyes of others as he did on his own. No amount of setbacks and failures, burnt dishes and flavorless recipes, has been enough to deter that determination from his existence. Every day of being a professional chef for the past four years, and every day since he chose to be a private chef at the Han residence, has been a resonance of the same.

The increasing tension in his muscles as he gets closer to his current place of employment is not antithetical to that emotion—neither right now, nor on a Tuesday evening when he craves Jeongin’s half-assed attempts at making them a midnight snack, all while grumbling throughout the task. He loves cooking just as much as always even as he swallows down a bite of pretentiously expensive food, decorated to look elegant by his own hands.

Instead, it’s the simple lack of a person within those dishes that bothers him.

There’s no hint of mischievousness like the one Jeongin pours into his turns of cooking them dinner, as the other tries to prove that his older brother’s professional training is nothing in front of his own innate talent. There’s no hint of awe like the one he finds sparkling in Hyunjin’s eyes, as the younger stares back at his best friend, as if seeing a doppelganger of the usually borderline concerning version. There’s no hint of individualized consideration for Minho to pour, as he puts together popular cuisine dishes without a second’s worth of knowledge about the preferences of its recipient. It’s just food within such days, and he yearns for going back to the scarce moments where for him it was person. 

Again, he would never say it out loud though. Not when the only ones willing to listen to him are the walls of a lonely room he can’t seem to call his own even after having spent the past two months in it.

Definitely not because of how it would have his younger brother smirking at him from the opposite side of the couch they like to settle upon during their movie marathons, as if being a confirmation of Jeongin’s superior aptitude at cooking.

Minho pushes a chuckle down his throat at the thought, and he parks his scratched-up vehicle next to an array of flawlessly polished ones—the third spot on the left sitting open for the revved up engine of his car, as always. He doesn’t know why his breath hitches in his throat everytime he backs his car into the spot but the conscious awareness of it only comes down onto him when he pulls the windows up, a sharp intake of fresh air leaving him feeling a lot less tense. It’s just become a habitual response at this point, probably originating from the jitters of a first-day-at-the-job Minho who had been too scared to accidentally recreate a scene from one of his failed driving license tests.

It’s a lucky day though, he tells himself, when he catches the eye of Mr. Hong, the head housekeeper, who is walking down the entryway with hands full of loose papers and a diary. Minho sends a polite nod in the other’s direction—a greeting of “ Good morning, I made it on time” ringing in the back of Minho’s head—as the older man smiles down at him from his position. There is barely a second wasted in his attempts to empty the car’s trunk within the next moment, before two staff members are ushered to his side, with Mr. Hong nowhere in sight. 

Always an uncredited angel.

From the direction of his interrupted stride, Minho guesses he must be on his way to Chan’s side of the house. It’s never been as frequent before, with the most activity in the second wing of the house being the daily cleaning staff who would walk past Minho’s kitchen counter in the shared space at exactly 9:00am before returning back to square one two hours later. He never hears of any particular requests being floated around the house in the voice of the older son, who he had presumed to be a spoiled brat throughout their introductions on his first day. It hadn’t seemed much too exaggerated of an assumption, not when Chan had looked past him into the distance while nodding along to Minho’s brief monologue about his qualifications and professional experience. 

He had been ready since that moment to not get himself in trouble with the other, tucking down a caution in the back of his head to stay at a safe distance from any rich boys who could potentially tattle about his misbehavior to his parents and get him fired. He didn’t think it would be too difficult of a job after all when Chan looked just as eager as his own self to escape the awkward exchange, but the plan had come crumbling down synonymously to Chan’s stone-cold exterior the second his parents had walked back to their part of the house.

Minho didn’t think he would ever have the chance of seeing the man turn from a spoiled rich brat to a golden retriever-like boy beaming at him within the span of a few seconds, that on his first day too.

Soon after he had learned just how accommodating and low-maintenance Chan was. He barely had any special meal requests, as he wordlessly settled for his mother’s favorite cuisine while being the only one at the table to mumble a soft “thank you for the meal” for Minho to hear. The only exceptions are the days he walks into the house with his doctor’s coat slumped across his arm and achingly loud laughter breaking past his lips, which has him struggling to keep the conversation on his phone going; Something tells Minho that all the traditional Korean food he gets a request for on those days is for Changbin who he finds sneaking out of the house at early hours of the next morning. 

Then again, that’s just been a secret for Minho to witness and never one to involve so many strolls and personal visits from Mr. Hong to Chan’s side of the house. 

He’s sure if Hyunjin was in this situation with him right now, the other would already be buzzing inside his skin with curiosity as to just what had been unfolding under the roof. He would’ve made no attempts to hide it, choosing to walk straight into Chan’s room and knock him down for his secrets, probably, but Minho’s different. He is much more at peace with the idea of being blissfully unaware, especially when the new developments don’t mean any change for his own job. He’s still standing in the same spot he always does as he restocks the fridge with newly bought groceries for the week, paying no mind to the constant trail of boxes being led from the entryway into the direction of Chan’s part of the house.

It doesn’t bother him that every staff member within the household seems to know the reason, as most of them provide an extra pair of hands for the chore while a few of them stand at the corner whispering amongst themselves. It doesn’t matter to him that Changbin seems to be in on it too, shamelessly striding around the household in contrast to all the times he whispers and crawls through these hallways. It’s absolutely none of his business when he has an entire table of breakfast dishes to prepare within the meager duration of an hour and ha—.

Fuck Hwang Hyunjin and his infectious nosiness. Minho can’t remember the last time he experienced inner peace. 

Minho gives up on trying to look through today’s possible breakfast dishes that awaits him in a post-it note atop the refrigerator door, taking a long breath of air as he defeatedly crosses the distance to Chan’s bedroom door in heavy, long strides. He barely makes it to his planned destination though, coming to halt with a sight of the boxes piling up in the previously unoccupied room right across from Chan’s own; that, and he also  finds the older man in question supervising staff’s every move with utmost concentration right next to the room’s opened door.

“Hey, morning,” Minho smiles, waving a quick greeting to Changbin who has his chin hooked on Chan’s shoulder from where he’s standing behind. It’s got to be a lot more uncomfortable than it looks, but he would never be able to guess based on the contentment sprawled across both their faces.

“Oh hi, Minho! You didn’t expect it to be so loud in the morning, did you?” Chan squeaks out, his eyes drifting to acknowledge Minho’s presence only for a second before he’s fixating on the latest box being placed on top of the previously assembled stack. “I thought we’d be done a lot more earlier bu—Be a little careful, yeah? That one has ‘breakable’ marked on it.”

“What’s going on?” he slowly suggests once Chan’s frown directed at a staff disappears, voice sounding as flat as humanly possible in an attempt to mask his curiosity. “Need some help?”

“It’s nothing much. Su—Ah, wait you haven’t met him yet, have you?” Changbin rushes to respond once no answer escapes the other, readjusting his weight to lean more into Chan’s space and bring his attention back to their conversation. It works well enough, if the blush deepening at the tip of Chan’s ears is anything to go by. “Chan’s younger brother is moving back in, so he’s just pulling on his perfectionist tendencies and making sure everything’s just as the baby would want.”

“Yah, it’s not my perfectionist tendencies,” Chan grumpily huffs out, his make-shift glare soon dissipating into a pair of puffed cheeks and pouty lips that have Changbin breaking into a smile. Endeared , Minho guesses. “And he’s not a baby. I just want to make sure the change is not too difficult for him.”

“He used to live in the States, didn’t he?” Minho nods along, threading back to obscure conversations and eavesdropping instances in his memory where he had managed to hear something about an additional family member.

The shenanigans hadn’t earned him much though, with the only pieces of information coming back to him right now being that of the younger son’s present location and the false promises he would make about coming to visit the household soon. Minho had called it bullshit—scoffing to himself at the excitement that reverberated off of Chan’s voice as he recounted his conversations with the other to whoever was willing to listen. Turns out he hadn’t known the stranger all too well to be able to guess that, because the journey from ‘coming back to visit’ to ‘moving back’ had been one he could’ve never imagined the other to be capable of traversing.

It shouldn’t be this disappointing to be proven wrong when the only thing he had heard about the other person was the boastful reminders of Chan’s voice announcing that he had “released a new one”. A phrase which had led Minho to assume that the other was either an artist or a composer or—really the list was endless, and the lack of an answer still should be enough to justify Minho’s surprise and invalidate his annoyance building up in the moment. The chances of him guessing any of this correctly were infinitesimal. It still manages to piss him off.

Maybe surprises just really aren’t his thing.

“Yeah, he moved out after university,” Chan jumps at the chance to recount more of the information tucked into his encyclopedia on his brother, completely ignorant of Minho’s unfocused gaze. “It was a surprise to all of us—he didn’t even tell me he had applied to companies abroad—but I’ve always been a little too proud of him to actually be mad about it.”

“You’re physically incapable of being mad at him, Channie,” Changbin sighs. “That’s common knowledge.”

Chan gasps, feigning hurt as he places a hand atop his heart—detaching himself far enough to have the younger boy stumbling for a quick instance, before he’s stabilizing his weight against Chan’s figure again. 

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

The softness in Changbin’s voice tells him it’s his cue to leave; it’s the absolute sweetness tucked into it, the one that sends Minho’s face frowning into an almost show of disgust before he’s schooling his expression for the sake of social niceties. He can’t bear to be a witness of it any longer, not if he’s to make it back to the kitchen as a human capable of rationality and conscious cooking expertise—instead of representing an indistinguishable pool of jealousy. 

“Well, that’s great,” he quickly supplies, already turning on his heels. That’s an extra serving Minho’s going to have to prepare everyday. “I look forward to meeting him.” He hates new people.

“Wait, Minho!” Chan’s voice falters, as if snapping out from a daze to register Minho’s retreating figure. “Could you put together a cheesecake, if you have some time between the meals? Nothing too urgent though.”

He didn’t know Changbin liked cheesecakes. Chan’s never requested them before. 

“Sure,” Minho turns around in his spot, sending the other an affirmative smile. “Any specific requirements?”

“Er—Any kind works, I think,” Chan continues, with his tone a lot more unsure than before as he turns around to Changbin for help. He must not get any reaffirmations though, because he gives up sighing before directing his attention back to the chef. “Yeah, just whatever you feel would be the best.”

“Noted.”

While Minho actively doesn’t try anything to dissipate the annoyance away from his veins, he finds himself naturally loosening up once he’s situated in front of the kitchen counter again—the ingredients that he had pulled out of the pantry over the last few minutes laying at his mercy. A quick glance at today’s requests had not given him much to work with, considering the lack of any particular requests only indicated for him to have complete freedom to put together a meal he deemed appropriate for this Monday morning. 

He still remembers when days like these used to be daunting as he would stand there frozen in front of the stove, too many options beating each other down for dominance; He hadn’t been used to such creative ambiguity throughout his experiences as a chef at the private restaurant Levant , where his mornings were greeted by an already decided-upon menu by the head chef. Working as a private chef at a household though was different, with Minho taking control of all food-related activities within the settings, be it buying the groceries, deciding the menu or putting the dishes together with perfection. Even though the anxiety of stumbling his way throughout a golden path so early in his career had been overpowering, the repetitiveness of it all had left Minho unstirred.

He is now capable of standing in this kitchen with a hint of peppiness to grace his every step, as he unhesitantly trusts his own instincts before sorting out the requirements for a dish he deems appropriate.

On a windy day still carrying the remnants of the previous weekend’s pouring rain, he’s considering a hot serving of doenjang-jjigae to be the best option.

Minho’s made the stew enough times to chop up the vegetables with practiced ease, before transferring them to a pot of boiling hot water. He doesn’t require much conscious effort to navigate around the preparation of other side dishes—popping up the rice cooker with an amount of black rice capable of providing enough servings for the breakfast crowd, ushering out boxes of fermented kimchi, marinated bean sprouts, quail eggs and much more to fill a hearty amount of smaller dishes. 

Once he’s deemed the vegetables to be boiled enough, he is quick to lower down the flame in the favor of adding the soybean paste into the pot. The long duration required to allow the proper simmering down of its flavors into the food is enough for Minho finish his other preparations for breakfast, a fact he unabashedly grins at as he’s finishing juicing the last batch of oranges just as the timer on his phone alerts him of 20 minutes having passed. The only thing awaiting his attention now is the symmetrically diced pieces of tofu which he quickly drops into the stew, before turning off the flame. Garnished with the finely chopped green onions and coriander, the doenjang-jjigae looks appetizing enough to send a wave of warm comfort down his spine.

It’s been a long time since he’s enjoyed the simplistic yet rich taste of the stew on his own accord, and even longer since he’s cooked it for Jeongin against the biting cold of approaching winters. The realization has Minho sighing to himself as he carefully tucks a reminder in the back of his head—a note for him to buy the ingredients for their most-likely empty fridge and prepare a serving when he goes back on the weekend. Jeongin would surely look at him like a deer caught in headlights, with his eyes all big and wide, at the surprise gesture of nicety but Minho’s sure he’ll be capable enough of dismissing it some way or the other.

A glance at the clock reading five minutes past nine tells Minho that he’s finished quite earlier than he predicted, despite his earlier detour with his curiosity landing him in front of Chan’s figure. It’s still fifteen minutes before Mr. and Ms. Han would walk into the dining hall with their outfits crisp and no signs of a single possible crease, hair pinned into place without a single strand askew and a curt nod directed at answering Minho’s greeting. 

It’s still twenty minutes before Chan’s ushered to the table in a hurry, his coat and office bag slinging off his arm and a familiar soft plea tucked into gaze for Minho to decode. He’s seen it enough to know what it means—a request for him to plate an extra serving of the meal and silently deliver it to Changbin who has, more likely than not, seated himself on the living room couch in the other wing of the house. The already-existing knowledge of Changbin’s presence in the house affirms him of the upcoming scene, as he fills a fourth bowl with black rice in preparation. It won’t be a wasteful effort as long as Changbin hasn’t already slipped through the residence from his preferred method of entry, the back exit.

He doesn’t even register himself humming throughout the process of plating, even as he brings the dishes to their designated positions on the dining table. It’s only when the couple walks into the scene and takes their seats—Mr. Han always sitting down at the center, while Ms. Han takes the chair to his immediate left—that Minho seals his lips shut, responding to their nod with a thin-lipped smile and bow of his own. He has barely gotten to counting down to two hundred when Chan takes his position on the vacant chair to his father’s right side, a soft greeting slipping past his lips. Another similar, brief nod is thrown as an acknowledgment in their son’s direction, and Minho feels angry for him. 

He takes a mental note for himself to be the person to wish Chan a good day in return, once his parents have made themselves scarce. 

“Mr. Han and I will be busy having lunch with one of our clients today,” he hears Mrs. Han announce into the air, her gaze fixated on the food in front of her.

If conversations were a usual trend at the dining table within this household, Minho would’ve never thought to pay attention to the dialogue which seemed nowhere directed at him. However, he’s spent enough of his mornings fidgeting with his nails or the loose threads on his apron to know that every word spoken within the perimeter of this space, that stands as a connecting link between the two very separate and contrasting wings of the house, is laden with intent. And when it comes to the mention of any individual’s meal plans during the day, it’s a dialogue directed for Minho’s ears and his brain to take a note of.

“Noted, ma’am,” Minho replies within a heartbeat. 

He’s practiced through such instances enough to know that he’s read the room correctly, yet he hates that the slightest insecurity in his mind directs him to check his presupposition with a quick glance in the direction of the speaker in question. A sigh almost escapes his lips when he fails to notice any furrowed eyebrows or disapproval on Mrs. Han’s face. It’s a confirmation that he won’t be needed to deliver them lunch for the day. 

Minho’s so busy simmering in the joy of having lesser work on the first day of the week itself that he doesn’t even notice Chan perk up on the side. 

“Actually, I’ll be going out for a meal with my colleagues as well!” he supplies with a smile directed right at Minho’s figure—his intention for the information being much more clearer before it’s explicitly stated just a second later. “We’re celebrating the completion of Yeojung’s ten years at the hospital, so I won’t need lunch delivered today, Minho.”

“That’s a big milestone,” Minho earnestly smiles, with Chan’s display of unfiltered pride in a person he has never actually met somehow being infectious. “I hope you have a great time.”

Even though the presumably supervisory presence of the family members is short-lived, with all of them collectively wrapping up their breakfast within a span of twenty minutes, Minho doesn’t resort back to the serenity of his room. He stays back to see Mr. and Mrs. Han leave in tow, and even stays after that to see Chan finishing up his meal before the older has the coat slinging off his arm again. He wishes Chan to have a good day, along with a reminder to eat properly for lunch; otherwise, he could always ring up Minho and have some delivered to him. Minho doesn’t expect Chan to be much appreciative of his sentiments like these—like the brief moments where he expresses worry or readiness to help the older son of the household who always seems to carry the world on his shoulder—not when he has the authority extended to demand or order any food-related requirements from Minho. The smile reflecting off the corner of Chan’s lips convinces him of a different reality though, where he visibly catches the brightening in the older’s expression before he’s slipping out the door with a wave.

While a lot of such interactions are not a part of his job description which demands niceties from him only till the moment his client’s seated on the dining table, he still voluntarily chooses it over the quiet of his room that stays tucked in a separate corner of the mansion. He appreciates the solitude on the days when he can hear his joints crack from having stood up for too long, which is an occurrence more likely around the end of the weekdays that he spends at the residence. On a Monday morning though where he’s only pulled off a single complete meal, it’s jarring; the silence doesn’t engulf him in a hug but instead opens up the doors to let his worries flood in. 

He doesn’t even realize when his quiet attempts at humming to curb the loneliness come to a halt on such evenings. His emotions take the lead uninformed as they swirl him around in a mess he can’t untangle or understand, raising questions about the kind of person he’s become to be so detached to his own self that he doesn’t even realize he’s sad until the tears are streaming down his cheeks. Logic fails him as a result of such a whirlwind wherein soon enough his insecurities grow past his own self to remind him of the impact he has on others. A trigger of the big-brother instinct there, a reminder of Jeongin’s latest accusation of losing his brother on the other end and Lee Minho’s crying himself to sleep. Even the stifling sounds of loud music blasting through his speakers or a movie streaming off his screen doesn’t help once the downhill descent begins—leaving Minho uprooted for longer than he can afford at his ‘always show them a pleasant face’ job. The one that needs him to stand at the edge of the kitchen counter the next morning with a thin-lipped, sometimes even chirpy, smile. 

He hasn’t ever tried to ask anyone how convincing it appears but he holds back on his inquisitiveness considering the audience’s lack of interest in unpacking the emotional turmoil hidden behind a day in their private chef’s life. To them, Minho’s just a cog in a model, foreign household and to Minho, it’s a job that provides him with enough money to sustain his own household financially.

Surely the loud nights of worrying alone sucks, but Minho’s convinced the concept of capitalism was brewed in the deepest pits of hell itself. With utmost precision and menacing intent by the creator. 

He would know, he’s just as dedicated a chef. 

And it’s his dedication alone which sustains him in the kitchen. In this moment, and on any other days too, as he mentally takes a note of everything he would need to bake a cheesecake. 

Chan’s request had left him enough room to mingle around and get the job done when he pleases to, especially considering just how understanding the other is; one apologetic look with Minho’s lower lip jutting out in imitated guilt and eyes fixated on the floor thrown in Chan’s direction and the other would forget his order to the chef in a second. Hyunjin has told him to capitalize on the older’s gullibility quite often, singing to him all the ways he should be milking the rich for their money and amenities while putting on the least amount of work—that’s what his cousin working in the corporate culture has taught him. 

It’s just a shame that Minho loves his career too much.

As much as he enjoys the thrill of chopping down the simplest of ingredients and combining them into a dish of incomprehensible excellence, he sometimes wishes he didn’t like cooking as much because then he’d be able to choose himself over the scars and burns it leaves him with. He would be able to choose people around him, listen to them better with a shoulder as reliable as a big brother’s should be or an assuring presence as a best friend’s is told to be. Instead, he loses against his craft, in its crevices and peaks, in a strive for perfection and ends up walking out with nothing but a crashing feeling of emptiness as his trophy.

For all and above, because it sustains him.

It’s a wonder he’s still got two people left to hold onto him regardless, even though he’s chosen his passion over them enough number of times to have them slipping.

“Er—graham crackers, sugar, butter, cream cheese, eggs and lemon juice. What else?” he hums to himself, stilling at the counter in front of the ingredients he’s already taken out from the pantry. “Ah right, vanilla extract!” he euphorically declares to a still room, before disappearing amongst the cabinets again.

It’s only once he has managed to gather enough ingredients to ensure that he won’t be needing to make another run around the kitchen that he takes out his phone, putting on his playlist of chill R&B at a volume that’s a bit louder than he usually allows himself. 

None of the family members are in the house so it shouldn’t really be a bother to anyone. He’s sure Mr. Hong would’ve come barging in already if it was.

The taste at faux freedom is detrimental to his usually domesticated professional self though, because soon enough the familiarity of the music and the perfect ease with which he navigates through the recipe of a classic cheesecake has him letting his guard down. He knows it in his movements, how he’s allowing the adolescent years of dancing rekindle in his movements as he mildly sways along to the instrumentals. It’s not careless enough to have him spilling the graham cracker crumbs he has so precisely crushed into a fine mix, with each particle of it being in place even as Minho places the baking pan into the oven. 

It’s not careless, but it’s daunting enough. 

“And there we go, step one done,” he praises himself for an evenly spread layer as he gets another look at the graham cracker crust. 

It’s a child’s play to him by this point, as he navigates back to the kitchen counter to start working on the cheesecake filling. He begins with the cream cheese and granulated sugar, pouring them into a bowl that’s big enough to allow the use of the hand-mixer. It’s barely two minutes spent and he’s got a smooth mixture ready, inviting for the sour cream and other liquid ingredients to be added in a quick progression. He takes a quick detour to pull out the pan lined with the crust out of the oven, before he’s back to the batter and this time dedicating all his attention to incorporating the eggs one at a time.

It’s way too early for him to predict just how the dessert is going to turn out, but something about the aroma of the baked crust in the air and the soft melody guiding his every movement makes Minho believe that it’s going to be good.

The next few steps involve his patience which comes more than easily to him in the matters of food, as it has him setting up a water bath and leaving the pan with the assorted cheesecake batter under its discretion. Minho would’ve never taken the chance if he was at home with the oven of theirs deciding to change the heat according to its own whims and fancies, but the reliability of the rich household’s appliances puts his mind to ease as he sets the timer for an hour; he props himself up on a nearby abandoned kitchen stool, swiping along his phone’s screen for a few times to open up the latest episodes of the anime he’s been too busy to catch upon. 

Other people might conceptualize an hour in terms of its temporal duration of sixty minutes, Minho—with his undeterred faith in the oven—understands it as time worth two episodes.

He’s relieved to find his belief well-placed when he stands up from his spot an hour later, the joints in his knees cracking at the change in posture, to find the cheesecake looking the perfect shade of baked. The victorious joy somehow hits even harder, considering the existing remnants of pure serotonin he had managed to snag through Anya’s cuteness in the episodes. 

Minho turns the oven off with a satisfied hum, letting the cheesecake continue to sit on the water bath for some more time for a much more refined taste—a step he would skip on days that involve meal deadlines or empty stomachs. Instead of selfishly spending more of his time watching anime at the cost of serving a mediocre cheesecake, he takes this time to put together a quick jar of raspberry sauce. He knows it’s going to be a much appreciated addition to top the cheesecake’s flavor, which might otherwise not be his favorite. 

The process takes much more time than he anticipates it to, but by the time Minho’s depositing the finished dessert into the refrigerator, the only feeling coursing through his body is an unbridled wave of satisfaction at having achieved his vision for the cheesecake. It looks appetizing enough to remind him that he hasn’t managed to sneak through a single bite of food for his own self amongst all his cooking—a fact he unrelentingly groans at as he grabs himself the forgotten portion from today’s breakfast. 

He knows a heated bowl of doenjang-jjigae would taste better, considering the worsening cold that’s managed to settle into his nerves from the morning of running around the supermarket’s parking lot. And if it wasn’t for the quick glance to the clock signaling the end of a four hour long cooking spree, Minho would never choose to disrespect food like this for he knows better than most people about the necessities to make the flavors pop in all their ambience.

Today, though, his exhaustion wins the battle as he resorts in the direction of his room with a serving of unheated stew, rice and a few of the side dishes. He had set up the tray for Changbin, considering a signal from a member at the breakfast table would come sooner or later, but the lack of it makes Minho sure that the other must’ve slipped out the house long before Chan’s parents walked the hallways. 

The lesser amount of time it thereby takes for him to get a taste of the food convinces him of Changbin’s early departure being a blessing in disguise for his sore arms. 

Chan (Work)
Today 2:03pm

got your cheesecake ready!
lmk if its what you wanted

Thanks, Minho!
I’m sure it’ll be perfect.

You reacted ❤️ to the message “I’m sure it’ll be perfect”. 

✦

Minho regrets it even before he’s made it all the way to the water dispenser, the cold realization of a bad decision creeping up his spine as the dropping temperatures of a well ventilated hallway hit him in the face.

He shouldn’t have been so lazy to put on the sweater hanging off the corner of his bed.

It’s a wonder his teeth aren’t chattering as he crosses the seemingly endless distance between his room and the kitchen counter, considering just how foreign and daunting the path looks when it’s not adorned by the routinely pacing of the household staff. Minho tries not to be the exception, making sure that all his supplies are sufficiently gathered in his room to make himself a scarce roaming presence in a household after his designated work hours. It’s the only reason he hasn’t gotten used to navigating through the directions when they’re lit with the bare minimum glow of fancy ceiling lights, and almost bumps into a tabletop in the middle of his quest to refill his bottle of water.

“Ah, fuck,” Minho whispers for the walls to hear, looking around to ensure absence of any audience before he directs his gaze to the piece of furniture again. 

The vase sitting on top of it stands just as tall and mighty as before—its precise design and curves somehow mocking Minho’s disheveled strands and appearance—and the sigh of relief dies down inside his throat as he resumes his walk. 

His planned task of refilling the bottle from thereon takes barely a minute, as he rounds the counter with now a heavier weight grasped in his hands. There’s no plan to linger, not when the remnants of his blanket’s warmth coming back to him successfully serve as a temptation to lead him back quicker. Minho’s easily compliant to it too, with a satisfied hum already hanging off the corner of his lips at the anticipation, when he spots the sharper glow of lights infiltrating from Chan’s part of the house. Minho doesn’t have to put an extra effort or croon his neck like an inquisitive intruder to take a note of it, with the way he sees the light patterns dancing on the other end of the hallway right from his position in the kitchen.

It’s a tell-tale sign that Chan’s home.

And that’s a tell-tale reminder of Minho’s nosiness—as Hyunjin calls it. Minho likes to term it better as consideration for both his food and the person and what not, but he barely convinces himself. 

He places the bottle on the counter he had been leaning against a second ago, making sure to push it further away from the corner due to nightmarish fear of sending it toppling over. He knows there’s no need for dramatics for he can always explain his presence there as quite literally a resident staff member, but still his walk to the refrigerator is marked with exaggerated steps and lips pressed together tightly. 

Chan hadn’t been home on time for dinner today, and Minho’s sure he wouldn’t have known if he wasn’t the one serving the dishes himself, if his parents’ lack of inquiry was anything to go by. It however was not the first time where his job at the hospital had kept him later than his routine timings, and Minho had learned over the repeated encounters that Chan wasn’t a person kind enough to himself to get some food in the middle of an extended shift. He had learned to tuck away a serving in the fridge, plated in microwaveable containers for the older’s convenience, and had gotten used to finding it gone the next morning. The only addition being that of a hurriedly scribbled ‘thank you’ note sticking off the refrigerator’s door.

It’s enough acknowledgement for his efforts on such mornings after, and even more than wanted assurance of his cooked food not going to waste but instead filling Chan’s body with some nutrition—one he very much appreciates to himself. He had kept today’s serving with the same expectation for tomorrow as well, without accounting for the extraneous possibility of having a chance to check on the endeavor sooner and his absolute lack of self-control at darkened hours of night. For all he knows, he might even decide to walk into Chan’s room with a tray of warmed up food and a scolding to take better care of himself—all with a polite knock at the door, of course.

Minho still wants to keep his job after all. He hopes it’s not much conditional on him yelling at his employer’s son.

Minho’s presence in the kitchen is enough of an incentive for him to check for himself, as he tugs open the refrigerator with the minimum of force. His eyes immediately land on the designated middle shelf, a small smile breaking out on his lips as he finds it void of its contents; Even the few side dishes he had pushed a little further to the back in the favor of making forefronted space for the main serving of seolleongtang are gone. Chan’s never intentionally wasted food before so it shouldn’t be a surprise that he must’ve taken the dinner to his room soon after coming home, but it’s a nice reminder of warmth despite the cold of the night. To know that someone in this foreign household respects Minho’s food just as much as he does.

He’s in the middle of riding that warmth, closing the refrigerator rather absentmindedly in that process when his fleeting gaze lands on the shelf lower than the one before. What finds him this time isn’t an anticipated wave of assurance but a splash of surprise as he blinks at the missing slices of the cheesecake—nearly one fourth of the dessert’s portion consumed.

Minho hadn’t been much surprised when Chan had popped the request for the dessert, because he’d instantly connected the dots to the potential of Changbin being the recipient. Throughout his months of working at the Han household, he’s learned enough about the older’s lack of preference for sweeter foods on the palette to such a degree that he barely eats the cake at any special occasions. He found it scandalizing at first, almost wanting to change Chan’s mind with a variety of desserts lined up at the table for him to try until he finds one that he likes. However, Minho’s routine menus have given him fewer opportunities than he would appreciate, for the porcelain looks within the family comes with its members’ attempts at regulating their calorie intakes.

And consequently so came today’s assumption that he had made while finishing baking the cheesecake, that it wouldn’t be getting any traction until Changbin’s probable appearance on the day after. To find the fact being contradicted right in front of his eyes is a bit of a shock to his system, which he claims to have adapted to the whims and fancies of the Han family members quite well by now.

Minho’s thinking over the possible suspects even as he steps away from the refrigerator, entertaining the possibility of Changbin having slipped in from the back entrance without his awareness. It’s not a very likely occurrence, but it’s much more plausible than thinking that Mrs. or Mr. Han would ruin their diets right before an upcoming gala event. 

He’s sure racking his brain after eight in the evening is bad for his already depleting levels of rationality, especially when it’s as hard as now that he almost forgets to pick up his initial reason for sparing a visit to the kitchen. With the bottle once again gripped in his hands, Minho walks back to his room with a focused pout on his lips and barely any attention paid to the faint sound of rock music being blasted hanging in the air around him. 

It’s grungier than he remembers the other’s music preferences being and louder than Chan would ever dare to blast in the middle of the night, but Minho doesn’t rack his brain much about the issue with his limited attention already having an indeterminable case to solve.

✦

Surprise, Minho realizes, has become a new addition to the list of emotions he has managed to experience throughout his duration of employment at the Han household.

Amongst all the previous months and weeks, he recalls mostly having been filled to the brim with varying levels of indifference as he spent his days unbothered by the developments among the family members. Sure he’d wince at the loud voices here and there or spend his moments of standing silently in the corner to judge the lower than average emotional intelligence of some of the adults, but none of it was capable enough of weaving him in with more than a superficial interest. There would be cracks in the ceiling sometimes when he would feel the slightest hints of worry pool in the back of his brain about the overworked, picture-perfect older son of the family but he was good at shutting it out; He was good at giving himself reminders to not get emotionally invested and maintain a safe distance, all while continuing to be a human enough to the ones who needed him to be.

Trends since last night have been a bit crooked though because Minho’s sure that the remnants of newly sown shocks within his system isn’t something he’s experienced here before. It’s unfamiliar, and a bit scary, to find himself staggered as if the predictability he’s grown to expect within these four walls isn’t as strongly built as he expected it to be.

It’s a reminder for him to be more vigilant—watch more closely and understand the newly introduced variable in the equations.

The same variable who seems to have something of a sweet tooth, or maybe a specialized preference for cheesecake, to have grabbed a few more bites of the dessert even after Minho’s late-night shenanigans around midnight.

The same unpredictable error who doesn’t seem to be too familiar with the decorum of his own household, blasting painstakingly deafening rock music at the peaceful hours of the night to alert any and every soul of his arrival.

The same younger son of the Han family who is daring enough to be a no-show at the breakfast table, despite the separate servings of dishes set aside for him to take a seat at his brother’s side.

Despite having entered the kitchen today with five minutes to spare for his schedule, he had received the message right off the bat from Mr. Hong who had gracefully waltzed into the kitchen with years of practiced etiquette showing. There were barely any seconds wasted over morning greeting as the man formally informed him of the return of a long-gone family member from the states—Han Iseul and Han Hajoon’s younger son, Han Jisung, previously residing in the States for his career for an unspecified number of years. 

Mr. Hong didn’t need to spend much effort in explaining the purpose for divulging the information, for Minho was already affirming him of adding another serving worth of ingredients to his cooking plans. He had been anticipating the change since yesterday, all the while trying to get himself used to the new measurements and grocery modifications awaiting him, but the resistance had been getting the best of him. He had been comfortably choosing the familiar over and over again in his attempts to put together yesterday’s dinner and was planning on continuing to do so, until the moment a quite direct order from his employer came bulldozing on his rehearsed recipe approximations.

Minho had pushed past his habituated tendencies—pouring an extra amount of rice into the rice cooker and what not to make sure that the quality of the food he put out on a growing number of plates wasn’t compromised. He had done his best to stand there satisfied with his shoulders squared up in pride and an excitement floating at the back of his mind with the possibility of surprising a new person with his food. Maybe he would receive some compliments in the form of Han Jisung’s widened eyes at the authentic taste of Korean food he would’ve missed within the streets of a foreign city, or maybe his eyebrows would shuffle into a displeasured scowl and Minho would proudly get to take that up as a challenge over the next few meals.

That was until the fucker decided to turn the game around and surprise Minho himself.

By the time breakfast concluded with an occasional set of glares and worried glances thrown at the empty seat on the dining table, Minho had grown more than convinced that Han Jisung was nothing short of a figment of his own imagination. For all the times he’s spent deadly bored within the mansion, it isn’t too crazy of Minho to think that maybe he’s been making up the unconventional occurrences in his head—conjuring up an imaginary rebellious son who’s the exact opposite of Chan’s well-mannered tendencies and loves to stir up mischief in a porcelain house he would most likely refuse to call his own. 

Afterall, there’s no way a person so starkly different exists within a place that’s always too monochrome for any lively colors and always too quiet for soulful tunes. 

Minho hasn’t seen him, hasn’t evidenced any living proof of his existence to reject the hypothesis entirely. Frankly, he’s always been at the brink of what Hyunjin calls conventionally crazy so it’s not even too far of a stretch to think—.

“Oh, um—hi,” a hesitant voice breaks Minho from his words, bringing him to ground reality as he sees a man standing in front of him.

He doesn’t seem to be much younger than Minho himself, or at least that’s what his messy appearance lets on from where his hair’s been sloppily tucked under a snapback and his hands stay engulfed in a sweater that’s too big for his figure. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights as if he hadn’t been the one to creep up into the kitchen without Minho noticing; his widened eyes and puffed cheeks giving him more of a squirrely resemblance than probably humanly possible. 

And thank the heavens, because he is proof that Minho’s descent into insanity is still an issue of the future. 

Han Jisung is, albeit a bit questionably, a real human. 

“I’m just going to …,” the man lingers in his spot for the next few second, gesturing around vaguely in search for an explanation before giving up and dropping his hands to the sides—probably in a realization that he doesn’t need to explain his reactions to a mere chef in the house, Minho guesses. Minho thinks that’s as fair as it gets, before he’s nodding in faux understanding of the other’s gestures. 

He doesn’t understand why Jisung waits for his approval, holding his breath and releasing it in the softest of sighs only when he registers Minho’s movements despite his attempts to avoid any direct eye contact. Minho wonders if introducing himself would put him in a more legitimate place of holding that authority—of guiding what goes in this kitchen as the household’s head chef—but the chance slips through his fingers before he can even properly contemplate it as the sound of Jisung carding through the cabinets grabs his attention.

He takes it to be a chance, an opportunity to carefully pick his words for the introduction so that he sounds professionally competent but not come across as a straight-up prideful asshole. It's a thin line but Minho gauges himself to be an expert at treading it well, and soon enough he’s going to have another successful example under his belt when he sweeps Han Jisung off his feet with an unbridled charisma. 

Except the opportunity doesn’t come as soon as he expects it to. 

Jisung keeps shuffling through the kitchen's cabinets one after the other—landing amongst the shelves of pulses, before opening up the drawer of spices and following the trail to find stocked-up boxes of rice and other grains. Minho tries not to let the confusion show on his face, but it’s a hard task when every single cell in the body is demanding an answer to what the fuck this guy is trying to do. Years of working at the restaurant would’ve put him on guard of possibly undergoing an inspection of sorts, but one look at the man’s increasingly reddening ears rids Minho of his apprehension. 

“Uhm,” he clears his throat, loud and rude enough to get Jisung’s attention as he closes yet another drawer with slumped shoulders. “Do you want me to help you with something?”

Minho doesn’t realize the other’s blush is capable of deepening more than it’s already tinting his cheeks, but Jisung proves him wrong easily and confidently. The color forming at the tip of his ears is brighter than Minho’s ever seen on someone—forever instilling within his head a new standard of comparison. 

With Jisung capturing a unique space in his brain all within two minutes of having proven his existence. In a color so close to passionate embers and scarlet wine that it leaves him staggered. 

“Er—you wouldn’t know where I can find some ramen here, would you?” Jisung hesitates, a hand coming to rub against the back of his neck as he raises his eyes to meet Minho for the first time throughout. 

With the amount of hesitancy lacing them, one would think Jisung’s asking Minho to walk against the righteous then and there. But it’s all just a request, an inquiry for a packet of ramen; Minho almost laughs thinking how daunting and commonly of a request that seems to be in a kitchen as fancy as this. 

“I would,” he begins, pressing his lips into a thin line to prevent a grin from breaking out. He doesn’t want to come across as insensitive when the boy in front of him seems to be withering with every second he spends in Minho’s unanticipated presence. “But I don’t think we have any packets lying around right now.”

Minho doesn’t realize he’s dropping so big of a bomb until Jisung’s eyes are widening, his mouth almost hanging open before shakes some composure back into himself.  

“There’s no ramen?” Jisung says, his voice higher and less schooled than before. “Jesus, what happened to this house?”

Minho wants to chime in himself, recalling the first day he had familiarized himself with the pantry to find a complete lack of anything “junk”. He had spent that entire night wondering how people in this house had any will to live left inside of them. 

The situation though, he guesses, doesn’t warrant much of his contribution so he stands there watching Jisung process the horrors. It doesn’t take as long before soon enough the man’s disappointedly shaking his head and retreating away from the kitchen shelves.

“Well, anyways! Thanks for your help,” Jisung flashes a quick smile in Minho’s direction. 

It barely reaches his eyes enough to be convincing, and raises within Minho a curiosity. Would it be just as lifeless if the corners of his lips were to lift all the way up? Would it puff up his cheeks to showcase his squirrely resemblance in all its glory if he were to find some food? Would it direct itself at Minho unapologetically if he were to help in the pursuit?

Inquisitiveness, once again, gets the best of him

“Actually, there’s leftovers from breakfast,” he announces, fixating his gaze on the recently filled containers of food laying on the counter. “Would you want me to heat some up in case you’re feeling hungry?”

Jisung must not expect the assistance or the offer though, because when he turns around, lips are parted in a soft gasp and eyes reflecting off an eager acceptance. Minho thinks it’s absolutely ridiculous that he himself grows excited at the prospect of helping out when it's quite literally his responsibility to be offering the other food. Whether it be leftovers or a meal of his request cooked from scratch.

“That would be great actually,” he hears Jisung’s voice grow clearer as the other covers back the distance he had previously walked out to stand next to Minho’s frame like a shadow. “I’m terribly starving and I was just wishing I hadn’t slept through breakfast.”

Oh. 

Maybe Jisung wasn’t as rebellious as Minho's creative spirits had conjured him up to be. For all he knows about the other as of now, he just seems to be a much hungry and an incredibly exhausted guy who must be having a hard time navigating the jet lag.

“Great, just give me a minute then.”

The next few seconds are spent with Minho making casual trips from the counter of food containers to different locations within the kitchen—first to the microwave with hands full and enough items remaining that Jisung offers to help him reduce the number of trips. His next few efforts are attempts at resembling the morning’s plating of the items, as he fills a bowl of rice and other dishes with now warmed-up food before settling it into an easy-to-carry tray for the other and making true on his stated commitment of time.

“Here you go,” Minho proudly announces into the air, his hands moving the tray rightward on the counter to make it more accessible for his audience. 

What he doesn’t expect is to find Jisung in the process of grabbing the kitchen stool from where it had been sitting, subtly tucked into the corner. Even if Minho’s questioning gaze makes him stumble enough to have him nearly landing head first into the floor, he regains his balance soon enough to cross the distance in one piece. He must feel embarrassed though, because he lingers silently in a manner Minho can only assume to be regretful—for not having protected his pride better, for not having walked out of the kitchen with the tray of a food as a man less clumsier than the show he managed to put on.

“Thanks.”

Minho tries his best to hold back his amusement for he knows it would probably make Jisung feel more embarrassed, but something about the potential of seeing the scarlet rush deepen once again allows a little glint to break out. He smiles restrainedly, in a way that’s bound to come across as a smirk but he can’t care for it when Jisung’s too busy staring holes into the bowl of soup to actually look at him again.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask before but—” Jisung begins, his fingers busying themselves with the newly acquired chopsticks. “Do you work here or … I don’t really remember seeing you around when I was last here.”

And even though that’s not what Minho had expected Jisung to say, he isn’t caught off guard by the question. He remembers Mr. Hong mentioning to him, amongst his monologue about the additional member finding his way back, about how Jisung hadn’t visited the country for more than a year now. It wasn’t a deep stroke of bad luck or an unfortunate series of coincidences that had made him miss Jisung’s presence on supposed weekends or his off-days; Jisung just hadn’t simply woken up a single day, amongst a long series of good or bad ones, with an urge to return to this place. 

Minho would be a liar if he didn’t admit the curiosity which had bubbled within him in the moment—to know, to understand why he was finally back. 

“Ah, right I should’ve done this earlier,” Minho clears his throat, pushing away invasive questions building at the tip of his tongue with a thin-lipped feline smile. “I’m Lee Minho, the chef and the one dealing with food, essentially?”

Minho doesn’t know why he’s fumbling half-way through his introduction, considering he’s done this over a hundred times and with a million times more confidence but it's something about Jisung’s stare which leaves him unsettled. Instead of evading contact like he had been doing, the man sits there looking him squarely right in the eye, and Minho hopes he’s just imagining the sharpness which emerges in the other’s expressions as he continues further. 

“So, yeah if there’s anything you want cooked or added to the usual grocery runs then just let me k—.”

“Where’s Mrs. Seong?”

Minho wishes his voice could be as confident as Jisung’s raising the question, when he’s been the one to ghost the lonesome souls of this house amongst the two of them, knowing well enough that he has not encountered any such person before. And yet, he stammers.

“Who?”

“The chef, the cook; whatever you wanna call her,” Jisung exasperatedly muffles, as he gathers himself out of the stool he had previously balanced himself on, to arrive at greater parity with Minho—albeit only physically. “The one who has been responsible for every meal in this house since my childh—since as long as I know.”

“I wish I knew more, but I haven’t heard about her since I started here,” Minho immediately retorts, his hands weaving behind his back as a courtesy for defense. It isn’t the strongest weapon for his suit, but the looming threat of competition has his insides twisting. 

He needs a job. Jeongin needs his brother to have a job. Their household needs this job.

“I’ve been here for somewhat over a year now,” he continues. “It doesn’t sound that long compared to the person you seem to remember, but I can assure you that I’m just as proficient. You can clarify your diet preferences even if you want, and I’ll make sure to keep them in check.”

“This isn’t about y—,” Jisung huffs out, clearly growing impatient with Minho’s sales pitch. “It isn’t—She’s supposed to be here. She has always been here every time I come back. She wouldn’t have left if it wasn’t something serious.”

Minho doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t. He stands there, feet plastered to the ground with groomed patience and watches as Jisung unravels a seemingly unpleasant box of possibilities. Even though he seems to be having a difficult time processing, Minho doesn’t think it demands his intervention—not until Jisung’s grimacing to himself in what seems to be horror. 

“Oh my god, is it her health? Is she okay? Fuck, I don’t even have her contact since she always called from the landline.”

“Woah, woah keep your breath steady,” Minho decidedly intervenes into the storming spiral, keeping his voice low akin to a steady anchor trying to bring Jisung ashore amongst his worries. “I know it might seem like empty words since I don’t know anything about her, but I’m sure she’s doing well wherever she is. And it might just be me who doesn’t know because I’m new. People like Mr. Hong who have been here longer would know better, so why don’t you—”.

“You’re right,” he hears Jisung whisper, hating that his chest swells up at the merest affirmation because it gives him more to lose within the next second. “You can’t help me at all.”

And within seconds, the scene in front of him shifts. His previous attempts to memorize Jisung’s presence—of his shorter stature, the pitch black strands peeking from under his snapback and his eyes lidded with the weight of unacknowledged grief—dissipating as all he’s left with is the sight of the other’s retreating back. 

The food sitting untouched on the counter is proof enough that he’s completed his responsibilities thoroughly, even under the unanticipated scrutiny. 

Yet, he feels like he’s added up to be one of Jisung’s disappointments from the place amongst other immeasurable ones.

✦

“Innie, what do you wanna have for dinner?” Minho throws the question into the air, his voice louder than it needs to be considering his brother’s seated just a few steps away on the sofa.

But it isn’t reasonable enough to deter Minho, considering it’s the only time of the week and the sole place he finds comfort in after he steps out of the Hans’ mansion to be able to shed his faux composure. Inside these four walls, that hold the key for a much smaller space and cramped furniture, resides Minho’s home where he’s clumsy as he bumps into familiar corners and stubs his toe against Jeongin’s decided placement of the coffee table for the day. Inside here, he’s unapologetically loud as he sings along to old-time tunes that makes the younger call him old-fashioned, and he gets in the other’s space with an annoyingly curated baby voice.

It doesn’t earn him the amusement that is likely in case the recipient was an actual two year old, but Jeongin’s eyes rolling at him as he grumbles about being a legal adult are hilarious enough for him to continue.

“Does our Innie want something special? Come on, let hyung know,” he continues, lips curling up in anticipation as he watches the younger’s fingers stilling against the laptop propped in his lap. “I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll make you anything you ask for. Even doenjang-jjigae . I made it recently for the Hans, you know? And I’m not one to boast but it turned out great.”

“Who are you kidding?” Jeongin huffs, giving up on his attempts to concentrate on the screen in the favor of depositing it on the table in front of him before turning his full attention to Minho’s figure leaning on the kitchen counter. “You’re always one to boast. The only one even, sometimes.”

“And why shouldn’t I? Afterall, I’m good—great even—at what I do.”

“Yeah, yeah whatever,” Jeongin laughs, but Minho’s familiar with him.

Familiar enough to know which one’s ridden with sarcasm and disagreement, and habituated enough to this kind which is underscored with an unadulterated pride. Pride in his brother, in his food and proficiency, he hopes though because he has never had the courage to clarify it to Jeongin’s face.

“How’s it going though? Everyone still too rich and quiet in that mansion?”

“Of course, Innie. The rich never change, they’re always stuck up in those carefully sculpted personalities you know? I guess you haven’t seen the world enough to know that,” he dramatically sighs, ignoring the retort that bubbles up from the younger at the insinuation. “Their son—younger one, I mean, not Chan—returned this week from the States though and I’m still not sure if he’s a person or just a product of the Han family factory.”

“It’s surprising enough that he’s making you question in the first place,” Jeongin raises his eyebrows, getting himself more comfortable on the couch as bunches up a pillow in his lap. “Otherwise, you didn’t even give any of them a chance when you started there.”

“Again, you can never hold that against me unless you’ve met them,” Minho pouts, before deciding that he’s had enough of the conversation even on an off day.

He’s already standing in front of the refrigerator to scour for whatever ingredients they have available for the day, knowing well enough not to expect much after he had decided to postpone grocery shopping on his way back home for the weekend. There might even be dried out pizza slices awaiting him, in case Jeongin had a night where he needed to pull an all-nighter dedicated to a hellish assignment sucking at every bit of his rationality, but he hopes against it considering the other’s final season is still a few weeks away. 

“I’ll skip dinner by the way; going out with a friend,” he hears the younger’s voice growing closer, until he turns around to find Jeongin now sitting at the counter. “There isn’t much stuff to eat considering you were a lazy ass but let me know if you need something—groceries or take-out, whatever. I’ll get it on my way back.”

“A friend, huh?” Minho’s amusement returns, the worry of fixing himself a dinner subsiding. “Do I know about this friend? Are they entertaining enough for you to tolerate a supermarket visit with them?”

Minho knows it’s the perfect bull’s eye for his teasing remarks to target, considering all the times he has pleaded and threatened for Jeongin to accompany him on their grocery runs and everytime that he’s gotten the response to be a blank stare. Needless to say it’s a stab to his ego, to his brotherly attempts at trying to be a pleasurable presence for his brother, now that someone else is one-upping him.

“You literally make it impossible to be nice to you, you know that right?”

“That’s still not answering my question,” he wickedly retorts, a sickeningly sweet teetering at his lips as he stands there with his hands crossed against his chest.

“Ugh, fine,” Jeongin groans when minutes pass by, and Minho’s stance remains unchanged. He knows if his puppy eyes and helpless pout didn’t win him the argument by now, it was never going to win. “I’m just going out with Hyunjin hyung. He said he would show me some books and even give me some of his resources for the finals so we’re meeting the library round the block.”

“Hyunjin?” Minho doesn’t mean to sputter out his best friend’s name like that, but it’s a difficult feat when the only thing bubbling in his throat is incoherent laughter. “You know that he barely passed his finals, right? And in the five years that I’ve known him, I can assure you I have not once seen him even around yet alone actually in the library.”

“W-well,” it’s a rare sight to see Jeongin breaking out an obvious blush, one so unfamiliar that it has Minho jogging up to see if he’s missed any of its instances before when they both have spent time in Hyunjin’s presence. “I wouldn’t dare question the credibility of a kind helping hand like you, so don’t wait up.”

“What, you two aren’t even going to invite me out of courtesy?”

“The food offer stands revoked by the way,” Jeongin cuts him off, breaking out in a rush as he slams the door to his room shut.

“Well, that’s on me,” Minho giggles to himself, making a mental note to question Hyunjin more on the matter when he next sees him.

It’s weird though, to not have worry bloom inside of him because he simply trusts both of the people involved within the situation. He trusts Jeongin and his overbearing calculations to prevent any wrong steps. He trusts Hyunjin and his kind heart which hasn’t managed to hurt him over the long expanse of their friendship and even wider range of experiences they have gone through together. No matter how surprising, the revelation of the two hanging out without him settles quite easily for him as he redirects his focus back onto the pressing matter.

The sight of the empty refrigerator shelves is a disappointing addition on the matter, considering just how unused to he has gotten to the struggle of mustering up motivation solely to make himself a meal. Usually he gets to the work without much retorts, considering Jeongin always capitalizes on the presence of an older brother coupled with that of a professional chef, to have him responsible for setting up their meals on the weekends.

And the weekdays are even easier, since they are more of an obligation rather than a choice where he is meant to put food on the table for people to scrutinize. He is never motivated enough to make himself something separately, instead choosing to add an additional serving to whatever he’s cooking for the members of the Han household. It usually ends up working in his favor, until on some days Changbin or some other guest unexpectedly shows up and he willingly gets to work again to fix himself something less glamorous.

Although recently the issue has been springing up lesser and lesser, with enough leftovers always awaiting him. It isn’t difficult to guess the reason, knowing that the only missing presence from his designated place on the dining table is Han Jisung—at all three meals, nonetheless—and the fact that Minho’s never seen the other looming around the kitchen space to catch up on the missed opportunities to actually pick up some food for himself.

He doesn’t know if it’s even a concern for him to notice, yet alone act up on, but on the fourth day of not seeing Jisung eating his portions almost has him knocking on Chan’s door to alarm him; that is until he realizes it’s not a child he’s supposed to tattle on. The only other option awaiting him thereon had been confronting the person in question himself, but the daunting nature of the task had been an easy chore to ignore amongst the escape of the weekend. He supposes he would be faced with the dilemma again once he returns on Monday, but the cowardly part inside him wishes for Jisung to have his shit together by then.

Maybe when he returns next week, he will find Jisung seated on the table and expectantly waiting.

It’s a long catch—possibly even an impossible one—but Minho hates getting comfortable amongst the leftovers and a pooling pit of worry.

“I’m leaving now,” Jeongin’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts, as he registers the other standing once again in the living room with a clearly different outfit than before.

Looking more polished and presentable, with his permed curls a lot more in place than before.

“Don’t spend hours in the kitchen. I ordered you dinner from that place you like, so get some rest.”

✦

It’s a difficult feat but Minho suppresses the curses boiling within him as he lands another knock on the bedroom door—knowing well enough it’s beginning to sound more like inane pounding than the polite raps he started with ten minutes ago.

The accountability lands far from him though, probably on the shoulders of an annoying ass guy who most likely is not getting out of bed because he knows Minho to be on the other side of the door. He doesn’t know what he’s done to set off Jisung so bad, but to make him even forget basic politeness, one might think they have been enemies for life; Except they’ve met once, talked for barely ten minutes in that too and within that conversation all Minho did was try to sell himself off as a proficient worker.

Which isn’t illegal or distasteful the last time he checked Hyunjin’s generally offsetting knowledge about the law, mind you.

He hasn’t stumbled into Jisung since that day, despite the fact that he rounds up the residence more than three times a day—albeit having his perimeter being limited to the vicinity of the kitchen—and spends five days a week bound within his room. He sees him sometimes when he makes his reluctant runs for filling up his bottle in the middle of the night, sprawled on the living room couch but he’s never been intrusive enough to cross the boundaries; to throw some blankets over the curled up man and remind him of the unprecedented warmth that exists.

After all, Minho’s good at minding his own business and maybe Jisung just prefers the cold. Minho’s rationality tells him it’s unlikely, considering he can sometimes hear the other’s teeth clattering on the nights he falls asleep for too long, but he has selectively chosen to ignore it for the past two weeks in the favor of allowing familiar hands to do the task. Chan’s always reliable enough to let him know he’s putting his trust in someone worthy.

Except that’s a thing Chan is capable of noticing and remedying.

Minho’s concern about food, particularly about getting some in Jisung, isn’t the one in his territory though because he isn’t there enough to know about the ghost that the younger’s becoming in Minho’s awareness. He doesn’t know that Jisung never rounds the corner of the kitchen counter, or doesn’t take a bite out of the food Minho religiously covers up for him on the table—laying untouched and cold without the phantom of an appetite well met.

And that way, it undeniably becomes a territory for Minho to chart which he had decidedly treaded today with deep breaths calming his nerves and a tray of food settled against his shaky hands. Except that he’s been attempting to unlock the final puzzle—to get Jisung to open the damn door—long enough for his patience and concern to brew into annoyance.

“Jisung-ssi, are you sleeping?” he begins again, consciously leveling his voice to prevent any of his real emotions from slipping into the tone. “I’ve noticed you haven’t been eating much, so I brought a few things which I thought you would like. If none of this, or even my food in general, isn’t what you want at any given moment then do feel free to let me know. I’ll try my best as the house che—.”

“What are you doing here?”

The voice responsible for startling Minho from behind must be aware of the consequences, because within the next moment a hand stabilizes the tray of food in his fumbling grip. The imagined repercussions of having sent the plates clattering on the ground has Minho instinctively muttering out his gratitude.

“Shit, thank you so much—,” that is until he actually registers the man in front of him to be none other than the cause of the entire probable mess.

Han fucking Jisung.

Who apparently wasn’t in his room. And wasn’t probably ignoring Minho like he had been assuming and mulling over for the past few minutes. And maybe wasn’t really as much of an asshole as he was making him out to be.

“The kitchen’s a little ahead up from here, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Ah, nevermind. Minho has been exactly on point.

“Excuse me?” he sputters out, retreating to have Jisung’s grip on the tray fall from where he’s been holding onto it. It’s a weak rebellion but it’s all he’s got.

“Well, you’re standing in front of my room with a tray of food that I definitely don’t remember asking for—,” Jisung innocently quirks up his eyebrows, as if he’s actually putting his thinking hat on to understand the situation. “Because, hey I’ve got my food right here,” he continues, raising his arm to flaunt a food delivery bag in front of Minho’s eyes.

It should be a relief to know that Jisung hasn’t been starving, or isn’t particularly struggling to keep up with his meals like Minho had been assuming. Minho’s humane concern for the other should be quenched, if anything, to know that he’s been taking care of himself.

Except the only fact that he can focus upon is the realization that Jisung just hasn’t been having his food.

He hasn’t been running away from the meals; he has just been choosing to pay no mind to the ones Minho’s dedicatedly cooked and presented. He hasn’t been running away from the kitchen; he just has been making his visits to the space at times he knows Minho’s scarce to be found if he is to guess by the mysterious containers of restaurant food piling up in the trash.

Minho might be kind and what not, but he’s never grown mature enough to turn a blind eye to such obvious attempts at pissing him off.

“Ah, you’re right,” he says, as he pulls his expressions together into a thin-lipped smile. The one Hyunjin tells him to be his strongest, most obvious weapon at disposal in a capitalistic world. “I didn’t realize I had been accidentally trying to put up with an undeserving prick but thanks to your help, I’ll redirect my attention towards more worthy matters.”

The retort doesn’t hit as sweet as it seems in his head, because Jisung doesn’t fumble—doesn’t even look flustered—as he dismissively shakes his head at the comment.

It just makes him hate the situation more because he can feel the maturity seeping away from him into lands unknown. He begins to feel like a middle schooler again; ready to attack, with not one fuck given about the consequences of it all.

“You’re so predictable,” he hears Jisung mumble under his breath, before the younger’s voice grows much clearer as his gaze settles into a square eye contact. “But of course I should’ve expected that you would be annoying knowing my parents hired you.”

“I mean, I don’t really understand that train of causality but I suppose that’s understandable since you’re clearly the smartest person in my room,” he nods his head in feigned respect, as he watches Jisung suck in a deep breath. “Me? I’m just a predictable house chef.”

“The most intolerable one I have ever met, at that.”

“Isn’t it good then that I’m here to sell you food, not my personality?”

✦

Hyunjin sometimes tells Minho that he’s the bane of his own existence, a statement he’s starting to believe more and more as he is realizing himself to be the catalyst for turning around the previous arrangement. The joyous, peaceful one where he wouldn’t see Jisung for days and stand convinced that he was just a figment of his worst imagination. Where the other would turn around on his way rather than exchange a greeting with Minho. 

The one where things were amicable enough, at least on the surface, for Minho to do his job unbothered. 

Now though, he sees Jisung all the damn time. 

He’s there when Minho lazily strolls towards the pantry, grabbing himself another packet of snacks which definitely can’t be healthy if he’s truly rounding them up at the pace he keeps coming back. He’s there when Minho’s plating thought out meals, throwing his take-out containers in the trash while making no attempts at being subtle with the noise. Even if Minho gave up on staring him down after the second day, the sounds of crinkled paper bags and boxes has found his way into his nightmares as if he isn’t breathing down one every second.

He knows it’s an exaggeration considering that Jisung was surviving, living and probably even thriving on the same lifestyle days before the two had their little discord without making it noticeable. And the worst part is that it’s working. It’s taunting Minho like Jisung wants it to, for all the times he has stood in the same space as the other with his palms fisted and lips pulled together in restraint.

It’s almost akin to a reflex by this time, as he anticipates Jisung walking in a million times throughout the day and being the sole cause for his blood pressure shooting up.

Maybe that’s the reason he doesn’t even pay any mind when he hears the other’s footsteps round the corner of the hallway and come to a halt right by his side against the counter, where he’s chopping up vegetables and meat for today’s dinner. It’s still more than an hour before the family finds its way to the dining table for the meal, with Chan who most likely would be joining them if his lack of a message stating otherwise to Minho is anything to go by. Jisung, as always, had been expecting to be a missing presence—one that no one bats an eye at anymore—though his willingness to be spotted out of his room at this hour and potentially dragged down into customary routines might hint towards a possibility.

Despite the proximity he situated himself in, Jisung doesn’t say anything to Minho; he just continues humming to himself, probably to the tunes blasting throughout his headphones that Minho subtly catches from the corner of his eye.

If it had been moderately annoying, Minho might have called him off and told him to stand a corner less obtrusive towards his meal preparation. Except he doesn’t realize how much he appreciates the melody until his hands are slipping to match the rhythm. The chopping speed’s a lot slower than it usually is, but it feels easy on his hand as the pace becomes comfortable paired with the subtle sounds of the other who has progressed towards tapping onto the counter as an addition to his performance. It isn’t as if Minho’s deriving pleasure from Jisung’s shenanigans itself or his surprisingly melodic tone though, instead it’s the potential of the other failing to rile him up with nuisance that makes him proud—for having a thicker skin, and a diverse interest in music. Definitely.

He’s so lost, languishing in the sweetness of an almost victory, that he doesn’t even notice Jisung’s moved away to scour through the fridge—grabbing the loaf of bread sitting out front and depositing it next to Minho’s stash of ingredients before returning back to his scavenger hunt. This time, he already has the tray of butter tucked into his left hand, while the other continues shifting around the supplies in search of something else.

It’s bothersome to have the entire refrigerator arrangement turned around at the hands of a clueless man, but Minho doesn’t care for it when it weighs against the option of actually talking to the other and helping him out. He would rather spend hours doing his work over again, than get in another petty argument where he has to maintain the moral high ground.

Except Jisung must not think the same.

“Agh, I can’t find any cheese,” Jisung grumbles, letting the refrigerator door fall shut behind him as he once again stands next to Minho—gaze clearly fixated on him with no subtlety gracing his accusatory tone. “Seriously, it’s a mess in there. Do you usually maintain your kitchen like that because what I’ve seen of professional chefs is—.”

“I can’t take responsibility for someone who hasn’t bothered to search properly now, can I?” Minho rudely interrupts, hating how his perfected etiquettes fall to the utmost below with the slightest provocation from Jisung. It’s a blessing that the other hasn’t been too butt-hurt by the lack of them though, because it’s been weeks and Minho is still going to bed with employment secured in his hands at the end of the day.

He doesn’t even give Jisung the time to think of another snarky response, before he’s fishing out the block of cheddar cheese safely tucked into the door’s shelves. Despite the need for it, Jisung doesn’t seem too pleased at the sight of being proven wrong. Or maybe it’s the shameless smile on Minho’s face that’s pissing him off, but Minho couldn’t care any less about the reason.

“Oh wow, you found something that you put. Big deal,” Jisung rolls his eyes, snatching the item away into his custody. “It’s like if I were to be proud if I managed to find something in my room.”

“Why, do you want me to try there and prove to you that you’re just lazy?” Minho raises his eyebrows, asserting his stance even though he’s never had even a peek inside the other’s room. For all he knows, it could be the messiest hellhole; he wouldn’t put the possibility far past Jisung’s tendencies. 

“Because if yes, you can just tell me you know. No need to play around so much, Jisung-ssi.”

The remark doesn’t sound as satisfying as it did in his head, and that’s why he doesn’t expect to see a blush forming at the tip of Jisung’s ears. It’s lighter—contained and ghosting—compared to the first time he had caught the sight of it but Minho finds himself staring just as diligently.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Seems like we have at least one thing in common, then,” Minho supplies back instantly, being used to hearing the same thing from different people. He figures it would bother him a lot more if he actually cared about molding himself right for everyone who’s said that to him, but fortunately that isn’t the person he’s grown himself to become. “Why are you even here honestly? You’ve managed to piss me off successfully, once again, so now can you please leave so that I can get to making dinner.”

“How narcissistic of you to think I’m here for you,” Jisung tsks, recovering from his embarrassment soon enough to direct his attention towards the task at hand—cutting a few slices of bread that is. 

It pisses Minho off that they’re uneven and wonky, clearly reflective of the amount of effort put into the attempt.

“I just wanted to make myself some grilled cheese for dinner. Don’t really think that concerns you.”

And it doesn’t, at least if Minho’s trying to be a nice person and not scour the other’s words for the underlying truth—which he’s definitely convinced remains true to his accusation.  

So Minho doesn’t do much, just shakes his head to the other's words and continues doing his work. He’s already finished chopping up everything that’s required, and now takes the turn of setting the stove up for the stew to brew while another burner holds the weight of meat slices being grilled to medium perfection; not too well done, but not too rare either. 

Even if he finds it absolutely comical that Jisung hasn’t managed to finish grating cheese onto his slices within the time Minho’s set half of the designated meal for cooking, he stifles his commentaries in order to respect the fragile peace treaty they seem to have established within the last few moments of silence. He doesn’t say anything when Jisung shifts the pot of stew to the back burner, doesn’t utter a single word even when the other drops shreds of cheese in the process of landing the slices on the hot pan or when he leaves the buttered knife right there on the counter. He’s an adult after all who can mind his own busine—.

“Okay, seriously, can you just let me make it for you?” he instinctively utters, registering the words only when they’ve already made their way past his lips.

Turns out he isn’t as unbothered when it comes to witnessing preposterous crimes being committed. The blackened corners of a toast being grilled for much longer than required urging him to jump in as the knight in shining armor.

“What?” Jisung turns to his side wide-eyed, as if he had completely forgotten about Minho’s presence in the vicinity.

Minho doesn’t understand if he’s just playing innocent or if he’s actually bad enough in the kitchen to fail at his task despite utmost concentration.

“You’re clearly burning the bread. Let me just do it for you if you actually want to end up with something edible.”

“Excuse me, I am not burning i—Oh fuck, I am burning it,” Jisung’s confidence sizzles down within the same second he redirects his focus back onto the pan. The smell of the burnt toast must have gotten prominent enough for the realization to dawn upon him, because in the next moment he’s helplessly flailing around.

“How the fuck do I get it off the pan? Where’s the damn thing that’s supposed to—.”

“Here, let me get it,” Minho says, wasting no time as he grabs the spatula from the nearby drawer and dives into action. Staying true to his role of a savior.

Except his audience is a lot less appreciative of the help than he expects.

“I never asked for your help,” Jisung flatly states once the commotion dies down and his food’s safely flipped to the other side under Minho’s watch. It doesn’t sting as much though, because his voice is a lot more softly rounded than its cruder version before—as if the embarrassment blooming on his neck has somehow found its way to his voice as well.

Painting him down to his true colors; petty and flustered.

“Sure, because the walls were going to point you in the direction of the spatula.”

When he doesn’t receive any reply from the other, he sucks in a deep breath and continues at the task—clearly being able to feel the other’s deadpan stare burning into his side. He doesn’t even get to announce that the grilled cheese is done, when Jisung swiftly takes the plate off the counter while balancing the ingredients in his other hand and depositing them back into the refrigerator before he’s walking out without an acknowledgement for the chef.

“Might’ve embarrassed him enough and finally undone the Han Jisung curse, I guess.”

✦

Turns out he hadn’t undone the Han Jisung curse.

Minho’s almost done for the day when he has that realization, as he is cleaning up the kitchen counters, already having placed the two brothers’ portions worth of food in microwaveable containers into the fridge. He would have finished a lot earlier if his energy didn’t drop at this hour of the night, but it’s nothing he can help after spending hours and hours standing on his feet throughout the day. Not that it’s something he consciously tries to alter either, because he enjoys the lack of rush—enjoys the fact that he can let himself stop and catch a breath when he needs to, instead of running on a clock as he is always doing otherwise.

He’s wiping down the last slab when he hears Chan’s voice reverberating through the empty hallway, followed by the sound of a light slap and someone urging him to lower down his volume for the quiet of the house. It doesn’t take him a single second thereon to know Changbin’s accompanied the other back on his way to the house.

“Oh hi, Minho!” Chan greets him as soon as he lands his eyes onto the chef looming around the kitchen space. He must not expect it though because he clearly stills in his place out of precaution before deeming the other’s presence harmless, and ushering Changbin forward. “We thought you would’ve already gone to bed.”

Knowing of Changbin’s presence as he waves back to the other in a greeting, Minho’s considering ushering himself out of the scene in case the two want to have some peace and quiet for a meal alone. He knows Changbin would be unhesitant out of the two to ask for him to get lost if he really wanted that to happen, but Minho’s trying to be more observant and empathetic and what not to be able to catch onto subtle cues. 

That is until soon after Changbin’s lazy stride is Jisung following him and claiming a seat for himself right next to his brother—probably marking the first time he has seated himself on the dining table with company.

Guess they’re not really aiming for some peaceful, alone time.

“Hi, I was just about to,” Minho reverts, focusing his attention entirely onto Chan as he tips the corners of his lips into the most polite smile he’s capable of mustering. “You guys made it on time though. Let me just heat up the dinner for you, yeah?”

“No, no hyung,” Changbin immediately springs up from his seat, taking the containers from Minho’s smaller hands as the other fishes them out one by one. “Don’t worry about it. You should get some rest.”

“He’s right, Minho. I’m sure you’ve had a long day,” Chan supportively adds, walking into the kitchen to accompany the two of them; Jisung being the sole person who persists in his place, albeit looking a lot more uncomfortable and fidgety than before.

“It’s actually no big deal. I was just about to heat up my portion of the food anyways.”

“Oh, you haven’t had dinner yet?” Changbin turns around on his heels, the sound of the microwave running behind him. “That’s perfect then. Join us. It’s been a long time since we all sat down together, hyung.”

“Er–” Minho hesitates, knowing well enough that Chan wouldn’t mind the proposed arrangement one bit. 

His eyes must give his source of resistance away though, because Changbin soon follows his gaze to where it’s fixated on Jisung in the distance and shakes a dismissive hand in the direction.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, would you Sung?”

Minho’s been long aware that his enemity—or whatever the fuck he has with Jisung—is a secret for them to behold considering they never bicker like children in front of others, but to have it proven right in front of his face as the man in question subtly shakes his head and mutters an approval for Minho’s presence is unnerving. Almost thrilling even, to be sure that neither Chan nor Changbin are aware of the other probably muttering curses under his breath because of the minutes he would have to spend being amicable towards Minho.

“That’s settled, then,” Changbin beams. “Go sit and relax, Channie and I’ll bring the food over.”

He doesn’t have enough reason to retaliate, considering Chan’s used to the routine after returning late from work almost every day, so he lets the struggle die on the tip of his tongue. At least verbally that is, because the way he languidly drags his steps across over to the table is a clear cry for help—hoping and praying that the two return soon enough to elevate the awkwardness in the air surrounding him and Jisung.

He’s still pondering on which seat to claim for himself—Jisung paying no mind to his hesitance as he continues to fixate his attention onto the phone propped up in his hand—when his wishes come true. It isn’t the most desirable outcome considering he’s left with the empty chair next to Jisung as his only option with the other two settling next to each other, but Minho accepts his fate. He can’t be seen asking for too much.

He can however turn it around into situations he deems desirable, even if that means being the starter of the conversation. 

“How was work? Long day?” Minho asks, his lips jutting out in an empathetic pout.

He can see Jisung put down his phone from the corner of his eye, only to reject Chan’s advances at serving him some of the food. Something about having eaten already, Minho’s sure.

“Kind of, yeah,” Chan is the first one to begin. “One of my coworkers was supposed to make the evening rounds, but I guess something came up. So, I offered to take it up for him and only got done like an hour ago.”

“And how many times did I tell you after that you shouldn’t always be the nicest person to everyone?” Changbin huffs after, keeping his criticism and worry alike reserved until Chan’s finished speaking. “That sunbae has been an asshole to you, always. You shouldn’t let him get off the hook so easily.”

“He might’ve had an emergency, Bin.”

“Then let him say that and request for help!” 

“Okay, okay I got it,” Chan giggles, briefly patting Changbin’s head to rid him of the annoyance that seems to be bubbling inside of him. 

Minho knows it’s a method tested and proven effective many times before, guessing by the way in which Changbin visibly deflates in his place—his frown dissipating into a pout settled on his lips. 

“Hyung’s right, you’ve always been too kind Channie hyung,” Jisung adds casually, with his expression harboring a fond look. “I’ve been trying to get you to change your ways since school.”

It mustn’t be anything unfamiliar for the other two considering how they make no big deal out of it, instead simply nodding along in a quiet approval. Minho though, finds himself a bit staggered, as he forgets to acknowledge the conversation around a question posed by him itself; instead, staring and tracing the way Jisung’s eyes soften when they aren’t laced with unnamed darks. 

“I wish I could tell something cool like this guy too, but all I did today was brainstorm some concepts for my 1 million photoshoot,” Changbin thankfully redirects both the conversation, and Minho’s attention before he’s caught staring, back onto track. “And the worst part is I’m not even sure if any of them are good enough to be followed up on.”

“Woah, you’re already nearing 1 million? I remember the last time we met it was around the 800s,” Minho almost chokes on his food, caught in sudden awe of Changbin’s growth. “And that was barely a month ago.”

He forgets most times that Changbin’s this one of the most popular influencers in their time instead of solely being Chan’s silly, goofy (and muscular) friend who’s definitely harboring an all-consuming crush on him. That is, until moments like these where the other nonchalantly throws some reminders at him.

“What can I say? People just love some good content.”

“That and your biceps on display,” Chan jokingly adds, earning a light slap on the arm which only makes him laugh harder. “I still remember that you got the highest engagement ever on that gyming content you posted last week.”

“I don’t remember bringing that up with you,” Changbin turns his head around so quick that Minho is convinced it has got to give him whiplash. “Glad to know you noticed though.”

It’s Chan’s turn to choke on his food and make his way out through a struggle though, because even after seconds of coughing up his composure he’s got no defense at his disposal. Instead, the stifling laughter from Jisung’s corner seems to be pushing him deeper into the embarrassment as he curls upon himself in his place.

“I have got to say though, Minho hyung,” Changbin redirects his focus after deciding he’s ogled just enough of his effect on Chan, directing his gaze back to the men on the other side of the table—a happy little dance escaping him as he stuffs in another bite of food. “I seriously consider applying as your assistance or sous or whatever chef it is whenever I realize it’ll mean me eating like this. I can’t believe Channie gets this privilege everyday.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t let you mind being a part of it either way, but for a more secure option; tell me your qualifications.”

“I can stand next to you and tell you ‘you look pretty while cooking’.”

“Tempting,” Minho hums along, putting down the chopsticks to feign a thinking posture with a hand on his chin. “The repetitiveness might make your words look insincere though.”

“Oh, I’d make sure to channel the very last drop of my creativity for you, hyung. Metaphors, lyrics, proses—I’ll make sure you feel my sincerity.”

“You know what?” Minho falls into a giggle, clearly noticing the double-sided benefits Changbin seems to be getting through his little act. Not only hasn’t Chan taken a bite of his food since the younger’s flirtatious remarks, but the comments have warmed up within himself a feeling of home—the kind of expanse that floats and spreads around him as he hears Jeongin’s giggles next to him on their movie nights.

“You get a free monthly meal subscription just for that. I’ll make you your favorite mea—.”

It’s only beginning to unlock within him a sense of belongingness, as if he has the authority and the place within the house to make his own guest out of Changbin; as if he’s free to pour out his adoration and admirableness for the other in a food specially tailored, even if it diverges of what’s asked of him. It’s barely unfurled when the cold winter air seeps in through a crack in the nearby window.

“You knew who made good bulgogi ? Our old chef,” Jisung’s sharp interjection strikes against Minho’s soft laughter, a shiver running down his spine. “Remember Ms. Seong, Channie hyung?

“Oh my god, yes!” Chan’s voice elevates, as his widened eyes search Jisung’s for a mutual understanding. “I can’t believe I almost forgot about her bulgogi .”

“And the songpyeon at Chuseok! I remember how she had to quite literally peel us away from the box.”

The others seem to be too wrapped in the solace of the newfound conversation—Chan in having the nostalgia of his warm childhood served at right point into the dinner, and Changbin of having an opportunity to hear more about anything related to his best friend of years—to notice the shift in Minho’s demeanor. The diminishing flavor of the bites he takes and his numbing focus on the conversation seem to be a development only for him to notice, as he sits there translucent; breathing and eating with nothing of his own to contribute to the conversation.

Even Changbin, who he would think to be in somewhat of a same position within the uncovering heaps of childhood memories, seems to fit right in as he traces back the understanding for Chan’s love of yaksik to a certain chef and her food carrying undistilled sweetness for the kids that were almost like her own grandchildren.

“I’m done here so I’ll go to bed now,” Minho says after the thinning down of his own presence seems daunting against the loneliness of the night he is to return to.

It isn’t usually like this though, considering Minho’s used to not being the center of attention. After all, having a friend like Hyunjin throughout his university days has made him comfortable with being the seeker rather than the one sought out. And yet, it’s new; the persistent bitter possibility of losing his place amongst all that he knows tainting every forced laugh that escapes past his throat.

“Good night. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

✦

“8:30pm,” a determined voice rings from the other end as soon as Minho has managed to pick up the phone. There’s barely a breath wasted, let alone a greeting, before he’s resounding his attention to the words being thrown at him. “Set an alarm, write it on your hand, paint a reminder on their fucking kitchen wall—I do not care—but be on time. Otherwise, I’m never letting you know about Innie’s whereabouts ever again.”

It’s no surprise though, because it isn’t the first time Hyunjin has skipped past the formalities and jumped straight to the point, even if it meant primarily threatening Minho on the other end. It’s become common to the extent that Minho doesn’t take his warnings seriously anymore—not that he can remember a time where that wasn’t the case already—and instead balances his best friend’s obscenities against the unbothered composure, rendering them completely inconsequential.

“That’s literally my brother you’re talking about, you know that right?” he mutters back absentmindedly, hands busy rounding up the dough on the counter. Definitely needs a bit more kneading .

However, Hyunjin must catch the crack in his voice, for he doesn’t quite agree with the certainty of the statement, instead choosing to scoff at the other’s faux confidence. If it was any other situation, Minho would’ve already been defending his pride and what not; never letting Hyunjin bask in the sense of glory of having won over him. In this argument though, they both know he’s a sore loser.

He became one the moment he moved out of the house to accept this job, instead having to reside at a residence for days of the week far removed from the habituated routines spanning along their shared household. No matter how much he reminisced over sitting down at the same dinner table with his brother every day for years, none of that endearment was enough to keep him familiar. Familiar with Jeongin’s latest food obsessions, his favorite songs to karaoke in the car, his questionable outfit choices or his whereabouts on the days he was more than a missed call away.

Hyunjin, though, had been noticing. He always is.

And soon enough, even without Minho asking, he had turned into an intermediary of sorts between Minho’s days in here and his life beyond these walls. Hyunjin knows he can’t bear losing that, for all the sanity it grounds him in.

“That doesn’t mean anything to me. Being late today, though? That can have some serio—.”

“Okay, okay I get it,” Minho huffs, knowing well enough that Hyunjin must be smirking big and wide in a way that annoys him. “8:30. I’ll be there.”

“That’s all I needed to hear, hyung,” Hyunjin hums along, a satisfied calm taking over his previous tone almost instantly. “You know I’d never be overbearing about stuff like this—Hell, I didn’t even care this much about my own graduation but this is different. I want him to know how proud I am of him and this dinner might not be the grandest way of saying that, but I know it’s going to mean the world to him if you go out of your way to be there—.”

“Hyunjin-ah,” Minho says, his voice dropping to an almost whisper as he draws a makeshift smiley into the dough. “You don’t need to convince me. Of course, I’ll be there. I know I don’t say it often but I’m glad you’re out there planning things like this to celebrate Innie when I’m not. It’s reassuring.”

“He deserves to be celebrated, hyung,” Hyunjin giggles, restrained and yet completely fond. “He isn’t expecting you at all, you know? I’m sure he’s convinced I’m just taking him out for dinner before his big day.”

“I almost wasn’t expecting myself to make it too. Asking for extra time off was literally the scariest thing I’ve had to do since I’ve started here.”

“And I told you multiple times that they weren’t going to say shit. You just asked to leave a day early for home on the designated off weekend. How’s that wrong?”

“Rich people, I tell you. They can find the wrong thing anywhere they want.”

“Can’t fight with that logic, actually. But now that you’ve emerged victorious, see you soon!”

Minho doesn’t even register the wide toothy grin blooming on his face, until he’s disconnecting the call and coming across his own reflection on the refrigerator door. It’s disorienting to say the least, considering that all his smiles and potential joy within this space has been a lot more caged—superficial, and crafted with brilliance—which stands directly in contrast to the unbridled joy he’s radiating right now. It’s embarrassing, and yet he can’t find in himself the restraint to discipline it.

Instead, he makes it an additional consideration for today’s meal preparation as he shapes the freshly kneaded dough into thinly sliced spaghetti, each strand of it carved with little imperfections; some of them a bit thinner than the others when Minho’s adrenaline runs him down a bit too much. And yet, Minho finds within them nothing repulsive as he would on other days, because within them he finds a part of his endearment, his anticipation.

It’s not the most practically feasible task to undertake though, something that he realizes only when the full bowl of uncooked spaghetti comes with a reminder from the clock of having spent half an hour. The flashing 7:05pm seems to be painted in red along his vision, when he starts cursing for having picked the worst possible moment for choosing to cook an Italian cuisine. He’s barely made headway on the pasta alla carbonara from where his dish still sits uncooked, the potential mozzarella in carrozza being nowhere near completion as the crustless bread from moments ago still awaits further attention, and the dessert—that’s not even something he’s finalized in his head for the menu today, let alone begin with. And all that he has left on his watch is an hour, if he’s being lenient.

Quite simply, it is very easy for Minho to throw his calm out the damn window within this very second.

Most times like these, he would know the spiral’s a useless road downtown doing nothing in his favor to turn the situation around—a realization which would soon enough have him directing his energy towards finding a solution, which was sometimes as simple as hurrying the fuck up or as complicated as making up an entirely new fusion of menu that is possible in the time constraint. That’s mostly sunny sided times though, because on some other windy ones he finds the human side of him that falters. The one that panics, gets shit scared and overbears the weight of every single consequence by making it seem like the end of the world.

Minho has never liked those moments, but he has always been cognizant enough to be accepting of them. That is, until today where it seems to be weighing down upon his chances to fulfill his brotherly duty and will.

All he can do today is spiral, and lead himself down further with the amount of frustration that pours above him uninvited.

“Hey, you usually do your grocery runs on Monday mornings, right?” Minho’s descent comes to an interruption though as he’s pulled out of his contemplation with a voice rounding up the corner. “I’m going to be rounding up the last packet of ramen today, so don’t forget to add it to the list, yeah?”

And if it wasn’t already a struggle to keep himself afloat, Jisung’s new addition to the situation definitely makes it more tempting for him to actually give up on the task altogether. It would have consequences, sure, but with the sound of a siren-like sound blaring inside his head in simultaneity with Jisung’s voice, he can’t remember if any of them are even worth considering.

“Hey, are you listening to me?” Jisung’s voice continues reverberating, clearly growing more impatient with every syllable of his that goes unacknowledged with a lack of response. “You can’t just ignore me, you know?”

By the time Jisung repeats his question for almost the third time, Minho isn’t sure if the other’s voice has just gotten louder or if the figure closing in on the distance from him is Jisung himself making an attempt to invade, and draw all of his focus in—a possibility which Minho finds endlessly hilarious, considering his brain’s most likely going into overdrive from being too focused.

It had started out with the clock, the food sprawled on the counter and what not but the surging panic can only deter him for so long before his survival instinct is latching onto any possible signs of sanity. Even if it means centering on the way Jisung’s closing up on him; his  footsteps angled towards their target, his eyebrows furrowing into conditioned annoyance, and his groan from being too tired to deal with Minho’s antics. All of it is unprecedented within the moment, to the extent that Minho doesn’t know if he’s mellowed down by the surprise in a time where chaos seems to be becoming familiar.

He wonders what Jisung would think of it—of the possibility of having brought Minho a desired turbulence, when his only aim ever seems to be drowning him into depths for redemption. He has to be repulsed, right? To be mad, angry and whatever he’s capable of being and whatever he’s willing to display in front of the limited amount that Minho’s seen of him. 

He wonders if it’ll be another unprecedented surprise though; if Jisung would be so caught off guard and unable to pull his pretenses up that he simply ends up showing a side previously disclosed, and Minho would be left too enamored by its unfamiliarity that he would forget all about the breakdown he seems to be having over not making it to his brother’s graduation dinner on time.

He doesn’t expect to find the answer soon enough in the sudden drop of Jisung’s voice, his tone morphing into a quick whisper, definitely softer and more careful in a way than he’s ever heard him before.

“Seriously, what do you thi—Minho?”

Minho’s eyes widen in response instantly, the craziest thought of having his mind being read by the other making him retreat from the proximity. He doesn’t even get the time to tell himself that he’s being ridiculous or to take more than a step behind for precaution, before Jisung barges back in.

“What’s wrong?” Jisung continues, his voice still calm and composed as if testing the waters carefully for the first time ever.

“What are you talking about?”

“What do you mean what am I talking about—Minho, you’re crying. There’s a tear,” he mutters, pointing a finger straightforwardly in the direction of Minho’s vision. “Is it something I said? I was just—.”

“I’m crying?” Minho’s hand rises to his own face, obstructing his focus right where Jisung’s accusatory gesture had been doing seconds ago. 

Predictably enough, he feels the wetness running down his cheek the moment he traces its course—the foreign feeling sending him crashing back into an embarrassing reality. The one where he’s standing amidst a culinary mess, and brewing up even a more embarrassing one in front of potentially the only enemy he’s truly made in this household.

“Fuck, no this isn’t you,” Minho quickly wipes away the evidence, turning away from Jisung to plant a pot of water onto the stove. He needs it boiling though, before he can harness more of its potential to seek avoidance of the other. “Seriously, this is so fucking embarrassing but no I’m not crying because of you so you don’t need to console me or anything, okay? Just go, and I’ll make sure to get your ramen.”

Jisung, though, stays. His feet planted in their spot, with no intention of moving away.

“You don’t have me even a single bit convinced, you know that, right?” he scoffs, voice laced with the same determination.

“Why, is it so fucking difficult for you to accept that not everything revolves around you?” he bitterly remarks, hoping that it would be enough to deter a person who always seems eager enough to walk out of any and every situation involving Minho.

It doesn’t work though, because Jisung simply shakes his head as if reading him for his true intentions. “At this moment? Yes, considering there doesn’t seem to be any other reason.”

Although it’s the water that is set to boil soon enough over the persistent flame, it’s the back of his neck which feels like it is running hot all over—burning, tingling, from where Jisung’s gaze seems to be concentrated on him.

“For fucks sake, Jisung no it isn’t you,” Minho huffs out, moving to salt the water in proportion. “I didn’t get hurt by your childish antics to annoy me, if that’s what you’re trying to get at.”

He knows he’s moving a lot slower than he should with the time running away in every second that he spends evading Jisung, and yet it’s a wonder how he hasn’t glanced once at the clock to grasp a measure of his downfall. 

“I’m simply losing my mind because I have an entire meal to cook within an hour and there’s no way that is actually possible,” Minho ignores the stinging feeling in the back of his eyes, as he sucks in a deep breath and adds the pasta to the boiling water. “This pasta is nowhere near done, I haven’t even started with the appetizer or the dessert and it’s just all the worst—it’s going to make me miss the one place where I really need to be.”

For what seems like an eternity, it feels like Minho has just monologued into thin air, verbalizing the worries and anxiety circling inside his head to make it nothing if not more real for his own self. There’s no response, no acknowledgement, of having been heard for seconds that seem to stretch forever and leave Minho wishing he hadn’t poured himself out. He wishes he would’ve kept the lid on, masking the nonchalance he seems to have mastered at least in front of Jisung and coming across as the sly asshole that he’s constructed himself to be. 

Maybe then he would know how to react—with either another snappy remark or rolling of his eyes—rather than standing bare with all his vulnerabilities sprawled out on the floor. Jisung would definitely have a field day with them, picking apart his favorites to torment Minho further with them when he gets the chance.

An incompetent chef , he guesses, would be the most likely out of them all.

Or maybe the jabs would turn more personal, picking apart the tear stain he has seen Minho struggling to hide. He doubts Jisung to be so heartless, but then again when has he truly gotten into conversation that wasn’t a latent argument to be able to accurately judge. After all, it might just—.

“How can I help?” Minho’s head snaps up from where it has been hanging low with his gaze fixated on the stove, to find Jisung’s eyes attentive.

They’re a lot more softer—less defensive and sharp than he remembers them to usually be—as they patiently wait for an answer rather than overwhelming Minho more than he already is.

“What?”

“You have an hour, which actually seems like 50 minutes now, before you need to leave, right?” Jisung continues to radiate off acceptance, his eyes darting away only for a heartbeat to the clock stationed behind Minho before he’s circling back on the subject. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

Minho must be really standing there like an open book with his eyes widened and lips parted in surprise for Jisung to read him so easily. Even before he can himself throw the question of exactly why Jisung is behaving anything short of a dick to him, the other serves the answer to him. 

“Don’t think too much of it,” he begins, fingers picking at the hem of his shirts. “I can see you need this, so let’s just focus on that, yeah?” 

Minho can feel the habituated fight building up in the back of his throat, the idea of a peace treaty with the other seeming akin to a trap that would lure him into something unmanageable. He supposes it to be the ease of letting this fight take over him since his first interaction with the other that has always led the two of them towards discords rather than moments like these, but today it’s the additional weight of uncertainty clouding Minho’s vision that pushes him to respond with a silent agreement. 

It’s barely a nod, and yet he knows he doesn’t need to push past the lump in his throat to actually speak, because Jisung’s paying him enough attention to be rolling his sleeves up at the moment. Minho wonders if it’s a habit Jisung’s picked up from the televised cooking tips, or if he’s soaked his sleeves too many times to go for the same in an instant.

“The water’s about to boil, so I’ll start making the sauce. Could you help me start with the mozzarella in carrozza?” Minho takes a deep breath, calming his nerves as Jisung walks further up to the kitchen counter. 

“Sure, yeah.”

Something about Jisung’s hands still hesitating to actually touch anything amidst the sprawled out ingredients warms up Minho’s heart, or maybe it’s just the steam hitting him in the face from where he’s straining the spaghetti—he doesn’t know. But it’s the possibility, and almost certainty evidenced in his previous culinary shenanigans, of Jisung being inexperienced in the kitchen and still being willing to follow whatever direction that Minho points him in that makes him register more than his usual scowl. Jisung’s slightest pout that he seems to be hiding away with a nervous biting of his lower lip, his shaky eyes trying to locate a target to begin and his silence asking for more than just a name of the dish.

Maybe Jisung’s not the only one who’s been reading him well today, because for the first time Minho thinks he can see all of the other’s harmlessness and compassion proudly displayed for him to admire.

“How about you beat some eggs? The carton’s right there to your left and I think 4-5 should work,” Minho adds on, turning to flash a quick tight-lipped smile towards Jisung before following his gaze to the ingredient in question. “No need to separate the yolk or whites, by the way.”

“Okay, yeah I can do that,” Jisung nods along, his lips pressed into a thin line. 

It seems to be a reassurance more for himself rather than Minho, but he doesn’t question it and instead places blind faith in Jisung as he redirects his attention back onto the carbonara. 

It takes some struggle to get himself back in the rhythm but he reminds himself that he can’t allow himself to spiral now, not when Jisung is standing a few steps away from him cracking eggs open into a bowl. Most of them crack open smoothly, without having him cursing away the inanimate, but the others pose a bit more challenge as Jisung has to spend a few seconds fishing out the shell pieces that escape his guard into the bowl—the only constant being Jisung’s determination to get the task done, a feat he accomplishes with a sigh so loud that it makes Minho giggle.

Minho’s own hands busy themselves to chop up the guanciale, before throwing them into a pan for frying. He’s almost tempted to turn the heat all the way up, if it means that the item would be sizzling up sooner but he figures he can afford the costs of the medium flame considering he still needs to beat some eggs together for the next addition.

“Hey, can you pass me—er—four eggs? And another whisk too from that drawer.”

“You need some for the pasta as well? Give me a minute then” Jisung turns around with his lips puckered out, before resuming his whisking action with a lot more determination and speed. It’s barely a few minutes passed before he walks towards Minho with the bowl, holding it out for him. “Here, take these. I’ll work around some more for the mozzarella.” 

“Oh, thank you.”

It feels like cheating, like Minho is taking advantage of Jisung’s kindness and willingness to help him out. He’s supposed to be figuring it out on his own, an opinion he’s sure would be shared by anyone who were to walk into the kitchen to find the house chef making an assistant out of the younger son. Jisung’s bound to share the sentiment to some extent too he’s sure no matter how much the other seems to be proficient at hiding it, because—.

“Four more should be enough, yeah?” Jisung’s voice rings in his ears, as he finds the other blinking at him from where he’s positioned in front of the eggs again. 

He expects to find some malice, some judgment tucked behind the other’s gaze, but Minho finds himself answering instantly without any apprehension when all that reflects back at him is unadulterated tenderness. “Yeah, that would be perfect.”

“Great, let me know what to do next once you’re done with the sauce, okay?”

Jisung doesn’t jump on the opportunity to walk out, doesn’t assert that he’s helped enough but instead he stands patiently even after he’s done sorting through the eggs the second time. Minho can feel his gaze tracing his movements, as he peppers the egg mixture before pouring it onto the guanciale. He can hear Jisung awaiting him as the other taps onto the counter in a tune, the rhythm never hurried enough to indicate urgency but constantly a steadying force for Minho’s breathing as he adds to the spaghetti into the mix, followed by grated pecorino cheese he had already kept aside. He finds Jisung leaning on the counter right where he had been, if not a little closer to get a peek at the process of making the sauce, once he’s sure the pasta’s cooked to satisfaction.

“Okay, that’s still about twenty minutes left,” Jisung speaks for what seems like the first time in forever, alerting Minho not just of his helping presence but also the leftover time—both non-threatening when uttered in his calm voice. “Should be enough time for mozzarella, right? Tell me what we should do next.”

“Yeah, I think so,” Minho nods along, feeling a small hopeful smile beginning to ghost against the corner of his lips. It must be contagious—Jisung’s optimism, that is. “I already have the bread sliced for this, so now I just need to cut the mozzarella into thinner blocks and wrap them into the bread and then—.”

“Okay, I’ll get to that,” Jisung springs into action, without awaiting any further instructions from Minho. 

He seems to lag a little bit on where to find the knives in itself, but before Minho can direct him, he’s already walking towards the stand to grab himself one; coming to a halt from his quest only when he has a block of cheese placed right onto the wooden cutting board. Minho thinks that’s an achievement, a sign of Jisung getting better oriented to the kitchen space in comparison to his first clueless expeditions, and Jisung must think so too because he can see the younger’s cheeks growing fuller from the side. He must be smiling all big and proud of himself. 

Even though not deserving of it much, Minho thinks he should be worthy of witnessing the same. After all, every victory within this moment seems to be a secret shared between them both.

He doesn’t twirl Jisung around by his shoulders though, no matter how much the temptation, as he subdues the urge to focus back onto the task. With Jisung having prepared the eggs, taking the responsibility for chopping down the mozzarella and making himself present in every bit of today’s cooking, the only task left for Minho is to scour the pantry for the box of breadcrumbs and return to pour them into the bowl of beaten eggs. He’s in the process of mixing the same thoroughly, having been detoured by the task of mounting some oil for heating onto the flame, when he hears Jisung’s steps wandering again.

What he doesn’t expect is for them to come to a halt close to him, turning to find Jisung standing in front of him with a slice of mozzarella on display.

“Does this look fine? Do you want me to make it smaller, thinner, or—.”

Minho doesn’t spend more than a second looking at it, striving towards assessing each cut’s perfection dying within him in an instant as he pays mind only to Jisung’s bottom lip tucked between his teeth. The answer escapes him without any effort, a soft whisper as he allows himself to grin without holding back, “It’s perfect, Jisung.” 

Jisung must not expect the sincerity though, because it clearly leaves him flustered; a nervous giggle escaping his throat, as he nods and skips back to his place to resume work on the task. Minho can’t believe it’s been that easy to render the other speechless all this time when they’ve been fighting each other in a battle of smarts. 

It might be a little unfair, but he can’t promise he won’t use the secret weapon of praise hereon to leave Jisung a little staggered when he tries to be too difficult. 

Soon enough though he’s done with the task on his end, and with the oil having been on the medium flame for the past five minutes, Minho deems it ready for frying up the mozzarella in carrozza. He walks over to find Jisung busy with the slices of bread, rolling them patiently and carefully around the cheese. The limited knowledge about Jisung as a cocky bastard would have Minho convinced he’s doing the same just to prove himself in competition, but he finds the veil of the judgment slipping in the moment to consider that Jisung might be trying to do well without any egotistical motives—for simply helping out like he had offered, for having Minho satisfied with the work done before he’s leaving with an eased mind.

“Want me to help out?” he mutters softly, causing Jisung to finally bear notice of him instead of the task that seems to be consuming all of his attention.

Minho doesn’t know why he feels jealous. It must be the thoroughness of Jisung’s ability to maintain his calm and carry out something daunting with such meticulousness, that Minho doesn’t think he compares to.

“Actually, first clarify it for me!” Jisung begins, his hands lifting up a stacked piece and his voice amusingly high as he excitedly presents it to Minho. “Are they supposed to look like this? Because I swear it would look ten times cuter if I were to wrap the bread around like a blanket. Can’t we do that?”

Minho’s so caught off guard by the request that he can only stare at Jisung in disbelief—wondering where he gets his creativity—before bursting out laughing in the next moment. Not one part of that laughter is filled with mockery, but just pure wonderment trying to figure out how Jisung’s brain works, and the younger must understand the sentiment because he’s giggling along within the next second.

“Okay, okay, I got my answer,” Jisung struggles to speak throughout his laughter, before he’s shaking his head to bring some rationality back into himself. “I’ll continue wrapping them in these boring slices in this boring way, so you should go ahead and do what’s next, okay? There’s only two more to go so I’ll bring them over to you.” 

The opportunity for Minho to protest never presents itself, because in the moment Jisung hands him the plate of slices already prepared and pushes him back towards the stove. With no will within himself to retaliate, Minho surrenders to his fate as well. He begins dipping the sandwiches into the breadcrumb-egg coating, before leaving them to evenly fry on both sides in the oil.

By the time Minho’s nearing the third piece, having the previous two already fried and cut into neat triangles, Jisung makes good on his promise and heads over to the stove with the rest. He stands there and watches as Minho completes prepping the mozzarella in carrozza altogether, before taking turns to plate the pasta and set the dining table. 

“Look at that, you still have five minutes left,” he hears Jisung proudly announce, as he’s setting down the last serving in a space where it’s always been left untouched before—in Jisung’s designated spot. 

He isn’t sure if Jisung’s noticed the plated meal every day, considering he never really walks out of his room during mealtimes but it must catch his attention now for Minho notices the way his eyes linger, only to shake it off and catch Minho’s gaze again. 

“And still a whole dessert left,” Minho sighs, knowing well enough he’s failed at the challenge. It’s a lot better considering he wasn’t even sure he’d end up finishing the carbonara, but the disappointment sets in regardless. “I don’t know what to whip up in just five minutes … Might have to go with simple old ice cream, I guess.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Jisung adamantly comes to stand in his way from where he had been heading to the kitchen again, steps purposive for checking just what flavors they’ve got stocked in the freezer. Minho’s reflexes are the only one to thank for the fact that he doesn’t crash into the man himself. “Change your clothes and run, alright? You don’t wanna be late.”

“It’s okay, I’m sure they’ll understand,” he nervously begins, knowing well enough Hyunjin would have his head on a stick. “Let me just arrange for the dessert and then I’ll—.”

“Seriously, Minho,” Jisung shuts him up, voice leaving no room for argument. Minho can’t believe it’s speaking up in his favor this time. “Just leave it up to me, okay? Go. Be there.”

“Fine,” Minho groans, the sound somehow having no hint of frustration as he gives up trying to walk past Jisung. 

Instead, all that settles between them is a wordless silence—a permission for Minho to turn around, an agreement to keep the past hours hushed between them, and a well-wishing farewell for him to head towards the place, the moment and the people he needs to be with. With every step that Minho takes away from it, the serenity of it morphs into gratitude, coursing and riveting through each and every corner of him.

Gratitude for having minutes enough to run back to his room and change his shirt into a fancier one. Gratitude for leaving out the door with fifteen minutes to cover the distance. Gratitude for Jisung having urged him on with a smile, reassuring and promising. 

A feeling constant enough to stay with him even as he sits across Jeongin and Hyunjin, a proud smile on display as he celebrates making it on time and contributing to the air of endearment that encapsulates the youngest. A feeling that doesn’t dwindle, only blooming further into a never-ending vine, as he glances towards the latest notification on his phone screen. 

Chan (Work)
Today 22:56pm

Heard you left early for the weekend.
And you still managed to make dinner this good? Wow.
Absolutely loved the carbonara.
And tortellini dolci as the dessert? A perfect match.
You definitely need to make more Italian regularly now.
Jisung and I both agree about that.

You reacted ❤️ to the message “Jisung and I both agree about that”.

✦

Minho isn’t used to this feeling.

Especially not on Monday mornings, that always have him feeling a bit too dreary with the weight of responsibilities clouding up him. The bitterness, after all, has become a much more acceptable part of his adult life where he is used to beginning his weeks with a trip down to the supermarket and walking into his place of employment with bags of groceries hanging off his arm. It’s usually an overgeneralization from thereon, one that Minho never really bothers to fight because who the fuck has the motivation to do anything on Monday—let alone fight for their rationality to take a dominating stance.

Today, though, has been different as it’s been leaving Minho somewhat featherlight and gliding through his chores in a practiced ease. He wakes up minutes before his alarm with a body well-rested instead of a cranky loafer trying to snag a few more minutes of sleep; the time allowing him to put some thought into his outfit for the first time in forever. Even though he was sure he had brewed the coffee a little less longer than his preferred routine, the caffeine had hit right at the perfect spot to leave him lively and yet not jittery to be able to enjoy the car ride over. Instead of having to spend an hour stationed at the billing counter, the grocery run had progressed over smoothly thanks to the lack of the usual crowd at the supermarket.  

By the time he places the bags on the kitchen counter, he’s already running short of conviction for his luck in the day. The pleasant feeling isn’t an unwanted addition for sure, but the peculiarity of it has Minho pinching down his own arm to make sure of its reality. He almost expects to wake up from the dream then and there, but all that he registers in the next moment is a slight ache and acceptance that he’s simply having a good Monday morning.

As unbelievable as that would sound to any working individual whatsoever. 

He wishes he could have it this way for the weeks to come, because he’s sure that whatever positive spiral is unfurling inside of him is making the Han household look a lot more tolerable. It’s to the extent that it has him dedicating himself to the task of drawing a map, tracing back all the possible antecedents to understand and recreate the feeling successfully in the future. Even with his hands busying themselves with the task of restocking the pantry, Minho’s mind strays to remember the side of the bed he had crashed on after a night of relentless drinking with Hyunjin or just what amount of goodwill he had done in the amount he had tipped the waiter.

He doesn’t even realize he’s so completely immersed in the endeavor until the sound of someone clearing their throat brings him back into focus—his eyes darting all around the space to locate the source, only to land upon Jisung standing right down the aisle. He must’ve been standing there for a while though because he seems just as surprised to have Minho’s attention finally.

It barely takes him a second to recover from the weight of Minho’s gaze, because in the next moment he’s paralleling the same to stare back and question, “Did you get my ramen?” 

As if being the last affirmation needed, this moment is enough for Minho to conclude that the satisfaction from having a good Monday morning might be the solution to all his miseries. Because due to its presence, even the most annoying question from Jisung doesn’t manage to piss him off—nothing short of a miracle itself. He doesn’t mind that Jisung is the first person to talk to him in the day, and doesn’t question why he needs to know about any updates on ramen at 08:00 am in the morning.

“Yeah, it’s right there in that bag over there,” he politely responds instead, proudly nodding to himself for having remembered the younger’s unwritten addition to the list this morning.

It hadn’t been too difficult of a task in all honesty, considering that the only thing reverberating through his head on the weekend had been the evening of Jisung helping him out in the kitchen. He had spent hours turning the event over and around in his head, wondering just what had been the more plausible reason that pushed Jisung to come to his aid—a reasoning clearly ranging between him having looked too helpless with tears running down his cheeks, or Jisung never actually bearing any personal vendetta against him altogether. And amongst a part of this recollection was the instigator, that had come in the form of Jisung pestering him about the emptied stock of ramen in the house.

Sure enough, it had stayed with him as he made his way through the store’s aisles—his feet coming to an instinctual halt at the ramen stash and urging him to throw some into the basket.

Minho doesn’t expect Jisung to thank him over it, considering that it stands incomparable to all that the younger had done for him the other day, but he does expect Jisung to be caught a little bit off guard by his thoughtfulness. He expects Jisung to respond with somewhat widened eyes, his retaliation falling short to leave his lips slightly parted with a lack of words said, and maybe a small rosy blush breaking out on the tip of his ears. That’s the only reason he keeps staring, his eyes drifting in synchrony to trace Jisung’s movements as he makes his way to the bag in question. 

What he doesn’t expect however is a frown to etch into Jisung’s eyebrows, as the other fishes through its contents expectantly before giving up on the action altogether.

“You got the wrong brand.”

It’s a wonder that Minho’s voice is leveled when he speaks in a neutral attempt to inquire, considering that on any other day he would already be snapping back at Jisung with cunning retorts. “What?”

“You got the wrong brand,” he hears Jisung repeat, his diction more pronounced as if he’s adapting his tone to converse with a kindergartener. “All of them are the same—Shin Ramyun.”

“Yeah, and? I’m pretty sure I got the same ones last week,” Minho begins, taking a deep breath when he realizes he can feel the ugly gnawing of something familiar in the back of head. “And you’ve definitely been enjoying them too as we both know.” 

“Well, it doesn’t mean I wanted the same this week too.”

“And I’m pretty sure I know better about my spice tolerance too, yeah? I’m telling you, these are more than I can handle.”

And it’s a wonder that Minho doesn’t yell right then and there about the lack of his telepathic powers to be able to know that without Jisung mentioning it to him, because truly he wants to. He wants to let go of the fucking politeness and gratitude that seems to be holding him back and resort back to Jisung’s level, who clearly seems to have forgotten all about their peace before and has drooped down to his antics again. Minho hates that somehow the exposition of his vulnerabilities in that brief moment had made Jisung more effective, if anything at all, capable of driving Minho up a wall with so much lesser effort required than before.

It must be the pleasant mood carrying on from before though that makes him decide against the outburst, in the favor of retaining his integrity. 

He closes the rack he had been stacking with groceries moments ago, before heading into Jisung’s proximity and looking dead in the eyes as he flashes a cordial smile. “Well, then I must rectify my mistake right this instant. Tell me which one you wanted, and I’ll get it right now.”

He isn’t sure if the high road is going to be as satisfying as the petty little side ones he finds himself traversing in Jisung’s company, but he’s proven wrong quick enough when it rewards him with a much more pronounced reaction from the other.

“Wait, seriously?” Jisung almost exclaims, his eyes shooting up to inquire about the sincerity behind Minho’s words. 

“I was wondering how the world was on my side when I wrapped up grocery shopping an hour before usual but of course it’s never that easy. So, yeah tell me. Which brand do you want?”

“Well—um—I don’t remember the name,” he hears the younger ponder, stumbling through his syllables in complete contrast to the confrontation he had chosen to sign up for a moment ago. “Only how the packet looks.”

To say that Minho finds it ridiculous is an understatement, because he expects better from Jisung. He expects Jisung to have his tricks, his childishness, better clothed under a pretense of innocence rather than being so obvious. Because who the fuck adamantly asks for a brand, without knowing the said brand’s name?

Minho makes no attempt to hold back his scoff, as he shakes his head at the other. “Then I guess you’ll have to settle for the ones we have here. I can’t go out there and buy you one of every kind now, can I?”

No matter his hellbent conviction to annoy the fuck out of Minho, Jisung too must realize his own absurdity. His previously glaring eye contact falters, as he turns to the side before speaking up again.

“I never asked you to do that !” he defensively shrieks. “There’s clearly an easier option; I go with you to the store and pick it out myself.”

And, well. Minho wants to retort back—prove him wrong and win over the silly argument, protect his pride despite not having thought of the clearly more feasible option—but he doesn’t. Instead, he accepts his defeat with a deep breath and redirection of his steps toward the stand he had thrown his jacket upon arrival.

He’s barely done putting up the additional layer of clothing, when he turns around to address Jisung’s figure, “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

It might be the delirium of having his morning take a complete reversal in mood, but he could swear he sees Jisung’s cheeks swell up at the invitation—an innocent, satisfied grin breaking out for a mere ghost of a second before it’s pulled back into restraint. It’s gone so quick that Minho can’t even sneak another look and seek confirmation about its existence, with Jisung’s already walking out the door with an urgency to have Minho following on his heels.

The car ride is no different as Jisung continues to maintain his aloofness, barely uttering a single word throughout the duration as the only sound filling their silence is the radio with its volume pulled nearly all the way down. Minho’s sure that with his eyes fixated onto the road ahead, he would’ve forgotten about Jisung’s presence in the passenger seat altogether if it hadn’t been for the occasional weight he feels on his side. It’s momentary sometimes, and persistent at others to leave him feeling a little unsettled, but not once does he turn to confirm his suspicions. Why would Jisung be looking at him anyways? It would only make him look stupid if he was the one caught staring at the other out of the two of them, just because his mind’s busy conjuring up stranger tingling sensations under his skin.

So, he stares straight ahead as if the building swarm of cars on the road in front of him is the most wondrous thing present. He tightens his grip onto the steering wheel every time his stupidity almost convinces him that it’s alright to look, the pressure sending his wits flying back into action and keeping him grounded. Probably the only reason he succeeds is that the struggle only stretches over the next ten or so minutes, before he’s parking in his familiar spot that’s surprisingly empty. 

Jisung springs out of his seat the moment the vehicle comes to a halt, not even waiting for Minho to take his key out of the ignition. He tries not to think too much of the other’s jitteriness but he wonders if it is his scratched out front of the vehicle that’s too unbearable for Jisung’s likely preference for shiny exteriors, or if it’s his own presence that had been too stifling. He would’ve given it some thought, or been hurt, if either of those was his issue to address. 

However, since they clearly seem to be part of Jisung’s list of miseries he voluntarily signed up for, all Minho does is lock the car behind him lazily before falling into a comfortable pace behind the younger. He doesn’t even bother trying to match their pace, only smirking to himself when it’s Jisung who notices the lack of the other by his side and slows down—resuming only once Minho’s shoulder bumps into him as confirmation.

“The ramen aisle is in the back side of the store, let’s go,” he announces, breaking the silence between them when they’ve stepped into the store. 

It’s barely a request, considering his steps are already angled in the direction to ensure he’s leading the way for Jisung who’s definitely unfamiliar with the place, when a grip on his jacket stops him in his place. The pull’s only momentary and nothing short of a feather-light touch, one that would usually be too difficult for Minho to even register considering the packed environment and the far removed weight of a puffer layer on him. Jisung must not expect him to notice too, considering his hand drops the second Minho turns around with a questioning gaze. 

“Oh, I’m—,” Jisung stutters through the surprise himself, tucking his hands into his pockets as if scared of them acting on their own accord again. “Actually,” he begins again with his eyes darting around the store. “Can we walk around? Maybe I’ll find some other things I want aside from just the ramen.”

No matter how much Minho wants to instinctively go with an answer, he weighs his options. It’s either him taking Jisung around the store—a thing which he can do quite easily at the moment, considering the time flashing on his phone screen which tells him he still has about an hour before he absolutely needs to start working on the breakfast. Or, it’s having to hear the other yap around the whole week about all the things he wants added to the list until Minho’s next designated grocery run. Any intellectual would choose the faster way towards the end, rather than willingly taking themselves through a week-long torment.

“Fine,” he grumbles, feigning a polite smile. “Let’s start with that aisle over there.” 

The decision as to where to start would’ve taken a lot longer if he was trying to navigate a stranger through the Pandora’s box that he considers supermarkets to be. Even though Jisung isn’t far from such, Minho has seen him walking around the house with caffeinated drinks and found packets of gummy worms scattered enough number of times to know that the snack aisle is probably his best shot. He hadn’t sought out the information eagerly, but it’s just how Minho’s perceptual focus works in general—capturing snapshots of the way food is intricately woven into people’s lifestyle coming as a natural instinct by now. 

“Alright,” Jisung, despite being unaware, blissfully agrees as he turns around on his heels to head in the highlighted direction.

He must be pleasantly surprised by the sight of familiar products though, because Minho’s there to catch the minutest second where Jisung turns away from the shelves to flash him a toothy grin. 

Within a second, Jisung’s hands are grabbing onto packets of sour candies and gummy bears—a change of form that he doesn’t mind compared to his previous obsession with the worms. He doesn’t stop there though, crouching further down below to get his hands onto the stock of chocolates as well; a conflicting arena of choices which takes him a significant amount to conquer. Minho finds it absolutely ridiculous how he starts running a bit breathless, when Jisung stands back up to his level with a satisfied heart-shaped smile glimmering in an unabashed display akin to a child’s. 

Minho doesn’t even realize he’s jumping on the opportunity to make it stay, until he’s offering the help needed to do away with the confusion etching onto Jisung’s forehead when he realizes he’s got no place to store them all. 

“Wait here, I’ll get you a trolley,” he offers plainly, making Jisung’s eyes dart back onto himself from where they had been scattering around moments ago. He can already sense the resistance forming, when he reasserts the offer. “Just stand here, alright? Otherwise I’m sure you’re going to drop half of those packets around.”

“Fine, just get back fast,” Jisung grumbles acceptingly, a fact which Minho can’t help but smile at as he walks toward the lined up carts out front.

He makes good on his word soon enough, because by the time he makes it back to Jisung, the other is still standing in the same position with each and every packet securely gripped. Minho thinks that’s the most dedicated he has ever seen him.

“Here you go,” Minho says, patiently waiting as Jisung deposits all of his possessions into the shopping cart. “Let’s move forward, shall we?”

Although having been distracted from more variety around him the moment his hands had been empty again, Jisung responds to Minho’s inquiry with an affirmative nod almost instantly as if scared he would be left behind—which Minho judges to be an accurate fear. Because yes, if Jisung contemplated getting another bag of chocolates for another minute, he would probably abandon the man. He already has piled enough stock to last himself more than a week for sure, and probably even longer if Minho’s considering the other’s newfound acceptance of his meals into his routines.

A topic he hasn’t brought up since Chan’s message on Friday; a fact which he thinks is demanding change right at this moment, as he drags his feet aside Jisung’s with nothing interrupting them.

He can have as much fun with the information as he wants.

“As much as I’m a snacks enthusiast myself,” he begins, failing to keep the excitement contained at having a guaranteed prospect to embarrass Jisung. He ignores the side-eyed look Jisung gives him, probably trying to understand the sudden burst of liveliness, as he continues on his mission. “Don’t you think you would need a lot less of them now that you’re eating actual meals?”

“Huh?” Jisung’s frown deepens. “What does that mean?”

“Got a message from Chan on Thursday after I left,” Minho nonchalantly offers, keeping his gaze fixated on the path ahead knowing well enough that the Jisung’s stare burns into his side more intensely than before. “He said he thinks I should definitely cook more Italian—wait not just him, but apparently you too.”

He doesn’t even have to turn around and look to know that the younger is definitely panicking over the exposé, lips pursed and neck tinted red.

“I actually have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jisung immediately mumbles, his voice at a calculated evenness.

His advocating of his defense—feigning ignorance, an undeniably weak—barely lasts over a few seconds though, before Jisung’s quickening his pace and evading Minho or any further confrontation he might bring. And he looks vulnerable, so much so that Minho feels a little guilty as he sports an unashamed grin and catches up onto the other with no signs of giving up any time soon.

Jisung must realize the trap he’s in and how much Minho’s enjoying twirling him around in it, because he’s already groaning before the older even lets another word out.

Minho, always looking forward to surpassing people’s expectations, thinks it’s only fair to carry forward the trend herein too.

“Are you sure about that, Jisungie?” he sing-songs, particularly taking his sweet time to elongate the nickname—a trick which has much desired effects, as Jisung begins coughing up embarrassment in an instant.

It’s not exactly within the same category, but he figures the flustering effects checks out against the praise-shaped weapon he has already tucked inside his armory.

“We both know Chan hyung,” Jisung sputters, once he’s regained his composure enough to speak intelligible words. He must not sound too convincing to his own ears though, considering the grimace he tries to hide as he turns around to the nearest aisle—a display of utensils Minho knows belongs nowhere near his shopping list. “He’s too sweet. He must’ve included my name in—er—whatever he said to you for niceties’ sake.”

If Minho’s being honest, it’s quite easy to accept the proposed reasoning because it’s simply so true ; Chan is too nice, too sweet, and always equipped with the right words that are capable of making anyone and everyone around him feel loved.

However, he has also gotten to know Chan enough over the past year to know he would never lie—even if it was as good-willed as making another person feel more confident in their capabilities. That, and the fact that Jisung’s cherry-red ears are giving Minho enough reason to follow up with his determined pestering until he has the truth spilling out.

“Oh, I guess he might’ve,” he plays along for the show, waiting with his arms crossed and leaning against the trolley—watching, waiting for Jisung to give up his pretense. “But are you sure you didn’t taste the carbonara, Jisung? Or maybe even the mozzarella in carrozza? After all, you spent a lot of efforts working on them.”

“And to get the perfect Italian dessert for the cuisine too, you must’ve really thought about it a lot, right?

“How’d you know that the jam-filled tortellini dolci would offer the right amount of tangy sweetness that one might need after the cheesy flavors of the main course?”

“I can’t believe you missed out on the meal really, after being so helpful and thoughtful about it like—.”

“Okay, fine! You win!” Jisung groans, turning around to stare Minho dead in the eyes.

He must think that the judgmental stare would do anything to deter Minho, but he’s clearly proven wrong when all that reflects off the other is a proud ‘aha’ smile which only seems to be widening more and more in celebration.

“I may have… tasted the food,” he clears his throat, fingers twiddling against the zipper of his jacket. “It was just curiosity, though, which is only human if you ask me! If you had helped someone out with something that you’ve never made before, I’m sure you would want to see that you had done a good job, you know? And the tortellini—I didn’t think about it that much. It was just coincidental if you ask me, because I ordered the first thing I saw on the food delivery app.”

Although never being the type of person to give too many fucks about others judging him in places like these, Minho’s inhibitions are lowered to the extreme today as he doesn’t even stop for one second to think just what the other passerby people must be making of their exchange. All that reverberates in the moment is his laughter, growing in volume with no sign of dying any time soon, and Jisung’s voice growing smaller and smaller, with every word that fails to convince Minho.

“Are you happy?” Jisung hides his face in his hands, paying no mind to how muffled his voice sounds. He must know it’s a lost cause, anyways. “Does it feel like you’ve got another win? Can you, if I may insist, fuck off now?”

“Hey, hey,” Minho almost wants to pry the other’s hands away, reprimand them even for the much deserved prize they seem to be guarding from him. It’s not everyday, after all, that he gets to see a flustered Jisung in all his glory. “I was just stating a fact. You make it sound like I’m enjoying this. Come on Jisungie, I’m not that heartless.”

“You’re literally still smiling.”

“I swear I’m trying so hard not to.” They both knew he’s not—the shared spirit of transparency draining him free of any remorse whatsoever.

“I despise you,” Jisung shakes his head, letting Minho know he doesn’t believe him even for a second there.

Minho could try harder at that—present his defenses and protect his gentleman honor much more dedicatedly, but it’s not the first time he’s hearing those words, or a similar sentiment, in Jisung’s tone. The only change that seems to be is the lack of bitter undertone lacing them, because all that he gathers now in those words is an amusement eerily mirroring his own.

“Do you think you can tolerate me for a few more minutes though?” he proposes, a statement more than a question as he already resumes back his walking; Jisung following into step, without any resistance, behind him. “We’ve still got to make our way to your ramen.”

Despite keeping his pace, Jisung hums for the seconds that stretch after as if pondering with utmost concentration. He must be back in his spirits too, because no answer escapes him until Minho fixes him with a look—cold and intimidating

“I suppose I can. I’m only doing it for the ramen though.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t dare question,” Minho laughs, having been a witness to the younger’s well-evidenced love for the instant food since their first meeting. “But since I’m now sure that you wouldn’t run out, would you mind if I bother you some more?”

“Does it matter what I say?”

“Not at all,” Minho shamefully replies, ignoring the sigh that escapes Jisung’s lips to verbalize the question that has been circling around in his head since days, if not weeks.

He is a curious person, after all. Provide him with the opportunity to quench his thirst for it once, and it’s impossible that he lets go until he’s satisfied with the results.

“Well, then. Carry on with the torment.”

Minho thinks it’s cute that Jisung provides him the consent, permission for him to be an absolute menace if he wasn’t one being one already, as if he isn’t bound by the unchangeable fate already.

“You make me sound like I'm sacrificing you to the devil but all I have for you is a simple question,” he laughs softly, the seriousness somehow seeping into him bit by bit as the reality gets back to him—realizing the potential of Jisung’s answer to make him feel any emotion whatsoever ranging from absolute anger to crippling self-doubt.

He doesn’t let it show much though, as he coughs up the composure and delivers his question with a stable voice. “Why were you avoiding my food until now?”

It’s too confrontational, he knows, but Minho has never been good at masking his true intentions anyways. He’s always a little bold to be liked so easily, and a little crude to be taken as harmless. Jisung, despite having been at the receiving end, still doesn’t seem to be too used to his characteristic nature though if his widened eyes are anything to go by.

“I—I wasn’t avoiding your food, you clearly have the wrong idea there,” he sputters out in a struggle to chain words coherently, clearly not having thought his answer through. “It was incidental at best if you ask me—all the times I wasn’t able to eat the meals, really. I don’t know where you got the idea from.”

“Jisung, it’s been weeks you haven’t showed up to breakfast or lunch or dinner,” Minho hates that he’s getting worked up over this. Was it too much for him to wish that at least after all those times Jisung would’ve crafted a lie believable enough? “I literally showed up to your door, and you still refused to eat. I don’t think that’s what incidental looks like.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe I just had a specific craving for some takeout food that day—like today,” Jisung grabs a packet of Buldak Cheese Ramen from the shelf on his left, making a show of dropping it into the cart.

It’s only then Minho realizes that he has led them to that part of the store, his conscious mind having been hyper-focused on every word that slipped past Jisung’s lips in hopes that at least some of it might be real. He must’ve been reaching for the stars though, because even when he doesn’t say anything in response, Jisung remains undeterred—his attention solely focused on counting the number of packets he’s supposed to be buying.

Knowing well enough that it’s a battle not worth fighting, he shoots one last shot into the dark—fully expecting for it to lead nowhere. “Was it something about my cooking?”

“What?”

His voice is a lot more hushed when he clarifies, eyes not daring to shift their focus from where they’re staring at a spot beyond the younger.

“Was it something about my cooking that bothered you?”

Just because Jisung had responded to his previous accidental display of vulnerabilities with consideration doesn’t mean he would be so kind this time too—not when Minho’s cracking from where he seems to cage his deepest insecurity. He doesn’t expect Jisung to observe, considering he’s spent years and years building faux layers of confidence and skill all over it, but it’s the possibility—the hope of being read openly—that makes him scared.

Maybe Jisung would notice his smile dissipating, only to be taken up by a weighted curve. Possibly Jisung would see his tightening grip on the trolley, recognizing it for its true attempt at hiding just how Minho’s fingers shake a bit noticeably. Hopefully Jisung would recognize that it’s more than just about meals untouched.

And maybe he does get a hint of the sentiment, if not the entirety of it all, because in the next moment Jisung’s giving up on the count and turning around.

“God, Minho, you’re really making me feel like an asshole here, you know that right?” he begins, sucking in a deep breath. “And yes, I know I don’t have much to contest against there but, respectfully, shut up.”

Before Minho can even fight against the very much baseless accusation—because yes even if Jisung has been an undeniable asshole to him, he doesn’t remember throwing that in his face as directly as he claims—he is cut off by Jisung’s hand coming up in the air to stop him from speaking. Minho almost wants to disregard the gesture and ask him right then and there if he really thinks this is how apologies, or whatever this is, should go.

“No, I mean it. Let me speak now, alright?” Jisung continues. “I realize that it’s too childish to even be an excuse now that I’m actually saying it out loud, but no it’s not something with your cooking. It isn’t because your food is bad or that I decided that I’d be insufferable to you from the moment we met.”

“It’s just simply the fact that I felt betrayed.”

“Excuse me?”

“Agh, this is so stupid,” Jisung groans, clenching his fists and yet resorting to elaborate in a heartbeat. “I just—I missed Mrs. Seong. She’s been there in this house for me since my childhood—she was here as I grew up, she was here when I left and here every time I came back to visit. And this time, I was looking forward to it too; to know that yes there was still one thing, one person, in this house who I could count on for being the same.”

“That is,” Minho breaks the speaking ban imposed on him. He can see the guilt weighing down Jisung’s shoulders from where they stand drooped, and he makes sure that the words he lets out are tentative—soft enough for Jisung to ignore and dispel altogether, if they push him any closer to the breaking point. “Until I told you that I’m the chef, right?.”

It must be an appreciated addition though, because Jisung is quick to acknowledge it with a short laugh; one so bitter that it sounds more like a scoff than anything else.

“I know it’s not a valid reason or even an excuse for me to act like a dick all this time, and deep down I’ve known that since the first day,” he continues. “But I didn’t want to lose to you. I just thought it would make me feel better if I kept winning, as if it would bring back what I wanted.”

And it’s quite obvious that the silence Jisung offers him after is a hint enough that he doesn’t need to apologize for having gotten a job, or making the most out of an opportunity that presented itself as a result of his hard work. He doesn’t need to empathize with Jisung’s attachment issues, or to let him know that his ‘excuse’ is enough of an understandable reason to him. He could simply choose to drag them both down further into the sinkhole, carrying on the comfortable dynamic of enmity they seem to have built.

Minho knows it well enough that it’s not his weight to carry, but it’s the hints of guilt seeping into him as well—albeit in a shade different than Jisung’s own—that make him want to try to lift up the burden a bit.

“It’s alright, I understand,” he’s barely lending a hand, with no certainty whatsoever if it’s even going to be accepted. “And if anything, I got to learn how good it feels to be an asshole to my boss’s son, so a win-win if I may.”

“You’re welcome?”

It’s not a lot from his side, but it seems to be enough to lessen the tension crowding up on Jisung’s forehead and make him smile—a shy kind, which Minho thinks suits him the best out of all the ones that he has seen.

✦

“Hyung,” Minho almost jumps up in his spot, having been too focused on the pastry he’s making to notice Changbin’s figure walking into the kitchen space. 

He isn’t used to such surprised visits after all, considering that all that he usually sees of Changbin is in times when Chan’s in close proximity—a factor which stands in complete contrast to the present weekday which has Chan serving a shift at the hospital far away from the house. And if he were to consider all the times Changbin has recited Chan’s preferences, strengths or his embarrassing recollections in the blink of an eye, there’s no way that the other isn’t aware of this fact too—leading Minho to only one possible conclusion.

Changbin’s visit is purposeful; intended to catch Minho alone.

The man in question must realize the bizarreness of his own surprise too, considering the way he scrunches his nose in a brief apology for having almost scared the life out of Minho. “Sorry,” he confirms the sentiment nonetheless, with an innocent giggle following soon after. 

Minho, however, doesn’t care for the customary niceties enough in the moment where he’s already struggling to divide his attention between the batter positioned on the counter and the man who sinks into the stool on the other side of it, sulking and pouting. Not that Changbin ever provides him much incentive for the same anyways, reminding him much of his dynamic with Hyunjin; albeit in a much more nascent stage.

“What do you want?” he snaps, only when the silent pouting on the other end turns into incessant whining for attention.

He doesn’t know when he signed up for babysitting throughout his job, but it sure seems to be an irreversible deal when Changbin instantly brightens up at the acknowledgment—jumping at the first chance to elaborate upon his sorrows.

“Hyung, can’t you be a bit kinder to me?” Changbin mumbles, leaning onto the counter. “I’m already being crushed by the weight of unrequited love every waking moment for years.”

He must expect sympathy, possibly even to the extent that Minho would drop all his work and sit down to have nothing but a heart-to-heart upon the mention of such a tale, but Minho thinks his responsibility to be authentic. After all, isn’t that what good friendships are all about?

That’s the only reason he shakes his head, tone stern as he says, “Don’t try to wax poetic to me about unrequited love when it’s clearly the case of two dumbasses and gay yearning.”

“Excuse me?” Changbin feigns hurt, a hand clutching at his chest in a heartbeat. “Those are some clearly false accusations—it’s one dumbass and gay yearning.”

“Why, are we deciding to count Chan hyung out simply because he’s not here to defend himself?”

“Never, he’s always the dumbass,” he hears Changbin assert, noticing how the other’s frustration does a poor job of hiding the tenderness that slips in with the bare mention of his name. “Such a frustrating one too that I can’t believe I’m in love with him.”

And well, that’s the part which gets him concerned enough to give up on the pastry. It’s an additional dish he had been making for dinner anyways; he can work on it later and serve it for breakfast tomorrow.

From the moment Chan had introduced the two, he has always thought that Changbin’s somehow similar to himself; their loud blaring voices, shared passion for food, common interest in gyming and what not leaving Chan convinced that they were meant to have known each other and become friends for way too longer, only if fate had decided to intervene a little sooner. However, a much lesser acknowledged part of that similarity he has noticed also in Changbin’s tendency to cover his true feelings under loud exaggerations and distracting declarations—a characteristic he has gotten enough moments to evidence over their shared dinners and Chan’s spontaneous hangouts.

Despite having his feelings spilling out of him for each and every second he spends breathing the same air as Chan, it’s the first time today that he so unabashedly announces them to Minho that he can’t help but worry. Maybe the world’s coming to an end, or Changbin has had enough of its cruelty to himself decide and make it end—he isn’t sure, but he guesses both of those possibilities deserve his undivided attention.

“Woah, there Changbin-ssi,” Minho gasps, dragging his own stool from the abandoned corner to sit directly facing the younger. “You can’t say that out loud. You know the walls have ears, right?”

“Can they also have mouths and confess to Channie for me, because I swear if something doesn’t happen today I’m going to wither away,” his whining only grows in intensity, unrestrained, for Changbin knows the lack of any prying ears at this time of the day. “All this love within me, hyung? It’s making me crazy. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it back.”

“What did he do now?” Minho shakes his head hopelessly, bracing himself for an absolutely ridiculous answer even before he has asked the question. “Go on, tell me. How has he captured your heart once again, you fool?”

He has watched Changbin swoon over too many instances to know that the reasoning is capable of varying from an instance of Chan having smiled at him a little too prettily, rendering Changbin’s brain into nothing but mush, or maybe he has said something intimate enough to cause Changbin eternal suffering, without even understanding it’s insinuation as anything more than platonic. After all, he still remembers the day Changbin had almost flopped onto the ground after dropping a drunk Chan home—one who had bid him farewell, with a heartfelt gratitude for Changbin being ‘the only ever person’ for him. 

Good times, Minho thinks. Maybe he should get Chan drunk more often, then at least his surroundings would feel a lot more cinematic.

“I feel you’re going to laugh at me but I also don’t have anyone else to tell this to so,” Changbin sighs, blood already flowing to his cheeks as he buries his head in hands. He must recover from the embarrassment soon, because in the next moment he’s unlocking his phone and shoving the screen into Minho’s face. “He sent me this.”

It takes a minute for Minho to snatch the phone from Changbin’s grip, an action necessary to keep it at a distance where the words are actually comprehensible rather than being vague lines in his vision. And then another to read and not coo right that instant, for he begins fighting the smile the moment he sees a link to a playlist in the younger’s messages with Chan. 

channie <3
Today 09:56am

[Nobody Else made by Chan
Spotify Playlist •  9 songs]
Good morning!
Heading to work now
But here’s a little something!
Just some songs that reminded me of you haha

No reason attached. No explanations offered. Just a clear intent of rendering Changbin a mess before 10:00am in the morning. Chan really was out to get this man, wasn’t he?

“Have you listened to it?” Minho sets down the phone, to find Changbin laying on the counter with his head buried into his arms. When no response comes from the younger, he decides to modify his question just the tiniest bit. “Have you even opened it, Changbin-ah?”

Changbin must know that he’s been caught red-handed, for it’s only then that he lifts his head and juts out his lower lip into the most exhibitionist pout possible. 

“I couldn’t,” he begins, evading any possible look at the screen which lays closer to Minho’s end, and yet close enough for him to grab in case he wants to. “I’m scared.”

“Why?”

“Because I know him!” his voice this time is a lot louder, filled with years and years of frustration that weighs down every syllable he utters. “And I know how stupid he is when it comes to understanding just what he’s doing! I can bet you he’ll have the most heart-wrenching love songs on it, and still text me in the evening saying some stupid shit like ‘hi bro.’”

“As much as I would love to hear about his ‘bro’ phase more,” Minho laughs, earning a side-eye from Changbin. “You know you mean the world to him, right?”

“I do,” Changbin sighs, biting his lip to hold back the quiver in his voice. “And that’s what makes it worse. He gives me so much fucking hope that I don’t know how to just not walk up to him and kiss him silly.”

And the thing is Minho’s usually good at this—comforting people, and making them see the bigger picture that doesn’t leave them as upset—but it’s difficult right now when he can see the tears beginning to pool in Changbin’s eyes. He doesn’t have anything to say which the younger doesn’t already know, and doesn’t have anything to offer him as advice or a solution.

The only tool at his disposal being diversion, “Not going to lie, that would be entertaining as hell.”

“I know.” he hears Changbin groan.

“He would chicken out so bad.”

“ I know!” he sees Changbin smile, the minutest tilt of the corner of his mouth promising.

“I’m not telling you to do it, but if you do please let me watch.”

The scandalous look that Changbin gives to him after is enough for him to break into a fit of laughter; one that comes to be mirrored soon enough by the younger as he struggles to get his retaliation out, “You’re a creep, you know that right?”

“Yah, be a little respectful,” Minho leans over the counter to land a light slap on the other’s harm, the reprimanding effect never making it through as Changbin only doubles over in giggles. “I’m the only one listening to you he—.”

“I thought I heard Changbin hyung,” he doesn’t get to finish his attempt at asserting self-importance, as he’s interrupted by Jisung walking into the space—a grin taking over the younger’s expressions as he registers the amusement mirrored on both the men. “Hi, hyung. Didn’t know you were coming over.”

It shouldn’t be a surprise to see how easily Jisung gels into the space considering it’s his own family’s house, but Minho still finds it difficult to get used to the easygoing smile and unhesitant steps that Jisung takes to cover the distance to the counter. It’s been more than a week since their run to the grocery store and yet he freezes a little in his place, a little breathless, when Jisung doesn’t turn sour at the sight of him. He doesn’t mind the inconvenience though, considering that the lonely spot on the dining table looks a lot better now that it has a regular occupant.

“Hey Sung,” Changbin invites him further onto his side, grabbing his hand in a quick greeting—probably a usual occurrence, considering just how easily Jisung reciprocates the grasp before letting go and eyeing for a place of his own.

He must decide the counter to be the best spot in comparison to the stools stationed at the farther corner, as he makes an attempt to hop over the amount required to sit himself down on it. 

Before he can succeed in the action though, Minho’s blaring voice shakes him up, “Yah, get your ass off the counter, you menace.”

Whatever laughter had died down in Changbin’s throat over the seconds only returns back in much fuller force, as Jisung pouts in silent retaliation before resigning to his fate; dragging one of the other kitchen stools closer by.

“What are you talking about?” he inquires once he’s settled in place, propping his arms to rest his face onto them. His question is directed mainly to the man sitting by his side, hoping to get a  quick summarizing response.

Changbin, though, only sits there with his eyes widening in panic as he realizes the implication of the question—the potential dilemma of crying about his unrequited love to the subject’s younger brother himself. Minho can’t blame him; it’s a tough road to walk when you’re already such good friends with the brother in question too.

When seconds pass, and Changbin still doesn’t seem any closer to having it figured out, Minho decides it’s his crisis to face. 

“Nothing much,” he begins, waving a hand into the air to dismiss whatever suspicion Jisung might’ve gathered from the stretched seconds of silence. “Just the breakdown he seems to be having because his crush of years made him a playlist.”

The look of horror on Changbin’s face tells him he hasn’t done too good of a job at it.

“Wait, that’s so cute!” Jisung however excitedly replies, completely oblivious to the daggers that Changbin’s gaze seems to be digging into Minho from afar. “Did you listen to it? How was it? Was it a cheesy confession just like the dramas?

“He hasn’t listened to it yet,” Minho shamelessly supplies, knowing well enough that he’s digging his grave deeper. He figures he would’ve been more intimidated by Changbin’s stare if the other didn’t have a pitiful pout accompanying it.

Not to mention the side glances he keeps stealing in an attempt to gauge Jisung’s reactions to the revelations.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he hears Jisung gasp out loud, before he’s landing a slap on the same arm as Minho himself had hit minutes ago. The sight of Changbin’s hand coming to protect himself only makes the entire exchange ten times more entertaining. “What are you even doing here? Go home and listen to it right now!”

“I will, Jesu—,” Changbin doesn’t even get to finish out his whining, before Jisung begins kicking him—an action so incessant that there’s no stopping until Changbin’s getting out of his chair. “Okay, okay! Fine! I’m going.”

Maybe Minho should’ve done this earlier too considering it seems to be a more effective solution than his own, which only seemed to support Changbin as he wallowed deeper and deeper into his miseries. He has always liked kicking people after all, and Changbin looks a lot more excited as he walks out the front door with his phone clutched into his hands; There’s surely a lot of nervousness bundled up in each of his steps, but Minho can see how Jisung’s optimism has seeped into the other. He’s probably going to be blasting the songs on his way back itself, rather than having the patience to actually get home.

Minho should definitely call him up in a while and make sure he’s still alive and safe. Nine songs, which means about three hours should be enough of a window.

“A playlist? Seriously?” Jisung mumbles, turning back to Minho only when he sees Changbin’s car leaving out front. 

Despite not expecting the conversation to continue much after Changbin’s departure, Minho comfortably falls into the dialogue while his hands busy themselves again—lining a tray with the baking sheet. “Didn’t you just call it ‘so cute’?” he raises his eyebrow in question. 

“Yeah, it is,” Jisung hums, trying to get a better peek at whatever Minho seems to be doing. “But by this point, Chan hyung should be writing him a love letter everyday to make up for being a dumbass.”

And the thing is, Minho absolutely, wholeheartedly agrees with the statement. He just doesn’t know how to conceal his surprise at the fact that Jisung knows .

“Wait, you know?!” he almost yells, dropping the baking sheet and whisking the tray away. He can’t help but think this pastry’s never going to see the light of the day, if people don’t stop throwing bombshells onto him out of nowhere.

“Of course, I know,” Jisung says matter-of-factly, sighing in a manner that’s only possible for a man who’s had a front-row ticket to the shitshow that is Changbin and Chan’s road to actual couplehood. “I’m surprised that you know.”

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t,” Minho exhales through his mouth exaggeratedly, reminiscing to the day he had confronted Changbin. He had expected the younger to be resistant, or even run away from direct confrontation, but the other had just unpacked years and years of repressed feelings in front of him in seconds—moderation thrown to hell as he celebrated having a listening ear for the first time.

“It’s weird though,” Jisung hums in agreement through a giggle, as he attentively watches Minho settle back into place. “Changbin hyung’s never really talked to anyone about it, as far as I’m aware.”

“Well, he didn’t,” he begins, knowing well enough that the topic of conversation would’ve never been brought up by Changbin if it was left up to him entirely. For all his fears, he would’ve kept it to himself to this day if Minho hadn’t bulldozed into his defenses, frankly and non-judgmentally. 

“Initially, that is. He won’t shut up about it now that it’s all out in the open,” Minho shakes his head, in complete contrast to the endeared grin that encapsulates him. “I just asked him directly one day, you know? Not that I had any doubts, even if he had chickened out and denied.”

“What made you ask him?” 

Minho wants to give him a direct, short answer except he doesn’t have one. He didn’t just walk up to Changbin fawning over Chan on one of the many days and pulled him to the side, with a question vicious enough to drain the color from the younger’s face. It was never his plan even, considering he practices what he preaches, to never interfere in others’ business until it has a wide-spanning impact on him. Sure, yes, he’s grown to be nosy but he’s never made it someone else’s problem.

Instead, it was a gradual observation—one he verified over and over to satisfy his skepticism, before picking a moment where he knew Changbin needed the acknowledgment of being seen for his devotion more than Minho needed to satisfy his curiosity.

“It wasn’t any one thing, to be honest,” Minho begins, picking apart the pieces from his memory from where they lay unacknowledged for months. Even Changbin hadn’t asked him after all, as if scared to be read out loud like an open book for all the love he attempts to drape under the pretense of friendship. 

“Okay, I know it’s going to sound really cliche right off the bat but I swear Changbin has never looked at Chan platonically,” he laughs, remembering the first time he had noticed Changbin’s lingering gaze—always hypervigilant and focused onto the Chan’s subtleties. “You know, how if you take a kid to a toy sh—Actually, wait I have a better example. Remember, how excited you became when we walked into the snack aisle at the supermarket?”

“Hey!” Jisung protests, mouth hanging in open at the uncalled betrayal. Minho, however, pays him no mind as he only giggles before continuing.

“Just imagine that kind of energy all the damn time,” Minho resumes, trying to think of a better way to describe what he’s seen. It would be easier if he had snapped a picture of the lovesick gaze, but since he doesn’t, all he has is meager words to work with. “He looks at Chan like that the only ever man born worthy of attention, of being admired. I don’t have much to object against there because yes, Chan hyung’s objectively handsome, but Changbin seems to see so much more than that. And the worst part was that he never got tired. No matter when I caught him, he was so persistent to make sure that he was memorizing each and everything about that beauty.”

“Even while Chan wasn’t aware, by the way,” he quickly adds, finding it an important point to emphasize. “Like I swear Chan hyung’s just as whipped because he too sometimes looks at Changbin like that, but it’s obvious enough that he notices and gets flustered. Changbin, though, he’s so persistent that I don’t think Chan even feels the weight of his eyes on him most times because he must’ve gotten so used to it.”

“And then, oh my god, the worst one of them all was that dinner,” Minho groans, fingers pinching his forehead at the mere reminder of the torture he had to endure within his first month there. “It was my first dinner with them, alright? They were just hanging out and invited me to join them, and when I tell you I felt more invisible than a fucking wall in there. No matter how the conversations started—be it my hobbies, my profession or even the fucking weather—they would always find their way back to each other.”

“And within each of these conversations by the way, it was so fucking obvious that Changbin’s blood pressure had to be off the charts—Like seriously, I worry about his health sometimes,” Minho knows that he doesn’t need any medical degree to worry about the implications of chronic quickened heartbeats. “It’s already evident that they’re like magnets, considering they’re always all over each other—and I mean that in the most decent but fucking exhausting to watch way possible—but it’s just hilarious how Changbin initiates skinship and then loses his mind over it. I challenged him one day to not stay physically removed from Chan, and when I tell you, the consequences of it were so much worse the next day. Even an apocalypse wouldn’t have kept them apart.”

“I can’t even imagine how much of this and more you would’ve witnessed during their university days but—,” Minho chuckles, looking up from where his eyes had been fixated onto his own hands in his lap to comically send a salute in Jisung’s direction. “You must’ve been the bravest soldier.”

He expects the gesture to make Jisung laugh, gaze seeking a confirmation of his well-landed humor, only to find a sight to behold. Jisung, while not doubling over himself in bouts of laughter, definitely seems to have failed to maintain his composure albeit in a completely different manner.

His cheeks are starkly painted with the purest scarlet Minho has ever laid eyes upon, a shade which seems to be running out of his control as it spills over from the fluff of his cheeks to the peeking corners of his neck and beyond—exhibitioned in its unabridged glory. Jisung’s eyes, however, seem to be reciting a different tale altogether as they lay low, never really meeting Minho’s as if the evasion would make him a less noticeable sight too.

It feels like Minho’s intruding, as if Jisung doesn’t want him to see that he’s gulping down his nervousness, and yet he can’t stop committing it to memory. For what reason? He doesn’t know.

“Jisung?” he softly whispers, too scared that if he were to speak too loud, it would break whatever sanctum’s been built to hold Jisung in his spot. “Are you feeling sic—?”

“You’re right, they’ve been completely insufferable,” Jisung interrupts him mid-sentence, as if never wanting to hear the actual acknowledgment from Minho’s voice. “I’ve got to go now though. It was nice talking to you, hyu—Minho.”

Jisung’s already out of his seat when his own slip of tongue catches him off guard, eyes widening as he begins muttering apologies to Minho. 

“Minho. I said Minho,” he mutters in a hurry, to either convince Minho or himself—it wasn’t clear. He must realize though, that it’s a sinking ship with no hopes of saving, that he decides physically running away from the situation as the only viable option.

It’s a shame that Minho’s too observant, catching the intent in his eyes  even before he’s turning around. 

“Jisung-ah, just call me hyung already.”

✦

It’s another one of those days, Minho realizes, where everyone’s too busy to be taking care of themselves—sacrificing meals for whatever immediate elixir seems to be promising much more obvious results for their growth.

He doesn’t focus on the fact much often though, limiting his attention onto the fact that the family members’ refusal of having a meal served only means more time for him to bury himself in his blanket and catch up on whatever he’s missed. Sometimes it’s the episodes to an anime or drama he’s already in the process of binge-watching, while others are a more sociable choice as he rings up Hyunjin at work to clock in unproductivity as a shared misery. On rare days, the spirit also turns into a concern for his own mobility as he chooses to walk around the neighborhood; a hidden stack of cat treats stuffed in his pocket, leaving him equipped for whatever emergency needs that might arise.

Today, though, he doesn’t have to grapple with the struggle of having to make a choice because even if the refusal for lunch sounds up his phone’s notifications from three members, he’s still got one left to pursue—the one who somehow seems to have telepathic powers connected to Minho’s own planning mind, because he’s walking into the living room even before Minho can finalize his will to knock upon the other’s door.

“Hey, I was just coming to find you,” he says nonetheless, in case the telepathic connection’s a delusional concept in his mind. He finds it unlikely, considering the number of coincidental times he catches Jisung to be on the same wavelength as him, but he entertains the possibility nonetheless.

To say that he’s just a little disappointed when his doubts are proven right is an understatement, as he stands there sporting a ghosting pout and watches Jisung peel off his headphones to hear him better. He wishes they had telepathic powers though, because that would be so much more convenient. Maybe it would make it easier too, for him to get to know Jisung and his good heart a lot faster compared to the time they had spent running around a purposeless maze of rivalry.

“Sorry, what’d you say?” Jisung’s voice snaps him from his thoughts, as he redirects his steps into Minho’s direction—a purposeful pursuit which ends only when he’s standing in front of the other like a deer caught in the headlights, his headphones hanging off his hand on the side.

“Just that I—Actually, never mind,” Minho decides against the hassle, walking his train of thought back onto the original point of concern. “What do you want for lunch?”

“Oh, do I get to decide today?” Jisung’s eyes brighten up, as he pockets his phone—a sign that he’s ready to be fully invested into the conversation. “What’s the special occasion?”

Minho still can’t believe it’s this easy to make Jisung excited. It stands against all the cruelties and ways of the rich Hyunjin’s educated him on, after all.

“You’re the only one available for lunch today.”

“So it’s more of an obligation rather than a privilege, huh?” It’s Jisung’s turn to pout now, as his shoulders slump with dejection.

“That depends on what you want to make it out to be,” he can’t help but chuckle at Jisung’s antics, purposely aiming to create some drama. Since he’s there to provide anyways, even if it means satisfying the younger’s appetite for a hint of their previous dynamic, Minho’s quick to add, “I’d suggest for the latter though, for your self-esteem.”

Jisung must not expect the fruit of his actions to ripen so quickly though, because he scoffs back in a momentary offense before he’s recovering—a playful grin already threatening to break out.

“Then I’d say you need that boost more than me, hyung,” he coyly adds on, fluttering his eyelashes to mask the sarcasm under distraction. “Why don’t you pick the menu?”

Minho, however, has never learned to back off. “You sure you can handle that?” he suggests, raising his eyebrow in a manner he knows for sure comes across as intimidating.

And even before he’s said the words out loud, he knows it’s a winning game—his predictions getting confirmed within the blink of an eye, as Jisung’s hand comes to rub at the back of his neck rendering their competitive eye-contact broken. It’s a consequence much in his favor, for he spends the next second staring at the other’s flustering confidence shamelessly with no eyes policing him.

Once he’s sure that Jisung’s much closer to turning into a puddle rather than the human that he is, he withdraws; a soft chuckle escaping his lips, as he speaks again, “Okay, okay I’m done joking around. Seriously, tell me—what do you feel like having?”

“I don’t have anything specific in mind, but maybe something sweet?”

“How do you feel about pancakes then? Choco-chip ones, of course.”

“You had me at choco-chips,” Jisung enthusiastically jumps up at the prospect  following Minho to the kitchen as the older shakes his head at the predictability.

It isn’t too difficult, Minho has realized, to know Han Jisung after all; not when he walks around with his truest of heart shining right through his eyes and his worries or concerns shaped into the haphazardly bitten nails on his hands. It didn’t take a genius of Minho to be able to learn more about the younger once he really started paying attention—attention to Jisung’s small hand reaching out for an extra serving of the desserts over the main course or appetizers; to Jisung’s propensity to walk into the kitchen with tear-stained cheeks and hands determined to fish out a buried chocolate bar from the refrigerator; to Jisung’s scowl every time he so much so smelled the extra-spicy aroma of a stew well cooked.

Surely, he could tell Jisung had a sweet tooth but it wasn’t the only reason Minho had been trying out more and more types of desserts or sugary breakfast recipes. It was just the certainty of knowing that it would be food well-liked that he was leaning more to the side, just like he would do if he could decipher the rest of the family’s taste preferences—a task that seems to be either impossible or particularly unachievable by him.

He’s already made a run over to the pantry, depositing all the needed ingredients onto the counter, and is in the process of pouring the measured cup of flour into the bowl when he hears Jisung speak up again.

“What would you have done if you didn’t need to cook lunch for me?”

When he turns around to better catch a hint of what’s going on through Jisung’s head to make him ask the question similar to Minho’s own internal dialogue a few minutes ago, he finds the younger seated onto the kitchen stool—his headphone now comfortably hanging off his neck, and his right hand acting as a balancing surface for his cheek. His entire body turned, with a rapt gaze, steering right towards the chef.

“Nothing much,” Minho ponders, resuming his previous train of thought to see if there had been a destination he would be leaning towards more. “Probably just order some food and spend a few hours watching Netflix.”

“Oh, we could’ve ordered something today too,” the realization dawns upon Jisung, his lower lip jutting in a pout as he must realize that he’s too late to suggest that proposition; Minho’s already whisked together milk and egg into a bowl.

“I don’t mind.” Minho can see, though, how the sentiment doesn’t convince Jisung, so he resorts to a more honest response, “Plus I like pancakes, it’s been a long time since I’ve made any. It’s a nice change.”

“Really?” The strategy works infallibly, Jisung’s eyes brightening back to their original brilliance as he clasps his hands together in satisfaction. “That makes me feel better, then.”

Minho’s giggle only seems to add onto the younger’s satisfaction as he sports a toothy grin, eyes dedicatedly tracing each movement in his vicinity. There are no words said, a silence stretching over the next minutes as the only sound that surrounds them is of the whisk hitting the bowl in repetitive motions. Occasionally, there’s a packet crinkle as Minho pours chocolate chips in abundance into the mix, but other than that it’s a hushed company.

Minho isn’t the best with them, as he usually crumbles down under the weight of all the possibilities—of all that could be said, and all that the other person expects of him. The air becomes too thickened with his own thoughts in such times, urging and pushing him to find an escape. It’s the first time that he experiences silence as more than a weapon; as a friendly solace and tranquility, that he doesn’t mind seeping into each of his wordless movements. He doesn’t mind that Jisung sits there looking at him so intently without voicing a single thought that he seems to have at the observation, an inherent sense of trust holding Minho to the certainty that it couldn’t be anything bad, not when Jisung looks just as satisfied with the setting—his arms laid back, with no sign of an apprehensive crease forming over his forehead.

The only time when Minho considers breaking the security and warmth of the moment is when inquisitiveness strikes him again.

“What about you?” he asks, lifting his head to steal a brazen glance at Jisung.

“Huh?” Jisung however must not expect the conversation to erupt once again, looking visibly confused as he tries to piece together the context of the question. “Pancakes? Yeah, I love them to—.”

“No, no,” Minho chuckles, as he watches the confusion spread onto Jisung’s frown. “I meant, how do you spend your days?”

While having been verbalized only now for the first time when Minho deems the moment appropriate, it isn’t the first time Minho has wondered about the same.

He hasn’t seen much of Jisung leaving the house to label him as a sociable extrovert, instead always finding his shadow lingering around the house. While most of the time that Jisung spends within the place is in his own room, Minho has often walked onto the other being sprawled against the grass in the front garden with an air of serenity or hanging off the arm of the couch with his sanity holding off a bare thread. A constant presence in those moments is Jisung’s screen clutched into his hands, sometimes in the form of his phone and mostly a much heavier laptop—the contents of which Minho has never dared to peek into.

He doesn’t know what Jisung does throughout his days to keep himself from feeling caged like Minho does by the time Friday rolls around, and he’s running out in his getaway car like a man earning his freedom. He has often wondered if the answer would be a hopeful remedy for his struggles too.

“Oh!” Jisung nods his head in understanding, eager to answer now that he knows what Minho wants to hear. “Now that makes much more sense. I was starting to wonder if I hallucinated that entire conversation about pancakes before.”

“But yes, it’s nothing in particular—which I’m sure you must’ve noticed,” he continues, his hands clasping together in front of him on the counter. “I don’t have a job or anything right now so I just spend my time doing whatever I feel like at the moment. More often than not, it involves sleeping away any time I start thinking too much, or watching movies. Oh, and sometimes I end up meeting my friends—actually not plural, just one friend. But that’s usually when Felix decides I’ve hibernated for too long and need some human intervention.”

The answer spills out from Jisung without much effort, as he rambles to himself naturally with eyebrows furrowed together—a sign that he’s clearly tracing back his days in his head.

“That’s sweet, Felix sounds like a good friend.”

“He is!” Jisung exclaims, exhaling a long breath as he shakes his head—an action dripping with overbearing fondness. “I actually wonder sometimes how he bears with me, considering I’m never the type to call or text or initiate hangouts much. But he tells me he doesn’t mind doing all of that, just because he likes my company. He personally has me convinced he’s my guardian angel.”

“Don’t make him sound so nice,” Minho groans, as he scoops up enough batter before pouring it onto the heated pan. “It makes me want to strangle my menace of a best friend.”

“Oops? Don’t tell him I was the instigator.”

“Can’t promise,” he says with a smirk, earning a whine from Jisung. Once he’s had enough fun with it though, he restores the focus back. “You mentioned movies too, right? What genre do you think is the best—and yes, there is a correct answer.”

Jisung, while seeming ready to answer, visibly holds back to ponder at the insinuation of an examination. Minho almost laughs at how serious the other takes it to be, as if he wouldn’t get a pass for whatever he says it to be.

“See, I enjoy rom-coms a lot—especially the typical clichés because they’re so terribly predictable that it’s comforting.”

Minho tsks at that, earning Jisung’s attention back onto him, “Careful there, Jisungie. You’re treading towards a wrong answer.”

“Shut up, will you?” Jisung snaps back, an amused grin tugging at his lips. “I never completed my answer. I said I enjoy rom-coms, but my favorite’s horror.”

“Ding-ding-ding,” Minho’s voice echoes within the next second, causing Jisung to jump a little in his spot. “Congratulations, you got it right.”

“Of course, I’m a man of taste, hyung. Never doubt that.”

“I’m not so easy to convince but I’ll say you’re treading in the right direction.”

It’s Jisung’s turn to smirk, the tad bit of a reinforcement surging up his confidence as he leans over the counter to flutter his eyelashes at Minho. “Yeah? Give me some time, I’ll work my charm.”

It’s a relief though, that Minho has a pancake on the pan demanding his attention to be flipped before it ends up being burnt—a perfect enough excuse for him to evade and save himself the embarrassment of coughing up hopelessly. Jisung seems privy to the attempt at avoidance, as his smile broadens into an unabashed display of his win; well evident. The only reason Minho gets to change the topic though is because Jisung gives him the leverage, as he doesn’t bring up the heat rising to the back of Minho’s neck or the hint of a blush pooling at the tip of his ears—an artwork on display, threatening to spill over the tales of some breaking defenses and waging wars.

“Do you have a favorite amongst all the ones you’ve watched?” he hurriedly mumbles. “I feel like I’ve watched too many to be able to predict them all.”

It seems to be a distraction quite effective, because Jisung groans within the next second as if having been triggered on his aching nerve.

“Same!” he whines, slumping into the stool in an exaggerated show of frustration. “I swear, last time I sat down to watch one, I already knew what was going to happen after five minutes.”

“Did you get it right?”

“Every damn thing, yes,” Jisung announces proudly, his lips pulled into a smirk. “I think the only movie that’s managed to completely catch me by surprise recently was Paranormal Activity.”

“Wow, you must make a terrible movie partner.”

Jisung must not expect his words to be turned around, his pride slithering into an embarrassed gasp over Minho’s insinuation.

He’s quick to jump to his defense thereon, standing up from his place to slam his hands on the counter, albeit a little too softly to accentuate his point. “Hey, that is not true. I’ll have you know that I’m a delig—.”

It doesn’t help Jisung’s case that his voice breaks once he notices Minho grabbing the plates of pancakes and bringing them over, both balanced elegantly in his arms as he crosses the distance with a challenge in each step. Minho’s quick to assert his dominance after all, towering over Jisung as he passes towards him one of the plates—eyes urging Jisung to continue, as they fix upon him through his hooded insolence. 

Jisung’s confidence doesn’t seem too resilient to handle the proximate dare though, as he settles back into his place and gulps down his rebuttal.

“Let’s watch one together soon, hm?” he slowly mumbles, taking a bite off his serving. “Your pick.”

✦

Minho knew it was a dangerous territory to wander into, even before the proposition had escaped his lips.

He had known he was going to pick himself apart over countless hours, in an attempt to identify the crack in his exterior through which Jisung’s presence had seeped into the layers beyond childish enmity. He had known it was a stupid move to disarm himself, taking down his defenses and weapons willingly, to let Jisung trespass freely.

No matter how daunting though, he had made his peace with the moment of weakness—willing himself strong as he believed Jisung to be the bearer of better wits out of the two. He believed in Jisung’s awkward chuckles and tainted cheeks to dismiss the offer altogether in favor of the familiar, comfortable line they had seemed to be walking over the past few weeks. The one where they were a little less explicitly out to get each other by their throats, and a little more willing to find in each other someone fond.

He believed Jisung to fall into his routines of either staying attached to his bed or to his screens; routines capable enough of leaving him forgetful of the offer from the chef he runs into ever so frequently—their exchanges nothing more than polite smiles and watchful gaze.

Nothing about it was memorable after all, considering Minho was a stable breeze before and after. And Jisung, despite having been ruffled with surprise from the accidental storm of an invitation, was bound to stay rooted in familiar lands.

At least, that’s what Minho believed in to keep himself from spiraling about the possibilities.

It worked in his favor long enough, until Jisung’s agreement came sweeping him along into uncharted prospects. He had been more dedicated to the cause of preserving Jisung’s excitement over his own sanity—especially when the younger had bounced his way into the kitchen, with a movie title spilling right past his lips in preparedness. It was a low cost to pay after all, even if it meant he would have his heart hammering in his chest throughout the duration.

He wasn’t too used to it, considering that the first time when heat spread all over the back of his neck, he was convinced that he was just running under the weather. The trend had been weirdly disorienting to understand, with how the symptoms would appear in a second and disappear in the next as soon as he was withdrawing to his own company. It had taken the elongated duration of an entire night, and much subconscious pondering over others, to figure out the common denominator—manifesting itself in the form of a heart-shaped smile and chubby-cheeked man who had a voice too melodic to forget.

The awareness had hit him like a truck, as it had him tumbling down horrifying realizations first where he freaked over having a potential crush over not only his employer’s son, but also the gorgeous specimen of a human born into a rich household—the description in itself standing against everything Hyunjin had taught him to be cautious of. And next thereon was a steady acceptance of the fact that he was simply fucked over, in the most metaphorical manner possible. It was to the extent that he didn’t know how to spend a second in Jisung’s proximity while being painted in all possible shades of red, or coming ablaze with all the golden curiosity that coursed through him.

To have, know and memorize more of Jisung than he already did.

That is very much why the fact that he’s seated on the living room couch of the brothers’ side of the house, at 10:00pm on a Friday, is oddly threatening.

For all he knows, he could give into the fire any moment—leaving himself nothing more than a spectacle for the boy seated adjacent to him.

As if dedicated to making it more difficult for him, his fears are further worsened by how out of place he feels in the setting. All that he has ever dared to invade upon before has been limited to unplanned group dinners on the dining table or momentous conversations in the pacing hallways, with the rest of his days being spent in the separated world of his room. And all that he’s ever spent in this house has been limited to hours before evenings on Friday, after which he’s scattering out to go home and share dinner with his brother.

That had been his usual plan this weekend too, with a confirmation already sent Jeongin’s way in the form of a grocery list for the other to buy; attachment of a threat to starve following soon after to make sure that the order was indeed followed upon.

However, a change of plans had come bursting in the form of Han Jisung, urging him to stay the night so they could follow upon their plan of a movie night. He had been unsure, Jisung promising that they were free to stop at any reasonable time in case Minho wanted to return home. He had bit his lower lip in nervousness, Jisung assuring then that he wouldn’t have to stay over as the chef but instead as a friend—like Felix, he had said. He had been electrified, Jisung giggling upon the confirmation to convince him that he made the right decision by staying.

A feeling that only seemed to be reinforced when he had walked over to their decided location, adorned with fluff blanket throws, a popcorn bowl filled to the brim, and a Han Jisung gleaming at him from his spot.

“Ta-da,” Jisung had said, before burying his face in his hands from embarrassment.

And Minho had known thereon that they were going to be an undeniably long three hours. 

He knows it in every breathing cell of his body, that Jisung being right there next to him on the couch is going to leave him kindled, untamed.

“Hyung?” he snaps back into focus, as Jisung’s waving hand appears right in front of his voice. “Are you already zoning out? I haven’t even pressed play!”

“ That is why I’m zoning out,” Minho scoffs, focusing his gaze onto the screen which has been fixated on the movie title Epitaph since the moment he stepped into the living room. “Maybe if there was a movie to focus on, I wouldn’t get so bored.”

“You know I hate you, right?”

“I still don’t hear the movie rolling.”

Jisung groans, giving up on trying to win as he settles in his spot—hand reaching out to the remote stationed on the table in front of him and pressing play without any further discussion. 

With Jisung sulking to himself and the premise of the movie building up into a fairly interesting narrative, Minho doesn’t have too much trouble focusing on the screen in front of him. He is following the development of the story quite easily, while having trouble predicting just where it is leading—an ideal combination of what he considers to be a good horror’s characteristics. 

At least that’s how it spawns out to be for the first fifteen minutes or so, before Jisung is getting too engrossed in the plot himself to care about being a pouty presence on his side. It starts out in the form of soft, little gasps barely inaudible to Minho’s own ears amongst the blaring dialogues of the movie, before progressing onto full-fledged predictions that roll off Jisung’s tongue fluently—as if in a practiced daze. The worst part being that they sound experienced too, built around the existing plot so confidently and interestingly, that even Minho can’t play a nonchalant role. 

“You see how they haven’t shown the face of the corpse yet?” Jisung raises his eyebrow, continuing on his explanation only when he receives a confirmatory nod from Minho. “It’s because it’s got to be his fiancée that he’s never met before. There’s no other reason why they would keep both of their appearances a mystery, I’m telling you.”

He’s reacting to Jisung’s theories before he can realize his shifting focus of attention, the characters’ dialogues becoming more of a background podcast as he instead looks forward to hearing Jisung’s commentaries on the side. 

“But the trajectory wouldn’t make sense,” Minho supplies, lips jutting out in consideration of the possibility. “Like why wouldn’t the morgue get rid of the corpse if it’s related to a person from more than a decade ago?”

“No, you see I get that,” he watches as Jisung pauses the movie to turn to the side entirely, looking Minho squarely in the eye as he elaborates. “But why else would they emphasize so much on the fact that he was assigned a shift at the morgue? They never did that during any of his previous days of working at the hospital.”

When Minho still doesn’t seem convinced, only nodding along in response while stuffing his face full with popcorn in order to avoid having to speak, Jisung only gawks at his audacity before deciding his only supporting evidence is the plot itself. That’s when he turns back to the screen, hitting resume, and huffing to himself about how Minho’s going to be losing to him.

And from thereon, it’s a descent Minho doesn’t even realize he’s caught into. 

He’s focused on Jisung’s satisfied hums at being proven, more than he is on the screams of bloody murder being enacted by the male lead on the screen. He’s more cognizant of the way Jisung turns to the side, keeping an eye out for Minho’s reactions—as if they’re an important cue to him understanding the plot or maintaining any interest in the movie itself. He’s more sensitive to the way Jisung has shifted closer throughout the duration—his knee digging into Minho’s thigh from where they seem to be touching. 

He’s losing his mind over how easily within reach Jisung becomes, when the younger is boasting his smirk right in his face; close enough for Minho to send both of their worlds crashing, with the slightest of intention to know more than just the steady gravitational pull.

Maybe it would be near to a cosmic realization, of how he’s been a part of this bigger thing than he gives himself credit for. Or maybe, it would be akin to a divine intervention, hitting him in all its force and leaving him unchanged forever.

Minho can’t remember the exact moment he stopped caring about the consequences, but it seems to be sometime around the climatic reveal of Jisung’s earliest hypothesis being proven right. The smile that Jisung flaunts at him, one brimming with so much unfiltered joy directed just for him to witness, that Minho stays convinced it’s all a worthy chance. 

After all, he can’t remember the last time he had mirrored someone’s smile so easily—leaving him a little breathless of having such opportunities more often. Of all the possibilities where Jisung’s smile would brighten and make him laugh in a manner he’s never thought of before. 

To have a taste of it without already having it brewed every image of his future, Minho decides, is just cruelty bestowed.

He’s so lost all over in his own head, with not a single thought paid to the screen, that when Jisung speaks directly to him he can’t seem to even process it; answering with a confused hum.

“What did you think of it?” he hears Jisung repeat next to him, the sound so close that it sends shivers down his spine. “Were you even paying attention?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Minho lies through his teeth, knowing well enough that he can be caught easily. “I had a lot of fun.”

It’s only a blessing that Jisung doesn’t seem to be too motivated to embarrass him though as he only nods his head, before letting the topic fall altogether. 

“You pick one next time,” Jisung says instead, leaning his head back onto the couch—eyes fluttering close, as if with exhaustion of the day catching up to him finally. “I’m curious about your preference in horror.”

Minho surprises himself when he stabilizes his voice, muttering a soft “sure” in response. It’s difficult when every part of him is yelling, screaming to take over and celebrate at the prospect of there being another time; of having a chance, initiated himself by Jisung because he must’ve had fun in Minho’s company. 

Enough to want him around more.

Minho still needs more time to get used to it, to being wanted around at all from the other, as he gets up from his place—mind prepared to spend a sleepless night, wondering about how dispelling just one layer of foggy bitterness had changed them altogether. Into tolerable acquaintances, mealtime company, movie night partners and whatever more seemed to await. 

Jisung must sense the shifting weight on the couch, before it’s completely gone, as the younger flutters open his eyes to trace Minho’s movements. He’s there to observe, keeping an eye on every step that Minho takes in an attempt to retreat towards his own abode. 

“I’ll go to bed now, Jisung-ah,” Minho confirms his suspicions nonetheless, flashing a gentle smile in Jisung’s direction which only comes to be reciprocated with an understanding nod.

“Get some rest, hyung.”

There’s nothing wrong with the nicety that Jisung directs at him, and yet Minho can’t help but feel disappointment twisting inside him. Jisung’s being the sweetest, bidding him off with his kind words and a satisfied, tired smile, and it still isn’t enough. Because Minho undeniably wants more.

He wants a reason to stay more, soak up more of what Jisung throws at him. It could be unfiltered grins, or calculated attempts to show off confidence, Minho doesn’t care. All he knows is that with every second that he gets closer to the end of the living room, he wishes something, or someone, will leave him grounded.

And just maybe, Jisung hears him through the slowing pace of his footsteps, for Minho’s turning to the sound of his voice within the next second.

“Hyung,” Jisung begins, standing up from his previous position on the couch. His hand rubbing at the back of his neck, as he avoids any direct eye contact. “It’s almost midnight. Do you want to get some snacks?”

Minho falls, once and for all.

“Yeah, sure,” he agrees after a few seconds spent in faux pondering, knowing well enough it does nothing in his favor when his voice comes out all high-pitched. “What do you want to eat? I’m pretty sure we’ve got all the ingredients to—.”

“No, no,” Jisung’s smile only brightens as he covers the distance between them, stopping directly in front of the confused frown building up on Minho’s face. “I don’t want you to cook.”

“Are you saying you’ll be the one cooking?”

“Come on, we both know we don’t want that,” Jisung bites back a chuckle to continue his explanation. “But that also doesn’t mean you have to—You’re off the clock. It’s not your working hours anymore.”

Minho’s lips part in surprise at the realization, completely having forgotten whatsoever about the time or space that he’s in. He’s been so used to doing this—to show his care and every little emotion through food that he cooks tenderly—that he can’t help but mumble almost instinctively, “I still don’t mind”.

“I would very much mind, though,” Jisung stays undeterred. “I was just thinking we could go down to a convenience store.”

“Oh, right. We could do that.”

“Is the one down the corner still open? I haven’t been there for a long time so I’m not sure.”

Minho doesn’t have to spend a second to think it over, as the answer comes back to him in an instant. It’s the one he passes over on his way from and to work every week, he’s sure. 

“Yeah,” he confirms. “It is.”

“Great!” Jisung rejoices at the confirmation, his eyes narrowing in a joyous grin. “Let’s just go there then.”

Minho nods, containing the excitement of the prospect in a uniform tone. “I’ll get my car keys and jacket. Give me a few minutes, alright?”

Having been so used to the designated driver for the people around him, with Jeongin still in the process of undergoing lessons and Hyunjin having given up on the endeavor altogether, Minho doesn’t even realize he’s slipping an unasked for offer to a new company until he registers the disapproving pout on Jisung’s lips. 

“That is, if you don’t want to drive,” he adds as a quick afterthought. 

What doesn’t make sense even after the same is Jisung’s lower lip jutting out progressively more, as he disagreeably shakes his head at the proposition. 

“Let’s not do any of that,” Jisung adds in a whiny voice instead, blinking his eyes innocently at Minho in a clear attempt at persuasion. “We can just walk there—unless, you know, being old has affected your stamina.”

Minho’s mind is unable to catch the shifting tone in Jisung’s intentions, as it switches from a nervous proposition to a playful attempt at provoking him. All that he can offer at the moment is a scoff, which seems to be the desired reaction for the other who’s grin only widens in response. 

“That's no way to talk to your elders, young man.”

“Why don’t you teach me some manners over snacks, then?”

“I’m doing this for the society, essentially,” Minho shakes his head, sucking in a deep breath as if it’s killing him to land at the agreement—a feeling directly contrary to the one coursing through his veins. 

The excitement, anticipation, which almost has his preparedness shaking into dust as the prospect of possibilities widens. He would no longer be getting to know Jisung through the dialogues and plotlines of fabricated characters in the four bounded walls of the living room. Instead, he would be seeing Jisung in a world of his own—as he exists and breathes the air out in the open, as nothing but a starry presence of his own under the night sky. It’s a daunting prospect, and yet Minho doesn’t have a single doubt in the back of the head as he voices an agreement.

“Meet me outside in five?”

“Deal.”

Even though he power walks thereon, breaking out into an almost sprint as soon as he’s out of Jisung’s visual range, he still finds Jisung to be the first one standing at the house’s gate. He looks a lot more prepared to face the biting winter breeze—a puffer jacket running along the almost length of him and cheeks hidden from the scarf wrapped around his neck—in comparison to Minho who had bolted out of his room after finding the first visible layer of woolens. He knows Jisung would’ve waited, most likely, even if he had taken the time to pick out more layers but the fear had been too overpowering; the possibility of missing out on this chance having him at his heels, until the moment he caught Jisung’s inviting heart-shaped grin saved just for him. 

With his breath stuck afloat thickened air of nervousness, it was the only moment he felt relieved to let his feet touch the ground entirely. Safety, as a feeling, returning back just as easily.

“Where’d you get the idea of a convenience store out of nowhere?” Minho spurs the question into the midnight dark, as they begin their walk over to the store. “You looked tired when the movie finished.”

Walking side by side, it becomes a lot harder for him to actually steal glances at Jisung’s reddening cheeks or the scrunch of his nose without making himself fairly obvious. So, Minho resorts to the next best option—keeping his eyes fixated upon the younger’s footsteps right next to him. They seem to be a lot more comfortable, slowed down in pace compared to his own, that could only habitually choose to cover much longer distances faster in an attempt at efficiency. He has spent nearly all his time applauding that characteristic, until now, as he considers the otherwise tempting possibility of stretching this time longer.

One so captivating, that his steps fall slacken more and more until they’re matching the pace of Jisung’s own—leaving them walking in tow.

“Well, yeah I was—am, actually,” Jisung’s shy giggle catches his attention back again. “But I’ve been wanting to do this—midnight convenience store runs, I mean—since I’ve been back. Just that there hasn’t been a good time for it, but today seemed perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Uhm hm,” he hears Jisung hum, as the younger takes the silence as a sign for him to keep talking—for Minho to know more and more, in hopes it quenches his dangerous curiosity. “It seems stupid now that I’m saying it out loud but I just missed little things like this. Los Angeles’s life had its own fun and things I liked, but I don’t think I could ever miss them like I did this; even these silly midnight runs. I would think of them often, about all the times Chan hyung sneaked us out.”

The corners of Minho’s lips thoughtlessly curl into the ghost of a smile, as he imagines the picturesque view of an innocent Jisung skipping together to the convenience store with his older brother, following him behind at a pace much similar to ensure the other’s safety. He imagines Jisung growing up with such a secure, constant gaze around him dedicated to the cause of ensuring the heart-shaped toothy grin on Jisung’s face—then being the one to drag his brother along for his company, despite his own capacity to cross the bustling roads alone. He imagines the softer, defenseless Jisung and wonders how it would’ve been to know him; if he would be just as cautious as the version walking by his side, that keeps an eye out for any threats, or if he would be walking on clouds with nothing to bring his dreams down. The one who would love things much more fearlessly, and trust more easily.

“What was it like there?” Minho asks, curious to know more about the city and paths which have shaped that child into the Jisung he’s getting to know. “In the States, I mean. I’ve never heard much about your life there from anyone.” 

“I can’t imagine why, when I’ve had the most happening time there,” Jisung flatly states, his eyes finding Minho’s to gauge their reaction before he’s himself laughing. “That was sarcasm, by the way. My time there’s been… just that—time.”

“You don’t have to talk about it with me, if you’re uncomfortable, Jisung-ah,” Minho’s barely finishing his own sentence, before he catches Jisung shaking his head from the corner of his eye.

“I want to, I feel comfortable doing that. Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve got me all vulnerable at like one in the night, but I want to tell you.”

The somberness in Jisung’s tone, however, makes him hopeful that it’s not just the time of the day.

“I moved there—er—about three years ago, I think?” Jisung resumes, humming to himself as he tries to better place the duration in his own head. He must give up soon though, because he’s huffing the next moment. “I don’t know, I’m bad at keeping count, but it was when I was twenty two.”

“You’re right. Should be three years, then.”

“Wow,” Minho doesn’t realize the implication of what he’s said, until he’s turning to the side to find Jisung’s eyebrow raised. Cocky. “I don’t remember telling you my age, but good to know that you’re keeping yourself updated.”

Minho can only scoff, his brain trying to find explanations that don’t have him coming off as much of a creep as he does at this moment. It hadn’t been something special anyways; He had just kept an open ear to the conversations that involved Jisung as a topic around the house, so much so that he can’t even remember the exact context he had gained this snippet of information from.

“I-I’m not, Chan hyung must’ve just mentioned it or something.”

“It’s okay, hyung. I’m just teasing,” Jisung laughs, his shoulder bumping into Minho’s. “As I said, I don’t hate the idea of you knowing. But yeah, I moved to the States around that time after finishing up my studies. And just know whatever I say from this point onwards is not me boasting, it’s truly how the young Jisung of that time thought, alright?”

Minho nods silently, doing nothing to address the sadness mounting the short chuckle that Jisung finishes with. He doesn’t think it’s his to try and deal with, not until Jisung asks for him to bear the burden together. No matter how much he wants to, tonight he’s going to make peace with being solely a listener on the side. 

“So I went to music school, alright? And I mean it, when I say that I was good—.”

And Minho truly tries to play a good role of one, prove himself capable to the man entrusting him with the information, but the attempts only go far up to the point Jisung renders him too surprised. “Wait, you went to music school?”

The surprising realization seems to be countered right back, because Minho’s question is enough to stop Jisung right in his tracks—Minho following consequently with his own stopping, as if tied by an invisible thread—as he turns around to face Minho with shock simmering through his widened eyes. 

“You didn’t know?” 

“Does that mean you do music now?” Minho ignores the rebounding accusatory tone Jisung addresses him with to dedicate his mental efforts into piecing the new information together.

He hadn’t ever heard anyone in the house mention Jisung’s domain of career, let alone his exact experience as a musical student and professional. At one point he had just assumed the younger to be a regular corporate worker, having chased the glamor and paychecks of the opportunities abroad.

And even though this is the first moment he gets to know about this, he can’t help but think of how fitting is. Of course, Jisung’s meant to be a musician. With his expressive demeanor and soulful voice, his intelligent mind and calloused hands, of course he’s meant to gift this world with tunes that carry him to hearts unknown and spirits of time.

He’s meant to be remembered.

“Yeah, how did you know my age but not this ?”

“It’s not my fault you’ve never brought it up!” Minho faces Jisung with envy lacing his undertones, directed at any and everyone who’s led up to the knowledge being a secret. Even if it means it’s Jisung himself. “I literally asked you about what you do throughout your day, and you didn’t give me a single hint. And it doesn’t help that nobody else doesn’t seem to mention it either.”

Jisung’s lips stay parted the whole time Minho confronts him, as if awaiting his own chance to put on a defensive dialogue. That is, until the last bit escapes Minho’s mouth and leaves them pressed into a thin line. 

“Well, that makes sense,” Jisung nods his head, turning around to start walking again. 

Except it didn’t make sense to Minho—none of this did. Why wouldn’t everyone in that household be all about their son being a musician? If Jeongin had decided to become a musician instead of an elementary school teacher, Minho would be fucking blasting his creations all around his life. Every person calling would be hearing one of Jeongin’s songs on his caller tune, for all he cares.

Jisung must see the confusion etched into his face, aside from the fact that he hasn’t followed the other’s footsteps from where Jisung seems to have overtaken him, as he comes back around to tug him along. 

“I’m not surprised you hadn’t heard about it,” Jisung begins again, once he’s got Minho walking at their old pace again, by his side. “I’ve barely mentioned it to anyone here myself. We all pretend it doesn’t exist, as long as it helps the family sleep better at night.”

It’s not an easy task considering every step of Minho’s is weighed down by questions and queries, but he tries nonetheless because Jisung wants him to. To walk along, to stay next to him and to listen.

“But why, Jisung-ah?”

“It’ll sound too much like champagne problems now if I start talking about it, but it’s the typical stuff you hear. Musician son? Bad. Doctor son? Good,” Jisung shakes his head, as if himself disagreeing with the stereotype before anyone else can. “Chan hyung used to like music too, you know? He taught me most of it before I went to university. Him and Changbin hyung, considering that’s how they became friends initially too.”

“We both had a similar fight to deal with, and Chan hyung chose the option to make our parents happier. I chose the one that would make me happier—at least, that’s what I believed until then.”

“And they didn’t take it well?” Minho speaks for him, when Jisung falls silent—as if processing the lump in his throat.

Even though having hesitated on the action for potentially adding to a story that wasn’t his to tell, Minho’s doubts become a fleeting voice when he feels Jisung’s fingers brush against the palm of his own hand—hanging on the side, welcoming as a safe space for whenever Jisung feels too cold. 

“Yeah, but it didn’t really matter to me,” he hears Jisung suck in a breath, before resuming; the touch of his hand, a long lost ghost. “Music was all that made me happy. I was so ambitious and confident that it was all I needed—to make a life, and an identity for myself after I had spent my entire life pushing it down. And for what? To fit into the frame cut out for me by my parents or follow the road chosen by my brother, even though I knew how much he struggled with that? I didn’t want that. I didn’t want acceptance, I just wanted to be happy.”

And did you? Minho wants to ask. The growing tension in the conversation, even if he disregards Jisung’s return from a city which seems to be a center of that dream, seems to indicate him towards the likely answer—one he doesn’t think either of them could bear to listen to in the night sky sprawled with darkness and regrets. So, he chooses an easier question.

“And leaving was the answer for that?”

“I don’t know if it was the answer—”, Jisung bunches up his hands together, before stretching them out with a deep sigh. A trinket of his internal war. “But it was the only solution I could find. So, I left.” 

Before Minho can even muster up a response to that, an action which seems out of his capacity in all honesty, Jisung speaks for him instead. “This place, however? Seems like it didn’t change one bit,” he says, while coming to a stop right in front of the convenience store door.

Minho looks around in surprise, trying to recollect all the turns and roads they had walked to reach but turning up empty; the entire route being a recollection of Jisung’s sprawled out emotions. A turn marked by a bittersweet chuckle, before tracing unending steps along regretful sighs and fond smiles. It’s all Minho’s ever going to be remembering of this neighborhood from now.

“What do you want to get?” Jisung scans the store, running to the nearest aisle as he tracks down his own targets. 

He first picks up a kimbap, before landing on a packaging of coffee waiting to be poured into a serving of ice and a comfortable flavor of ramen. Then, he stands there waiting patiently as Minho locates his food of choice before settling on a corndog and doubling the caffeine purchase. In a shared understanding thereon, Minho shuffles onto the window corner—grabbing himself and Jisung a secured spot—as he pours down their drinks into the designated glasses while Jisung returns moments later with their food a comforting temperature against the freezing harshness of the streets.

Jisung’s barely chewed down on the first bite of ramen, before he’s already sighing with contentment. “God, does this taste even better after freezing my ass to get to the store.”

Minho can only giggle, watching in awe how Jisung cherishes each bite as if it’s a new one entirely—a simple display of innocent, unbridled joy. He doesn’t have to think twice to know that it suits Jisung best out of all the emotions he has seen reflecting off Jisung’s expressions under the soft glow of the streetlights.

“How was it there?” Minho asks eventually, his half-drunk glass of coffee discarded to the side. 

Jisung, expectant of the conversation carrying forward, reacts almost instantly as he drops his chopsticks into the ramen cup and fixes his posture to face Minho instead of the glass window. An artist, waiting to narrate to worthy ears. 

“I started there as an independent producer; never tried to sign up with any labels in particular, but I sold some songs here and there after making connections,” he hears Jisung’s voice inflate with the newfound pride of a barely-turned adult making it good on his goals. It sounds fitting. “I didn’t try too hard to do that though, because all I cared about was making music. So, that’s what I did most times, most days. The only place you could possibly find me was my apartment or a rented studio, and I made more than an average of ten tracks per month. The only ones who got to hear them were me and the walls though.”

“I could very easily change that if you give me your laptop, you know?” Minho leans on the counter at his side, batting his eyelashes in a coy manner and a laugh threatening to break out free.

“In your dreams,” Jisung shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. 

The amusement playing off his lips however tells Minho it isn’t an impossible feat to accomplish. Maybe, he can allow himself to hope just a little in amounts manageable and disappointments curable. It’s a task he leaves for the future though, as he resumes his attention back onto the threads hanging loose from their present conversation—still waiting to be tied back into place.

“If you were finally doing what you loved, though, why did you decide to come back?” 

From how receptive Jisung has been of his curious glances and questions, Minho doesn’t expect this one to have him floundering—the younger’s gaze avoidant, as he curls upon himself. It marks a line crossed, he assumes. 

Scared of the consequences, he is about to take back the question when Jisung beats him to it with an unexpected confession. 

“I haven’t talked to anyone about this,” he whispers.

Minho doesn’t have any reason to believe he would be the first, and most worthy, person for it too. All he is a momentary company by Jisung’s side, who’s truly been lucky to watch the younger open his heart all at the mercy of the lowered inhibitions and colder nights.

“You can choose not to.”

Jisung, however, he’s convinced is meant to break him apart for all his assumptions and build him anew.

“I don’t think I could,” Jisung shakily begins, his eyes lifting up from where they had been fixated on the ground and finding Minho’s again as if in confidence in their ability to communicate if he fails. “You’re probably the only person I can talk to about this—It’s too difficult, shameful, with others.”

I can bet it’s not , Minho wants to say already, especially after all that he’s heard of Jisung’s courage and passion. But he holds back from the invalidation, a double edged sword which is very much so capable of wounding Jisung when all the younger seems to be doing is trusting him blindly. Hopeful in the name of silence, which Minho wishes will communicate his desire to be a safe space for Jisung’s worries to be put to rest.

“You’re right to ask why I left, because truly I was doing everything I ever wanted—writing and producing tracks back to back, shaping them in whatever way I wanted them to be,” he watches Jisung’s eyes glisten, his smile wistful as he continues holding onto the dream that led him there in the first place. “It was just not what I imagined.”

“It wasn’t all happy smiles and proud tears, it wasn’t people patting me on the back or telling me how good of a song I made. There was no one to tell me ‘you are doing good’,” he recollects the young hopes, the ones that made him believe that it was all that he ever needed. “ It was just me sitting in a room making music that no one cared to listen to. It was the same day over and over again, with the only feeling catching up to me being that of so, so much loneliness that I started even losing my own company. I had talent, I had dreams and I put that all to use but it didn’t feel like me anymore, hyung.”

And it’s explanation enough of why Jisung didn’t want to stay—albeit one that has Minho wanting to pull the younger into a tightest hug, as it breaks open his heart into a million pieces, which he’s sure, can’t even begin to measure up to the one that Jisung must carry with himself. A hint of a person he used to be always close yet so far, leaving him in a state of never-ending grief and hopeful yearning that one day it’ll all end up to be him.

It’s explanation enough to make Minho resound the fraction of that hurt, as if it’s his own. Yet, it’s an incomplete story.

“But what made you come back?” he asks, in hopes of learning about the entirety of Jisung’s tale; one worthy of being heard.

Minho doesn’t know how long Jisung must’ve waited to recite it himself, for the bittersweet smile creeping up the corners of his lips tells of patience held too long.

“The hope of having all that.”

Jisung’s pause at the answer doesn’t trigger in Minho any impatience, as he sits there waiting—his hands aching to hold the other through it. It might be too much if he were to do that, after all, considering they’ve never trespassed beyond the lands of being close but never of being close enough to consciously reach out, and grab hold of the other. And with words or his touch, both being capable of weaponizing in this moment, Minho resorts to the most innocent display of affection.

He lifts his foot up, tapping Jisung’s shoe lightly on the side—enough to warrant the upturning of the corner of the younger’s mouth into a surprised, yet fond smile. Enough to remind Jisung that he has someone to walk him home in the worrisome night, in case his vision’s too blurred by tears or his mind too hazy to lead himself in the right direction.

“Ever since I moved out, I quickly fell out of contact with pretty much everyone; My parents would never call me, and the only people I talked to were Chan hyung and Felix but even that was like once a month,” Jisung bites his lower lip, and Minho can’t believe that the brothers he sees intertwined in their lives now could be anything if not constantly present. “I don’t remember who gave up on trying or when it happened after the first few calls, but I didn’t try much to change things either—I was selfish, and angry at hyung for staying. For not choosing the life he could’ve had and leaving me to fight the battles alone.”

“But then, Chan hyung called me one day—just about a week before I made the decision, actually,” Minho watches a tear slip down Jisung’s cheek, shoulders slumping from where they had been pretending to hold strong under the weight. “I was still in the studio, it was barely evening and it was weird because he never called around this time; it was past two in the night for him. I was already freaked out before I even picked up, and it only got worse when all I heard was Chan hyung sniffling. He wouldn’t say a damn thing, and at that point I was already considering just ringing up the entire house to make sure he was fine. But then Changbin hyung spoke, saying Chan had drunk too much and spent the entire time talking about how he missed me.”

“And really, it was that simple,” Jisung chuckles, shaking his head as if he finds it all too ridiculous to believe himself. “It was so fucking simple, because I couldn’t believe that it was possible. I didn’t think it was possible to still be needed, yet alone so lovingly. I felt so stupid for having run from it when I had it right in the palm of my hand, and it was then that I realized it wasn’t an either-or choice. I wanted a life with both—with music and people I cared about … I’m still far from it, considering I’ve barely been working on music since I’ve been here, but I’m hopeful. And I’m happier.”

Minho wants to applaud; he wants the entire world, every person in this store and every particle of air that carries to people and lands afar, to know of Jisung’s hope—to cheer him on for times unending and be a voice of affirmation in moments where the younger might stumble and doubt. He needs every part of this universe to align in a manner that allows Jisung’s hopes to be fulfilled, for he doesn’t dream of a big mansion or selling a million records. He dreams of a day ending with a smile.

Even if Minho’s not capable of turning everything all around for it to happen, for he fails to be a deity or a God, he hopes his mere human voice can be enough for now.

“For what it’s worth,” Minho’s foot rocks against Jisung’s again, his eyes fixated on the mere second they touch in hopes that it’s able to communicate all that he is too scared to. “I’m happy that you’re here. I don’t know how much longer I could’ve survived in the too-quiet, too-perfect house if I didn’t have you to tease around, you know?”

“Uhm hm,” even though Jisung’s rolling his eyes at the words, he’s the one seeking out Minho’s stability—his presence—as he catches the other’s shoe in amidst both his own. Stability.

Courage.

“I truly am happy though, Jisung-ah. You deserve to be surrounded by love and happiness, in all forms possible.”

✦

Minho knew he shouldn’t worry much, considering he had sent Jisung off to his room with his smile bouncing off the moon’s reflection and his tear stains being far too distant of a memory by the time they had gotten back home. Jisung didn’t seem to have the remnants of any regrets for having opened his heart to Minho, and Minho had tried their entire walk back to make sure that the younger had only a good conclusion to remember this night by—albeit even a bittersweet one, as long as it didn’t linger in his thoughts too much to keep him up. 

There’s nothing of the sort—that he can remember of the night—that warrants him to have a rushed heartbeat ringing in his ears and the heavy feeling colluding in his chest.

Except the fact that Jisung hadn’t shown up for breakfast. 

After the younger’s usual appearance for every meal in recent times, Minho had gotten too used to seeking out Jisung’s reactions to the dishes he would serve out front. Some of them, like oysters or something spicy of the sorts Minho had keenly observed, would have Jisung scrunching his nose in rebellion even though he would still chomp on the food out of respect. Other items though, like the ones as simple as tteokbokki and Korean beef, would have his eyes shining and hands already working to grab the chopsticks before he would even have the chance to begin eating. It was the habitual dancing of Minho's gaze in the familiar direction of Jisung’s spot that had left him a little too stirred first thing in the morning, when he couldn’t find the familiar pair of brown eyes there on the table. 

The ones that he could swear had begun seeking him out too, if the number of times he had caught Jisung staring hadn’t been all coincidences. 

Minho convinced himself that the only reason he’s missing so much of Jisung is because he hadn’t had enough instances to confirm his hypotheses; he needed more instances, more chances to make up his mind about either of the possible alternatives. Even if it means he had to twist around the possible situations a bit to grant him that opportunity. 

And the first thing that had come to his mind in that regard had been cheesecake—the first and foremost of what he had learned about Jisung’s preferences at the time. There was no way he couldn’t lure Jisung out of his room if he were to make one.

However, he had barely begun working on it, still in the process of gathering the ingredients on the counter and wondering which flavor he should go with, when the subject of his mastermind plan walked straight into the kitchen—hair standing up in all directs possible, and a hand still rubbing away sleep from his eyes.

So endearing .

“Good morning,” Jisung mumbles through a yawn, as he almost deposits himself on the counter only to be deterred by Minho’s questioning gaze. “What?”

“You’re an hour too late to be saying good morning, Han-ssi,” Minho shakes his head, the worry already dissipating in his chest. Jisung must’ve simply overslept.

A coffee cheesecake must be the perfect choice, he decides.

“Agh, I’m sorry,” he hears Jisung groaning, before he’s laying his head onto the counter—a move too risky considering the sleep that seems to linger in every one of his movements. “I fell asleep at like five in the morning after working on a song.”

The scolding dies at the tip of Minho’s tongue at the mention of music, a new surge of elation hitting him at the prospect of Jisung having found his spirit and inspiration back; just after he had confessed last night of not having the best of luck with those since the time he had been back home.

“You were working on a song?” Minho forgets all about the ingredients to walk up to the younger, staring at him intently for a confirmation. “Did you finish it?”

He hates though that he’s gotten soft—soft enough for Jisung to not even feel a bit intimidated and give him a response, instead only shrugging his shoulders. Soft enough that he can’t even hate that, his heartbeat already picking up at the mischievous look Jisung sends his way.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Wow, that is so unfair,” Minho scoffs, turning back around to the task at hand. “I share my art —my cooking—with with you unquestioningly and you won’t even tell me? Why do I even try with you?”

“You can’t get to me with that,” it’s a shame that Jisung reads him right through, calling him out on his shit just as instantly. “What are you making now anyways?”

He isn’t done being petty though, turning around with a cheeky smile as he repeats the younger’s words back to him, “I’m not telling you.”

“Oh, come on don’t be like that, hyung,” Jisung whines, standing up from his place to walk around the counter and get a closer look at Minho’s process—as if that would give him the answer that Minho’s holding back. 

He must realize though that it’s a fruitless attempt, because in the moment Minho feels a subtle shift in the air with Jisung’s presence, a new addition beside him. Minho doesn’t even get the chance to investigate the younger of his intentions before he finds Jisung leaning forward—his face mere inches away from his own, casting a  shadow over the counter—and flashing him a pitiful pout, lower lip jutting out in an attempt to overpower Minho’s own pettiness.

Minho swears it’s the closest he’s ever felt to a cardiac arrest. 

“Fine, fine. No need to emotionally manipulate me,” Minho fakes exasperation though, hoping it can do a good job of covering up his breathlessness as Jisung withdraws, a victorious grin already hanging off his lips. “I'm making cheesecake.”

Jisung’s eyes widen in surprise as he realizes what Minho is making. Cheesecake happens to be his absolute favorite dessert, and the fact that Minho is whipping one up feels like a delightful stroke of luck. 

“Wait, seriously? Cheesecake?” Jisung’s voice is filled with genuine astonishment, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “I can’t believe you’re coincidentally making my favorite!”

Minho can’t help but smile to himself at Jisung’s reaction. It’s not really a coincidence at all, not after he had deliberately chosen upon the dish with a specific target in mind and the goal of having him struck with the innocent joy of having woken up to a favorite dessert. He must’ve underestimated the effect though, because the starry-eyed look in Jisung’s eyes as he stares at Minho with awe is so much more precious.

He can’t bring himself to break that way, keeping the information to himself and savoring the way he reflects in Jisung’s eyes—captivating and admirable.

“Yeah?” he replies casually instead, trying to hide the warmth spreading through his chest at Jisung's reaction.“Well, then. I hope you like it.”

“You know I will.”

With the silence stretching forward thereon, with the only sound being that of Minho crushing a pack of oreos into a fine mixture, he expects Jisung to walk back to his room—being a scant presence until he actually smells the aroma of cheesecake having been well-baked. However, the sound of the distancing footsteps never comes. Instead, he turns to find Jisung shifting on his feet as he stands planted in place, a hesitant expression crossing his face.

He doesn’t have any plans of speaking up about his worries anytime soon, not until Minho raises his eyebrow in question—serving as a confirmation of his hesitance being noticeably observed.

“Actually,” Jisung begins, his tone sheepish. “I have a request. I know it’s funny considering the absolute wreck I am in the kitchen but I want to learn too—to make a cheesecake, I mean.”

“You’re better than you think you are,” Minho’s soft whisper comes retaliating in an instant, barely even allowing him to register the unfiltered affection that spills through his tone. It’s a mere second of weakness though, before the panic kicks right back in and urges him to put on a defense. “Are you sure, though?”

“About what? Learning to bake a cheesecake? Yeah, why not; it’s something I love any—,” Jisung sincerely considers, nodding his head in affirmation of his own answer, as if deeming it reasonable to his own ears. 

“Are you sure you can handle cooking with me again, Jisungie?”

“You’re incorrigible,” Jisung’s serious expression flutters away in an instant, as he sighs at Minho’s bubbling laughter. “However, you must be forgetting that I handled you quite well the last time. Seems like a reminder will help us both, don’t you hyung?”

Minho really needs to stop leading himself down these alleys. The teasing and sly remarks worked when all he saw in Jisung was an annoying, arrogant brat who couldn’t do shit to have an effect on Minho’s self. Now, though, with the pace of his heart being at Jisung’s mercy, he should really reign in his attempts at seeking challenge. It’s bound to be a difficult habit to break though, especially when the proud smirk on Jisung’s lips leaves him a little too stunned. 

“Just shut up and get to work.” A pathetic defense, he knows as he watches Jisung’s lips curl up in a triumphant cheeky grin. 

Jisung doesn’t hold the victory against him for too long though, as he rolls up his sleeves and summons a look of preparedness in his eyes—dedicated to the task at hand.

“Tell me where you need me.”

“Um, I guess you can just look right now,” Minho shuffles around to find a task, coming up empty when he realizes there’s not much until the moment he actually starts mixing up the ingredients for respective layers. “Measuring your ingredients right is one of the most important things so you don’t want to get that wrong.”

“Right, and what do we need?” Jisung nods his head with his eyes fixated on the freshly crushed bag of oreos, his gaze only lifting after Minho spends seconds deadpanning at him. “Come on, I’ve never done this before. You need to quite literally start at the basics.”

“Why am I doing this to myself again?” he huffs, feigning a deep sigh of annoyance—a weakly convincing gesture when every part of him seems to breathe more easily than before with Jisung’s rhythm accompanying his moves.  

It should get tiring, he guesses; all the ways he runs hypersensitive within Jisung’s vicinity, to the shifts in the other’s gaze and the way his breathing quickens or calms down. 

“Because you love m—love cooking.”

It should get monotonous to watch Jisung’s cheeks run a scarlet red, as the younger catches himself mid-sentence and makes an attempt at concealing the almost-escaping insinuation. It should not linger in Minho’s head even after he dismisses it with a slight chuckle, definitely not leaving him breathless at the proposition. 

The laws of shoulds and should-nots, however, seem to fail in all times Minho allows himself to be surrounded by Jisung. He stays and he lingers, he dreads and he hopes, even when he knows better not to.

“I hopelessly do—it’s ruining me,” he confesses through a chuckle, gaze lingering on Jisung’s widened own. “Since I signed myself up for it though, pay attention; the first thing you’re going to want to do is set the oven to 325°F and leave it for preheating. Meanwhile, for the base layer we needed about a cup of crushed oreos and one-fourth cup of melted butter which we’ve already got.”

Minho doesn’t even have to look twice to know that Jisung is dedicating his undivided attention to the explanation—his eyebrows furrowed together in concentration.

Jisung must not expect so much faith to be placed into his demeanor though, because Minho’s next proposition catches him off guard. 

“Do you wanna start by making this layer?” 

“Um, yeah,” Jisung sputters out, hurriedly taking over Minho’s spot as the other backs away from the counter. “Yeah, just tell me what I need to do.”

“I already have the greased pan here,” Minho instructs, directing Jisung’s attention towards the prepared baking pan laying at the farther end of the corner. “So now you just need to—those crushed oreos and butter I mentioned? You just need to mix them and spread it onto the pan in an even layer. Sounds doable?”  

“Absolutely!” Jisung chirps up optimistically, turning around to flash Minho a quick toothy grin before beginning on his assigned task. 

Minho gladly lets him take the lead too, standing to the side as he watches Jisung tear open the bag of oreos and pour them into the bowl of melted butter. Even if it’s somewhat of a struggle to mix the two into a binding composite, Jisung folds again and again—Minho keeping an eye on the movements, until Jisung’s voice distracts him from the same.

“How long did it take you to learn all this?” he hears Jisung speak into the air, trusting Minho to answer the question without direct addressal. “Cooking, I mean. I’m sure you went to culinary school and all, but how long have you been doing this?”

It’s a question, Minho realizes, he hasn’t thought about in a long time. The last time he remembers looking back at his career, his progression, had probably been a month before he had joined the Han household—nights spent wondering if what he was doing was really how he had wanted it to be when he started.  

“I think it’s been about five years now since I completed culinary school and started working as a professional chef,” Minho mutters, more to himself than Jisung as he traces his path back. “Most of the things I learnt were at my last job—it was a small restaurant in the city, and I worked my way up there for about four years almost.”

“Why did you leave then?”

“I had been—Wait, you have to flatten it out a lot more,” Minho begins, only to derail when he notices Jisung pouring the crumb layer into the pan. 

It’s clear that he has tried his best, trying to flatten the layer into an even one; the task however becomes ineffective when done with a spoon instead of the tool of the right choice. Minho can only chuckle at Jisung’s confusion—his pouty lips and furrowed eyebrows—as he looks in Minho’s direction for assistance. 

“Here,” Minho’s giggle only cascades further, as he moves to grab the spatula which had long been abandoned in the bowl. “You’re supposed to use this,” he says, placing the spatula into Jisung’s hand.

The action, however momentary, sends a lingering jolt of electricity through Minho’s veins from where his fingers had touched against Jisung’s palm in a fleeting moment. His eyes immediately move to steal a glance at Jisung who gets to the task unaffected, the only sign giving him away being that of a faint blush on his cheeks, mirroring the heat rising up Minho’s own neck.

And if that isn’t enough to send him reeling down a dreamscape of possibilities and touches, Jisung brings them back to their forgotten conversation—keeping his ear and heart open to learn more about Minho, more so out of interest than obligation. 

A perfect combination to lead Minho into overdrive. 

“You were saying why you left the restaurant, hyung?”

“Right, yeah I was,” Minho coughs some composure into himself. “It wasn’t a sudden decision. I had been wanting to leave for a long time because the place was just severely understaffed; Sous chef, pastry chef, pantry chef—all those roles were just me running around. I still didn’t think too much of it though, because I was learning and I truly respected the professor who got me the job right out of school.”

“What pushed you to actually quit?” Jisung says as he puts down the spatula, with the product of his labor reflecting an almost perfection. 

It’s barely the first step done, and Minho can’t help the proud grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“I’ll tell you about it but first let’s start on the next layer, hm?” he gently proposes, respecting Jisung’s keenness to know. “Alright, for this one we’re going to first mix some instant coffee and hot water.”

“Wait, we’re making a coffee flavored cheesecake?” Jisung turns at his heels, his eyes questioningly searching Minho’s for an answer. It’s a blessing that he must find one of his own accord, because Minho’s paralyzed from their proximity—Jisung’s breath hitting him like a divine intervention. “This keeps getting better.”

“Okay, new first step—know the dish that you’re making,” Minho feels his wits kick back into place as Jisung turns back to the front, the comment earning him a light slap on the arm nonetheless. “But yeah, mix those in a separate bowl, hm?” 

A reiteration is all it takes Jisung to get his head back in the game, as he makes good on the assigned task before waiting for Minho’s next instructions. 

“Okay, next we’re going to beat some things until they’re smooth,” Minho instructs again, waiting for a nod from Jisung before leading him further. “Put those packages of cream cheese first,” he says, waiting at each step for Jisung to follow through before continuing. “Then one and a third cup of sugar; two tablespoons of flour—it’s in that bowl over there. Great, now just add two teaspoons—yes, the smallest one—two of those filled with vanilla extract. There you go.”

“Now I just run the beater on all of this, right?”

“Yes, exactly,” Minho watches as Jisung does the same, a sharp sound of the beater hitting the bowl’s surface at the beginning being replaced by a smooth run. Once Minho’s sure of the mixture being of the desired consistency, he taps Jisung to stop. 

“Now add those whisked eggs I kept on the side, along with the coffee mixture, into this—then beat them until they’re well combined.”

Jisung nods, his fingers deftly pouring in the ingredients as instructed. With a sense of accomplishment, he begins blending the mixture once again, his movements fluid and confident.

“Ta-da,” Jisung declares proudly when he has deemed the task completed, withdrawing just a little to allow Minho a proper look at the mixture.

And Minho, being the absolute goner that he is, can’t help but return Jisung’s triumphant grin with a smile of his own—celebrating Jisung’s newfound confidence and skills in the kitchen. He feels more than glad to have been a witness to the development as Jisung unhesitantly begins pouring the mix onto the base layer, this time using the spatula with a practiced ease. 

Elation comes soon after, when he realizes not just having been a witness but a reason contributing to the constant joy reflecting off Jisung’s face—what a fucking legacy for him to leave, one definitely best-suited. 

“All done.”

Minho’s so over in his head that he doesn’t even notice his own hand reaching out, fingers instinctively patting Jisung’s head in a gesture of affection; the touch so soft and airy that he doesn’t even regard it as a threat, until Jisung’s blinking at him in surprise. 

The horrifying realization comes seeping in like a tide thereon, as Minho’s about to mutter an apology and withdraw back into distance so far that he can convince himself it had just been a daydream. He stops though, his hand stilling against Jisung’s strands, as a soft smile spreads across the younger’s face—his eyes crinkling at the corners, as Jisung leans into the touch. 

“Thanks, hyung,” Jisung giggles, as if reading Minho for all the appreciation running through his veins. “Do we just place this pan into the oven now?”

It’s a blessing that Jisung’s confidence doesn’t lead him to go overboard though, as the younger still awaits confirmation from the professional—one which comes in the form of a disagreeing shake of Minho’s head.

“Cheesecakes are better cooked in water baths, so we’ll have to prepare one first,” Minho begins, moving to the stove to boil about a full kettle of water; the weight of Jisung’s stare never leaving his back. 

He returns to find Jisung unmoved in his spot, as if guarding the assembled layers from any harm. It’s adorable.

“Grab that larger pan, yeah?” he asks of Jisung, who follows compliantly as he places down the utensil in front of himself. “Now place the cake in the center—good. Let’s take it to the oven and then we’ll pour in the water.”

Despite Jisung’s carefulness in lifting the pan and carrying it over to the oven, Minho notices Jisung’s hands trembling slightly as the younger grabs the kettle to pour the water in through the side. Without a second thought, Minho wraps his arms around Jisung from behind, steadying him with a gentle embrace.

He should’ve thought it through more though, because his heart picks up the pace in his chest—hammering loud enough to be surely audible to Jisung from where the younger stands pressed into Minho’s chest. He’s expecting to be pushed back, even to be elbowed right against the sternum, but the pull never comes as he feels Jisung’s tensed muscles relax in his hold.

“Here, let me help,” he murmurs regardless, guiding Jisung’s shaky hands to pour the water into the larger pan in hopes that the nonchalance will save him. 

The rest of the saving, he reasons, to result from his restraint as he pushes past his desire to stay right where he is—detaching himself from Jisung in the same second as they’re pouring the last bit of water into the pan. 

“Now you just leave it there to bake for about an hour,” Minho announces as he retreats to lean against the counter, hoping that the more distance he puts between them, the more it’ll help die down the shaking urge in his hands—to go back in, and seek more of Jisung’s warmth.

The fact that it’s Jisung who seeks him out though, coming to stop right next to him, makes Minho hopeful. 

“Enough time for me to know more about you then,” he hears Jisung softly mutter, with their hands ghosting against each other’s on the counter. “If you still want to let me know, that is.”

Always , he swallows up the words down his throat, resorting to a direct continuation of their previous conversation instead.

“So I wanted to leave the restaurant for a long time, right?” he turns to ensure Jisung’s understanding of the same, finding his answer in the younger’s enthusiastic nod instantly. “But I wasn’t too sure—I was too scared I’d be letting go of a great opportunity. That is, until I had an argument with Jeongin.”

“Jeongin?”

“Ah, right. I don’t think I’ve mentioned him before,” Minho chuckles at his own ridiculous feeling, the one which surfaces ever so often and convinces him that he’s known Jisung longer than just a few weeks. “That’s my younger brother. He just graduated a while back, so not that young now. But he was a lot more dependent on me back in the day. I was too busy to realize that the dependence was more than just financial, because I put all my energy into making sure I was earning well for him.”

“That is, until he said he would move out … Innie said he didn’t see the point in trying to live together when he barely saw me for weeks,” he continues, ignoring the way in which his throat tightens at the memory. “And in all honesty, I knew he wouldn’t do that, because primarily he was a highschool kid who absolutely couldn’t afford that. But that was the moment I realized I couldn’t even be sure that Innie would stay because he wanted me around. I had just completely forgotten to be actual family to him, and it was at that point that I knew I needed something different.”

“So, I turned in my resignation with no leads to turn to after the one month notice period,” Minho sucks in a deep breath, watching as Jisung sheds the hesitancy to lay his hand on top of Minho’s own. “That is until on the last second day, I received an offer. I had no idea who it came from or how they had found me, not until I actually met them—it had been the customers who had dined the night before, and had asked to pay regards to the chef.”

“Let me guess—my parents?” Jisung speaks for the first time in forever, his voice lacking the usual bitterness as it did at the mention of the subject.

“Yeah,” Minho chuckles, unable to find within himself any annoyance at Jisung for having guessed his climactic end. “They agreed-upon my terms of having the weekend off, and still offered me a pay much better than before so I had no reason to refuse.”

“And how have things been with Jeongin?”

“A lot better, thankfully,” Minho turns around to flash Jisung a reassuring smile, genuine in his satisfaction. “It’s still a bit challenging considering I’m not there most of the week, but I think both him and I have grown to negotiate instead of being stubborn in our places. That’s what makes it work, most times.”

“I’m really glad to hear that, hyung,” Jisung rejoices, his eyes sparkling with genuine happiness at the confirmation. “After all, you too deserve to be surrounded by love and happiness, in all forms possible.”

Minho’s sure this must be it—what Jisung’s hoping and describing to him. Because hearing the younger recite his own words back to him, word to word as if he had been carrying them over in his heart a little too closely, is enough to render Minho completely content. With heat spreading through each and every crevice of his existence, he’s sure this is the closest he’s gotten to the experience of spring—to the unbridled joy, gratitude and experience of serenity untouched. 

One so overpowering that he doesn’t even stutter, as he voices out his truth loud and clear for Jisung to hear.

“You might have to stick around for that, though,” he softly says, voice barely above a whisper as he feels Jisung’s hand twitch against his own.

It’s a momentary sensation though, because in the next moment, Jisung’s withdrawing with a scoff while leaving Minho chuckling all to himself. “After all, I still need you to make the ganache in the evening.”

“I fucking hate you.”

✦

“Jisung-ah, I need you to work faster on those balloons,” Minho sees Chan incessantly pacing around the room, setting every crooked decoration into place—clearly refusing to compromise on anything but perfection. “Changbin’s going to be here any moment.”

There’s nothing hilarious about it per say, at least there wouldn’t be to a stranger, but Minho can’t hold back the constant smile he has been sporting for the entire duration of their preparations. After all, he hasn’t seen Chan like this much before—not when the usual side of him involves collected composure and somewhat of a parental comfort to others; a complete contrast to the nervous pacing he seems to be doing around the room today.

All because he’s dedicated and scared; a combination which is enough to convince Minho that Changbin’s truly loved to the depths beyond he knows.

“Relax, hyung,” Jisung deeply exhales however, clearly having had enough over the past two hours and only causing Minho to bubble up with more laughter. “You could have just one balloon and he’d still be crying because you set it up for him.”

Chan’s not the only one he has noticed to be out of his element today, with Jisung ridding himself completely of his naive, younger sibling character and adopting that of an absolute brat. He has been using every nook and cranny to arrive at the familiar destination of embarrassing Chan for being so clearly head over heels, throwing reminders of it in his face unprompted as Minho enjoys the show first-hand. 

And well, it’s only better that the accusations Jisung’s throwing around are certainly true. 

Chan must know it too, because that’s the only reason he doesn’t retaliate; instead, blaring agreement making itself obvious with the shade of pink breaking out at the tip of his ears as he clears his throat, wordless.

After all, he has gone all out today.

Changbin is meant to lose his mind the moment he walks into the house today, with his usual shameful entry from the back door turned into a glorious walk of fame—almost akin to a red carpet, meant to sing of his newfound achievement. Minho hadn’t even known Changbin had already closed the milestone of a million followers, with the topic becoming a fleeting mention in their past conversations. 

Chan, though, had been the polar opposite of Minho’s awareness, as he had purposely walked into the kitchen this morning with Jisung confusedly following at his heels, only to announce his plans of doing something . His ideas sure had been directionless, but Minho had been unable to turn the older away with the unbridled devotion Chan seemed to have towards the idea of celebrating Changbin’s achievements. That is, other than the fact that Minho’s also a hopelessly sappy romantic at heart who is convinced that something of the sort would be the happiest moment of Changbin’s life—even more than the actual achievement itself. 

But that part had been kept fairly secret for the audience, as Minho had groaned here and there about being dragged into Chan’s clueless crusades. He hadn’t let out an agreement for making some of the younger’s favorite dishes until Chan was practically begging him, and Jisung doubled over himself with laughter on the side. 

The further plan for the evening thereon had blossomed more spontaneously than ever, as Jisung propped up the idea of installing a karaoke setup in their part of the house—a perfect opportunity for the chaos and deafening noise to unfold with the siblings’ parents being away on a business trip for the week. Chan had simply teared up in gratitude for having brainstormed the best possible gift for Changbin’s preferences, before micromanaging every detail about the same. 

Be it the number of balloons to be sprawled out on the floor, to the list of Changbin’s preferred songs pushed into the favorites section for easy access, Chan had it all figured out. That is, except his obviously in-the-face feelings pushing him to do the same—an exception which had Minho and Jisung wanting to facepalm within every second spent around the older. 

“Shouldn’t he be here by now?” Minho says, finishing up his last round over to the kitchen as he places the snacks onto the center table.

“Actually, yeah,” Chan’s eyebrows furrow in worry, as he fishes his phone out of the pocket. “Let me call him.”

It barely takes a second for Chan thereon to dial—the younger’s contact being a frequently used shortcut on quick dial. He doesn’t however get a chance to speak to the person on the other side, because there’s barely three rings heard within the quietened living room before Changbin’s ringtone itself startles them all. 

“Hi guys—Oh, hi Channie?” Changbin announces, his voice dropping down from a loud cheer to an endeared whisper within a second. “Sorry, I’m late.”

His vision is so minimally focused upon finding Chan’s eyes, that Changbin doesn’t even react to the surroundings—to the decorations splashed around, the table filled with food or Minho and Jisung coming up from their hunched positions in a surprised stature. At least not until Changbin finds his target, spends seconds staring onto Chan’s expressions for an elaboration upon the sudden hangout plan and moves to survey the surroundings when the older offers him nothing but a fond, cheeky grin. 

It takes a few seconds for him to process the situation thereon, as his eyes continue to widen until they’re circling around the room in a shape akin to wide saucers. He doesn’t seem to want to be the one to break the surrealness of the moment though, because he stands there overridden with confusion in hopes that one of the other three people in the room will be the ones to break the silence. 

With the next few minutes showing no indication of the same though, he must realize it to be false hope.

“What the fuck is going on?” Changbin sputters out as the most appropriate choice of inquiry.

“Surprise!” Chan laughs, taking long strides towards the other until he’s enveloping Changbin into a tight hug.

Minho doesn’t have to be the one involved to know Changbin’s definitely running breathless. 

“Congratulations on one million followers, hyung!” Jisung cheers, dropping the last blown balloon onto the ground with the brightest of smiles. “We are so happy for you!”

“Oh,” Changbin’s expressions dawn into a quick realization, before his eyes fall close and lips host a shy smile in what Minho can only guess to be pure endearment. “I didn’t know you guys noticed.”

Despite the surprise and gratitude radiating off Changbin for the past few minutes, that seems to be the accusation that gets Chan’s attention as he peels himself off the other to stare straight into Changbin’s eyes.

“Of course, we noticed,” he states, deadly serious. “We would never miss the opportunity to celebrate your success.”

“Absolutely,” even though Minho shares the sentiment, he feels a bit guilty riding along Chan’s wave of affection when he had clearly been paying no mind to actually checking the number. 

However, the grins mirrored on Chand and Changbin’s faces though tells him they don’t care about such specificities at the moment. That’s why he doesn’t offer any more elaborations, instead copying Jisung’s waddle towards the two of them to hold Changbin into a side hug—a gesture which he must thoroughly enjoy, as a giggle escapes Changbin’s throat despite having air knocked out of him. 

If anything, he seems close to whining when the three boys step back to allow him room to breathe. 

“How did you guys manage to get a fucking karaoke machine?” Changbin takes that as his cue to walk further into the room, collapsing onto the couch with the rest of the group following suit. He must notice the proud smile radiating off Jisung for the successful idea, because in the next moment Changbin’s turning towards him. “This was you, wasn’t it? You shouldn’t know me so well, Jisung-ah. It’s scary.”

“What, you think I really spent the past three years in L.A.?” Jisung purses his lips, shaking his head in an attempt to feign disappointment. “I’ve always been in your walls, hyung.”

“Aw, I hope you’ve been liking it there,” Changbin coos, flashing Jisung a wide grin and crinkling eyes. 

One might look at him and Minho can’t help but think he truly deems the proposition desirable. Perhaps, but he gets the other. The idea of having Jisung around all the time after all doesn’t sound so inherently disastrous. Considering the number of times Minho’s used to seeking out Jisung’s company on any given day, it might even seem that he’s actively trying to arrive at such an arrangement.

“There’s not much we could do in the amount of time we had,” Chan fondly shakes his head at the two, eyes fluttering between his cherished boys before finding his moment to speak with much consideration. “But I truly hope today we can remind you of how much of an inspiration you are to us, Changbinnie. You’ve always worked so hard.”

Changbin seems to expect some rebuttal, even a sarcastic comment if anything from the other two in the room, at the compliment as he holds back his endearment for moments to come. It’s only when his hypothesis falls disproved with both Minho and Jisung bearing onto him nodding agreement that he allows himself to freely break into an unabashed grin. One that causes his nose to scrunch, and his cheeks to become fuller. 

And that seems to be the last clear memory Minho registers, because from that moment on he draws up a blur of the time spent together in that living room—hours spent over sloppily poured soju, endless exchanges of endeared smiles and Changbin’s renditions of soulful songs. The only constant presence and reminder being that of Jisung’s warmth pressed into his side, unnerving and yet not discomforting for the slightest second. 

He doesn’t register when the seating positions alter to their current form. All he knows is that the next time he runs his eyes over the room, he sees Chan sprawled out onto the carpeted floor below with no care thrown about as his world seems to be centered around his best friend circling around the space as if on a concert stage. Minho’s lonely presence alone on the sofa stands long cured too, with Jisung’s lowered inhibitions rendering an unbarred channel for the other’s clinginess to flow; the current exhibit of the same being in the form of Jisung’s head resting on Minho’s shoulder as they clap along to Changbin’s performance of Yanghwa BRDG. 

He doesn’t know how they've ended up so close when the last he remembers of Jisung is on the couch on the other side of the room, but he can only suppose he must’ve had some hand to play. That is, if his own arm wrapped around Jisung’s waist to keep the other in place is anything to go by. It would’ve been a lot more surprising though if Minho wasn’t used to his own drunken shenanigans, which usually involved getting himself in situations that his sober self would have a hard time coping with. Something about the way his heart is hammering in his chest tells him he’s tipped the scale too far off today to be able to make a safe recovery. 

He might just have to bear the weight of Jisung’s touch for unending days to come with no cure whatsoever. 

It’s a blessing though that he is too befuddled to give too much weight onto the future, as he spends all his energy holding back a pout over Changbin’s on-point vocals and melodious tone so much. He has never been in a situation like this before to be an accurate judge of the other’s vocal abilities, but he chooses his lack of knowledge to attribute Changbin’s talent today to the lack of alcohol in his system while the rest three of them are ringing with the sounds of soju glasses clinking next to their ears. It might be a weak attempt at rationalization for his own airy falsettos for sure, but he supposes having a drunken brain is what allows him to ignore that reality for a bit longer and to believe that his own attempts at karaoke had been worthy of the awed smile Jisung had flashed at him.

The only way he thinks to be fair is to get Changbin just as equally hammered—a task he would’ve gladly taken up, if Changbin hadn’t offered a mature reasoning; something about having to drive home. He should be glad Minho doesn’t read him aloud for the unacknowledged cowardice of spending a night over with a drunken Chan. 

“Let’s be happy, let’s be happy,” they chant along Changbin’s fading voice, swaying to the rhythm as the singer turns to them—mic held out in an attempt to honor their support. “Don’t be sick.” 

“Exactly, kids,” Chan nods his head, his voice akin to a shout from all the drunken courage he seems to have gathered. “Let’s be happy and have fun! Who wants to go next?”

“Hyung, you should try now!” Jisung supplies, his breath fanning against Minho’s neck and almost sending him into a giggling fit from how ticklish it feels. “You’ve barely sung a song.”

It’s distracting to the extent that Minho doesn’t even register the words being spoken, his eyes and brain falling shut of their own accord as he holds back the urge to nuzzle closer into Jisung’s presence. The only reason he gets caught upon the situation is when he opens his eyes to a Chan’s hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he ducks his head in avoidance. 

“Ah, I don’t know,” Chan’s courage deflates into a cheeky grin, as he tucks his head into Changbin’s side who sits down next to him. “I can’t do an entire song, I’m not so good.”

Damn it, maybe they haven’t had enough liquid courage.

“It’s not about being good,” Minho eyes the half-drunk bottle of soju, before trying to catch Changbin’s gaze. It takes a minute from where the younger seems to be completely mesmerized by Chan’s presence next to him, but soon enough he catches the hint—inching towards the discarded shot glass and the extra karaoke mic. “We’re just having fun, hyung.”

Chan’s lips curl into a momentary scowl at the bitter liquid offered to him by his confidante, before he’s grabbing onto the handed microphone with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Then, how about Changbinnie sings with me?” 

“If that’s what gets you to sing, then gladly yes.”

That’s all the reinforcement Chan seems to need before he’s grabbing onto the remote and searching for the song he wants—the rest of them cluelessly following the appearing search on the screen, as all Chan answers them with is a giggle upon direct inquiry. 

It’s an entertaining task though for their serotonin-ridden brains, with Minho’s head crooning to the side to get a better look and Jisung’s body following suit from where it had been leaning against Minho—their movements paired, as if magnetic. Changbin, too, dedicatedly keeps his gaze fixed onto the screen, his eyes glimmering at the success of having pushed past Chan’s inhibitions to get the older excitedly scroll past the list of songs. 

That is until the older’s finalized choice glares back at them; the color from Changbin’s face visibly drowning at the prospect of singing it in a duet with Chan. It’s a change noticeable enough even for Minho to register, as he tenses in his spot while holding back his urge to jump in defensively for the prospect of maintaining his friend’s sanity. There didn’t seem to be a lot to lose in this regard either way, not after the night Changbin had spent screaming and crying over the call as he sequentially gushed out each of the nine songs attached in Chan’s playlist to him.

Chan, however, seems completely clueless to the struggle behind him as he unhesitatingly presses play onto the track—the instrumental of ‘Me After You’ filling the space within the next second. 

Minho can’t find it in himself to do anything to stop the potential of a catastrophic fall, as Chan clears his throat and turns towards Changbin with the clear intention of singing the duet face-to-face. 

He wants to, he truly wants to, run in between them both and save Changbin. The man definitely isn’t strong enough—not after all the times Minho has seen him frantically pace around with his head in his hands over Chan’s obliviousness to his own actions. The worry pooling in his stomach only deepens when he realizes the concern isn’t only his to bear, as he feels Jisung’s grip tightening from where it circles around Minho’s arm. 

Changbin must be less wary of his fate though, because he doesn’t turn to look at them two for more than a fleeting second, before he lifts the microphone as an acceptance of Chan’s offer—who comes to settle down back into his place, his shoulder pressed against Changbin’s as he begins with the vocals. He has seen it enough times before, but Minho thinks this is the deepest hit Changbin’s ever taken at digging his own grave considering his hands already seem to be holding onto the microphone for life support. 

It doesn’t help that Chan’s completely committed to the emotional delivery of the song on the side. 

“I sit face-to-face with you at the table,” he hears Chan’s voice being the perfectly prominent blend of a withheld smile and gratitude. “I ask about your day.”

Considering the amount of hesitance that the older had tucked into his willingness to karaoke, Minho couldn’t have guessed Chan to know the song so well though. His eyes are barely looking over to the lyrics on the screen, instead shutting down close in what Minho can guess to be contentment and opening only for the briefest of moments to catch Changbin’s gaze along. And yet, the lyrics flow of their own accord without a single mistake as if they had been practiced by the lead vocalist of the choice over and over again throughout sleepless nights. 

With Changbin’s knowledge of lovesick songs, there is no way that he falls short of the qualification himself—leaving Minho to guess a completely different reason for the younger’s faltering voice. It seems to be very obvious that he’s trying his best to hold himself back from making too much of Chan’s gaze and devotion to the song, to prevent his own voice from failing him entirely; a job done too well as their singing together blends into a velvety rendition of the chorus. 

“I was able to love you so much,” the only difference being that Changbin’s voice serves to be more of a fleeting backing vocal to Chan’s more confident ones. “Because you embraced and understood my young and immature mind warmly.”

It’s a change too bizarre for Minho, considering he has always been used to Changbin being the insufferable, loverboy out of the two. The one who had always been waltzing in with impromptu confessions and reminders of his persistent feelings for Chan, while the other would scatter away with nothing more than a nervous giggle as his practiced move. 

It’s nerve-wracking, even for him. He can’t even imagine how Changbin’s holding up under the scrutiny of Chan’s undeterred attention on him; a worry Jisung must share as his softened expression at the view stands in contrast with his furrowed eyebrows, worry overwhelming his vision.

Even though Changbin’s always sporting a blaring tone and a cheeky smile as his defense, Minho knows the other to be a weak man in the face of Chan’s forces—breaking his defenses with a single hopeful flick in the wrong direction. He isn’t meant to sustain, not when the intensity of his feelings for Chan have been housed within him for almost a decade now. Instead, he’s meant to crumble and build all over anew in the hopes that Chan will one day strip all the reformations of their relationship and read him bare for all his feelings. 

Only to say he’s been holding onto the same foundation himself, aching and yearning for the security of Changbin’s hand in his own as more than a friend. 

He’s meant to wait for that day where his insecurities are proven wrong by the intoxicating confirmation of his doubts. He’s meant for all of it, to have a frustrating and rewarding tale to tell of their love. And yet, his exhausted heart isn’t strong enough to put up with the struggle for another day. 

A fact much proven as Changbin’s voice falters, breaking noticeably enough for Chan’s eyes to snap open in an instant. 

“I think, I’ve found the perfect love,” Changbin grows quieter, giving up on keeping his facade as allows the mic to fall to the side. 

The instrumental, however still filling the room, waits for him to continue, urging him to offer something beyond the glistening shine in his eyes—a pleading that seemed to be shared by Chan, as his serenity comes to be replaced by a wave of panic.

“Changbin-ah,” Chan begins, voice almost a whisper as he leans closer to take a better look at the other. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Changbin shakes his head, turning away to take a deep breath. He must not find the composure he was aiming for, because his shoulders slump only further within the next second.

“It’s not nothing. I know you better than that.”

No matter the fleeting confusion and waves of confusion, that seems to be the one thing Chan speaks out confidently—without a flicker of doubt, as his hand comes to hold Changbin’s assertively. 

The “Do you?” Changbin utters out, however, seems to be enough to break all of that, Chan’s gaze shaking as he tries to register the insinuated meaning of Changbin’s words.

“What?”

“Do you really know me so well? Because if you do—,” Changbin scoffs, his eyes focused on the side where Chan’s grip on his wrist loosens with every word said. He seems scared of not being held onto anymore, but the suffocation keeps him going. “If you know all about how I feel and still are choosing to put me through this—then you’re so cruel.”

As if the puzzle pieces fall into place under the grace of a divine intervention, the creases on Chan’s forehead smoothen into a gentle understanding. Even if surprised, if his sharp intake of breath is anything to go by, he doesn’t seem to resist the acknowledgment—descending past the oblivion into a grand realization, while his hand stays circled around Changbin’s in an attempt to make the fall less fatal. And with the way his shoulders slump, rather than aching back in resistance, Minho doesn’t think Chan minds the surprise. 

“Changbin-ah,” Chan lowly whispers, his voice barely crossing between the two. “You know I care about you—.”

“And that’s what makes it worse. You care about me so much,” Changbin gulps down his sob, to make way for years of repressed feelings that pour out of him unapologetically—having patiently weighed him down for as long as Minho has known him. “It’s so much that I stupidly allow myself to think I can’t just be a friend to you. You wouldn’t do all that for a friend, right? Except the moments where I can’t be fucking sure because you’re so nice to everyone, hyung.”

Minho must not be the only one who finds it so foreign—to hear Changbin address the other as anything more than a nickname he seemed to have claimed as privilege for himself alone—for Chan visibly flinches at the utterance. Although, it isn’t too sure if it’s the distanced honorific itself or the broken sob in Changbin’s voice that seems to have that effect on the older. 

As if an attempt to seek immediate remedy, Chan’s lips part, the defense a failed one, as Changbin resumes before he can even get a word out.

“This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair to me—or to these guys,” he shakes his head, turning around to acknowledge Minho and Jisung’s bundled presence on the couch for the first time. 

It’s a jarring reminder to them too, for having been an intrusive set of ears, as they freeze in their places with eyes widened. Changbin though, always too kind to the people who he adores, shakes his head in an attempt to lessen their worries as he passes them a brief smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes in its full glory.

“I’m sorry, Minho hyung and Jisung-ah. This isn’t something you needed to get dragged in,” Changbin mutters a bit louder than before, ignoring the weight of Chan’s gaze on him. “But regardless of all this, thank you for setting up this entire thing, and I’m sorry that I can’t stay and appreciate more of all that you’ve done for me tonight.”

Before either of them can even rebel against the need for an apology from Changbin, the younger simply detaches himself—from the grasp of Chan’s unsure fingers on him, from the situation that has his heart bleeding openly right for everyone to see. A spectacle turned out of his most intimate of vulnerabilities and dreamscapes, demanding damage control. Even if that means resorting to the oldest technique in the book of physically removing yourself from the situation, probably the only way left for Changbin as he flashes another brief smile to the man at his side before walking out the living room.

Chan though, being the kind to cradle people’s concerns into a comforting challenge and offer a piece of his own heart for every feeling invalidated, doesn’t seem to register the other’s retreating steps as an outcome of the situation. Not until Minho clears his throat—bringing him back to his senses, and to a room no longer graced by Changbin’s presence.

“Fuck, what do I d—?” the panic in Chan’s voice audibly surges, as he frantically starts looking around for a reminder of sanity. 

Minho however seems to be his best shot, as he sternly states, “Go.” 

And that’s all he says, because he knows that’s all Chan needs for he’s a man who knows Changbin’s worth more than he realizes. He knows the nights Changbin’s spent by his side, patting his back as a soothing lullaby against his heaving worries. He knows the times Changbin’s cried more tears than himself, trying and urging Chan to see his worth from a perspective he’s only beginning to bloom within. He knows how irrevocably he needs Changbin in his life, to have one that can be called a life actually of his own. He knows it all well enough to rush out the door within the next second, steps hurried and urgent to sustain the only grounding he seems to have known all these years.

All Minho can do is suck in a deep breath and hope that he’s able to catch Changbin in time.

That, and tend to the man curled up against him—one who’s been so quiet this whole time that Minho had almost forgotten about the weight of Jisung on him as anything foreign, or more than what he’s known all his life. 

“Jisungie,” he whispers softly, turning his head in the slightest only to find the younger’s eyes already staring at him. A reminder of their proximity hitting Minho in full force, and rendering him breathless until he’s regained enough composure to speak again. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m …” Jisung’s habitual nod answers in response, only to come to a speedy halt when he realizes the unconvinced look on Minho’s face. “Frankly? I’m a bit scared. I know Chan hyung enough to know he can’t possibly manage a day without Changbin hyung. And even though I also know he’s just being stupidly oblivious about the fact that he’s in love with him, I’m scared. What if they don’t figure it out?”

“It’s them, Jisungie. You know those things go both ways,” Minho tightens his grip around Jisung’s waist, pulling him in closer until the younger’s head is resting on his shoulder, close enough to have Jisung’s hair tickle against his neck. “They might be a little stupid, yes, but they’re meant to figure it out. I’m sure of it. They might just need some time to acknowledge and deal, considering they’ve got years to unpack.”

“I know that, and I know that if anyone is capable of it, it’s them,” he hears Jisung’s voice take a hopeful lilt. “But I still can’t help being scared of the what-ifs.”

“Honestly I am, a little bit too,” Minho confesses, acknowledging the faintest of voices in the back of his head after the entire time they had been trying to convince him of a disaster upcoming. “It’s nothing we can interfere in, though.”

“I know.”

“You know what we can do though?” he watches Jisung’s slumping figure become infused with life, as the younger inquisitively tips his head above to catch a look at Minho’s intentions—as if they’re all sprawled out bare for him to read. 

Minho wonders if he’s really made himself that defenseless in front of Jisung. 

“All we have right now is the karaoke machine,” Minho reaches out for the abandoned microphone on the end of the couch, without disrupting Jisung’s balance maintained against his own. It’s a difficult feat considering he almost feels the warmth of the younger against own becoming a memory of the past, but he’s quick to realign and capture the sensation back—elated. “So, let’s just spend the night in the only way possible for us. And I mean that in terms of the stupidest songs possible. We could sing fucking Baby Shark if you want.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad of an idea,” the corners of Jisung’s mouth lift in a shy smile, his gaze never leaving Minho’s face even as he detaches himself from the older and comes undone against the fleeting touch that hands him the microphone in hand. “And I’m sure nothing could possibly be as entertaining as watching you sing baby shark.”

“You’re right, I do make a terrific entertainer in all honesty.”

Such confidence hadn’t always been a prerequisite in Minho’s life, considering he had always preferred to state his honest opinions boldly and walk out of situations that didn’t concern him in the slightest. Recently though, Jisung’s been dedicated to rendering him a mess—breaking him apart for all that he’s been and somehow building him anew all within the warmth feeling of security.

He’s been making Minho care about situations that aren’t his own or feelings that are absolutely out of his control. He’s been awaiting Minho’s presence on all their movie nights, patting the spot right next to himself as if he’s found the only person worthy of listening to his commentaries and theories. He’s been giggling with that heart-shaped toothy grin of his glimmering in all its charm, convincing Minho that he’s the funniest man to have ever existed if he’s capable of being awarded with novelty rewards like such. It’s an insufferable addition for his brother who groans a lot more in his presence for sure, but Minho’s been finding it easier to get used to.

Especially when it’s in moments like these where the only sight that greets him is Jisung’s endeared gaze following his every movement. An unspoken yearning tucked into their depths unknown, or something alike if Minho were to guess based on the familiarity of that look; after all it’s the one he catches on his own face these days, as it stares back at him in the rose-coloured mornings where he walks into the house with a little dance in his step.  

Minho can feel a similar rhythm coursing through his veins in this moment—speeding down his heart into every corner of his being—as he uncrosses his legs to make his way towards the machine. Before he can actually commit to his intentions though, Jisung’s hand wraps around his wrist, stilling him in place.

He wonders if Jisung can feel the rhythm quicken its pace, from where the younger’s fingers stay pressed right against his lifeline.

“Actually, hyung,” he watches Jisung’s confidence dissipate with every breath, as the younger’s gaze flits to every surface. That is until he’s running out of options, and completing full circle with a deep breath sucked in. “I had an idea about another song.”

“Oh? Which one is it? I’ll put it on.”

“I don’t think you’d be able to find it on there,” Jisung shakes his head, taking the benefit of a confused Minho to instead himself get up from the couch and run towards his room.

Minho, however, stands there in his place, clearly being unable to grasp at whatever ends Jisung is throwing at him. He has barely moved by the time the perpetrator of his confusion returns, only this time he’s gripping a guitar in his hand—a relic clearly reflecting an instrument worn out over the years, and yet clearly having been cared for with the sincerest of hearts.

“What’s happening?” he accepts defeat to Jisung’s face, as the younger moves to reclaim his position back on the couch.

Only this time his hand is wrapped around the guitar, with fingers plucking away a few notes as trial.

“I’m singing you a song, just like you wanted,” Jisung smugly grins, his lips lifting more and more as Minho crosses back to the distance to him with eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Except it’s an original.”

“Oh my god.”

Minho’s suspicion is quick to dissipate once his confusion is cleared away, leaving him filled with nothing but unfiltered serotonin coursing through his body. He knows it’s stupid to find such joy in Jisung’s exhibition of his music to him when the younger’s an established producer already, and probably has songs out there that he’s never felt brave enough to ask for. There might be thousands and millions of people who feel the same rush of joy upon hearing his music, for he’s a musician for every and any ear willing to listen.

Despite all that though, the warmth creeping under his skin tells Minho that this is different. Jisung might be for people to hear and crowds to adore, but it’s not the one he has the pleasure of having by his side right now—dressed in his oversized sweats that make it hard for his fingers to press onto the strings, messy hair falling into his eyes while he’s too focused to have a care in the world about them and a guitar propped up against his knee in preparation of a private concern just for them two. For the Jisung in front of him is there holding out his music willingly for Minho to experience, with his nervousness sprawled out in the open despite his attempts at hiding it away every time he bites his lower lip.

He’s there as a person, as an epicentre for all of Minho’s devotion to find a home in, rather than as a name scribbled next to a track title. In all his glory and all his might, he’s there only for Minho and no one else.

“Remember how I didn’t tell you about the song I had been working on till late after our walk to the convenience store?” Jisung laughs at Minho’s parted lips and their lack of any words, shaking his head despite the crimson that’s making its way from the back of his neck. “Well, it’s this one. The only one I’ve managed to complete after coming here, to be honest. But I think it’s one of my favorites out of all that I’ve ever made. ”

“I’m literally going to throw up if you don’t start playing within the next minute.”

“You shouldn’t really threaten your artist, hyung,” Minho does nothing to acknowledge the way his heart skips a beat, only clearing his throat as Jisung’s fingers begin flitting against the chords again—this time, more purposefully. “But fine, I’ll stop putting it off. Just don’t let me know if you don’t like it, alright?”

I could never , Minho almost says before registering the hint of smile that continues to ghost against Jisung’s lips even as the younger begins to play. It’s barely anything out of the ordinary, but it’s enough for Minho to know that Jisung is aware of the answer already. He feels secure and assured enough to start even without an affirmation, and Minho can’t help but feel proud for making it so glaringly obvious.

After all, Jisung deserves it all. To know and to be known, for nothing but love.

The hesitant strumming of the guitar only grows more prominent with every chord that Jisung successfully weaves into a melody he has memorized. It seems to come to him as easy as breathing, hands moving of their own accord as he barely looks down onto the instrument—his eyes finding their way back to Minho’s who’s too overwhelmed to focus on just one thing, eyes continuously flitting between the man and a show of his proficiency. Equally enrapturing to the extent that Minho chooses to close his eyes instead as his best possible option, floating along the soft melody filling the air around him.

The solution doesn’t save him for too long from the dilemma though, because as soon as he hears the first word in Jisung’s voice accompanying the instrumental, he’s staring in awe. Trying his best to commit every part of this moment to his fallible memory, with prayers to anything and everything unknown to plead for it to stay forever engraved.

“Will you tell me about yourself? You who I’ve seen from afar,” Jisung’s gaze travels from Minho’s lap where he’s fidgeting with his fingers, to his widened eyes that process each and every lyric with rapt attention—causing him to grin heartily as he continues. “I don’t want to just watch without doing anything. Yeah, just tell me about you.”

“Name, age, where do you live?” Minho sputters at the tone of Jisung’s voice, being conversational enough for him to think the younger is directing those inquiries at him.

It doesn’t help that Jisung waits too, taking a pause until Minho’s answering with details about himself—leaving the younger laughing as he sings further.

“Too many questions? I know I’m being rude but I’ll cross the line just a little. I will look at you and rest for a bit, because it’s my first time having these emotions too.”

Soon though, Jisung’s laughter dies down as he begins to sing more earnestly—a fact Minho registers once he sees the younger’s gaze fluttering away, with an embarrassed scrunching of his nose. Evasion of responsibility, it seems but Minho doesn’t know how much he’s going to let Jisung get away when his own heart is threatening to jump out of his chest. With every word sung and every nervous lilt of Jisung’s voice, Minho’s heartbeat quickens to sing of hopes that start seeming less and less far-fetched.

“You, who shines in the midst of countless people. You become clearer bit by bit and now I can only see you,” followed by a sigh of relief, but it’s indistinguishable who it belongs to when the air surrounding them is heavy with the weight of their synced feelings. “I still don’t know anything about you but I will get to know you slowly and steadily no matter how long it takes.  Words that come out are disguised as being bold but on the inside I’m a coward who’s shaking.”

“Not used to it babe; My heart flutters babe, even as I try my utmost to stay calm. My trembling voice and awkward gestures. Speaking loudly for no reason again, even when you speak to me,” it’s a walk down the memory lane, Minho breaking out in a fond smile at the memories of the awkward Jisung on their first run to the supermarket. A memory smeared in maroon; Jisung’s flushed cheeks, aisles of packaged food and blood rushing to strengthen his defenses.

“They are all first times but I feel fluttered and look forward to even the nervous moments. I just wanna know you, oh. Can you tell me now, hm?”

Minho’s so caught up in the moment—in Jisung’s soft voice that he’s heard countless times and never in a lyrical manner as such, in the simplest of words that seem to be enough for stringing him along his days with the younger, in his coursing anticipation of knowing that the curiosity between them runs far deeper than a superficial interest. He’s so caught up in the intoxicating feeling of being the object for Jisung’s shy glances and nervous humming as the younger wraps up the song. He’s so caught up in that high that he doesn’t think he would be coming down any time soon—stuck in a trap, only tangling himself further and further in.

It shouldn’t be this easy to leave him defenseless though.

After all, Minho’s the kind to consider his options rather than jumping within the ignorant waters of hopefulness. He’s the kind to consider first and foremost Jisung’s lyrics as just that; lyrics which have nothing to do with him or their time spent together. But after the games they’ve played and Jisung winning him over with the snappiest comments and sweetest laughs, it’s difficult to resist. He’s been left a vessel, meant to give into the overwhelming emotions that bundle within him at the sight of Jisung and display them as his finest glory.

“Did you like it?” he watches Jisung place the guitar against the couch, shifting and grumbling in the process, only to end up a lot closer to Minho.

Even though the distance between them had slipped past as a concern amongst Minho’s sensations in overdrive, it is the return of the warmth of Jisung’s knee against his own that reminds him just how much he had been missing the comfort.

“I think you know the answer,” Minho smiles, allowing himself to be a bit greedier at the invitation—taking it as his turn to lay down his head on Jisung’s shoulder. A man just as unguarded and receptive, as he leans down his head against Minho’s own with a sigh.

“Maybe, but I still want to hear it from you. Just in case, I’m wrong.”

“I don’t think you could be wrong, probably just underestimating if anything,” he nuzzles into the warmth, into the certainty and hopes he’s making more sense than he does to his own delirious mind. “I don’t have any pretty words to offer in return, but in all honesty, I loved the song and everything about it—the melody, the lyrics and the guitar.”

“Yeah? What about the producer?” Minho can hear the smile in Jisung’s words, as he playfully slaps the younger’s leg. “Don’t you have anything to say to J.One?”

“I’m not answering that. All that I will be saying to the producer is thank you for letting me hear it. And that he’s earned another fan, probably the most devoted one too.”

“Damn it, that’s really the best he could’ve asked for. It’s a good thing though that I don’t have to spend my time being jealous of him.”

“Maybe you should be,” a weak defense. “J.One or Han Jisung—I still haven’t made the choice of who I like more.”

An ultimate surrender.

jisungie
Today 01:24am

told you not to worry about these dumbasses
[Picture Attached]
dummies fell asleep in the car

oh god help them
did they really fall asleep holding hands
i really thought changbin went home

they’re a bit too silly in my opinion
but ofc chan hyung wasn’t going to let him get away
actually bet he confessed first too

srsly? with changbin’s filter gone?
you’re on
loser buys snacks next time at the store

looking forward to your treat!

we’ll see han

;)
btw thank you for spending time with me, hyungie
i’m really glad you were the first person to listen to ‘close’
it would’ve never existed without you
that is bc you’ve been cheering me on so much hahaha

i’m really glad too
get some rest now, hm?

good night, hyung

see you tomorrow, jisungie

✦

“And you won’t believe what Jeongin said to me afterwards! Like that kid didn’t even hesitate once before looking me straight in the eyes and—Oh, hi?” Minho’s words die down in his throat at the surprise, the chopsticks almost slipping away from his hands before his instincts kick in. “We didn’t know you were here.”

Changbin’s presence in the house isn’t that shocking of an event for Jisung and him to be both sitting there with pairs of widened eyes. However, it’s also a never unknown and quiet one like today, as the younger has always made sure to make his presence known to the desirable audience. Today though, even as Minho and Jisung have been seated at the dinner table for roughly the past hour, he hadn’t noticed the other’s car pull up or Changbin to himself make his way into the house; the quiet residence being filled with nothing but the sound of their soft laughter, chattering voices and no determinable end in sight.

Contrary to the evidence however, Changbin’s standing in front of him, stealing a bite from Jisung’s plate, as he balances a small bag in one hand and chopsticks in the other. Considering his determined posture and refusal to pay more than a second of attention to the men seated, he doesn’t seem willing to compromise on either.

“I just slipped in through the back for a minute; had to grab an outfit change for Channie,” Changbin thoroughly chews down the food, dropping the chopsticks back into Jisung’s grasp once he’s satisfied. “You two seem to be having dinner together an awful lot, though. It’s making me think.”

“Now, don’t tire that tiny little brain of yours. I’m sure it can be put to better use,” Minho clears his throat, moving to push away the insinuation in an instant. It’s long enough—it always is—for him to steal a look in Jisung’s direction who seems just as caught off guard, eyes finding Minho’s own in panic before flitting away in avoidance. “Besides, why did Chan hyung need you to bring an outfit anyways? Isn’t he going to be home soon?”

Although being prepared to bear the consequences of the mischievous glint that had been shining down in Changbin’s eyes just a moment ago, Minho realizes he’s opened the gateway for the perfect distraction from the topic—Changbin’s previous intentions slipping away to make way for a surge of anticipation and endearment that makes itself prominent with the grin ghosting against his lips. He clearly seems to be trying to hold it back and look as composed as possible, but his failure is only delayed for a moment before he’s speaking in a higher pitch. Every syllable of it is donned with serotonin and whatever else seems to be driving him impatient.

“Actually, he won’t be. We’re going on a date.”

Changbin must definitely realize the colossal update he’s dropping, especially after the last that anyone knows of the development is about the two of them falling asleep in the car and then never talking to anyone about it ever. And yet he has the audacity to be menace, standing there without seeming the slightest bit phased when both Jisung and Minho gasp out loud in surprise.  

Minho had been utmost respectful, not asking either of them about all that had transpired as a consideration about their privacy and what not. At this moment though, he can’t remember the reason for any of it as he jumps into the investigation with all hands on deck.

“What the fuck do you mean a date?” he curtly questions, throwing away all niceties as it takes everything in him and not shake the answers out of Changbin.

It’s a relief though to know that he isn’t over-reacting when Jisung mirrors his sense of emergency, dropping away everything to pop his chin on his hands—expectantly waiting for a miraculous elaboration. “Did you confess? Are you guys officially dating? Can I please make fun of Channie hyung for being the dumbest all this time?”

“Woah, there. Calm down with the questions, guys,” Changbin doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, as he takes his time flashing a proud toothy grin. “But to answer your questions. Yes, Minho hyung I mean a fucking date where he takes me to a nice restaurant and I flirt with him incessantly and shamelessly. And Jisung-ah, honestly who the fuck told you about everything? As for your questions—Yes, I confessed. He did first, though. No, we are not dating yet . And yes, please have the time of your life making fun of him; don’t make him sad about it though.”

“Fuck, yeah I won the bet,” Jisung’s interjection does nothing to waver the unbridled joy on Changbin’s face, as he stands there shaking his head. “Pay up, hyung.”

“I’m not even going to ask what this is about.”

“You shouldn’t, but just let the records show that I despise you,” Minho grumbles, turning around to stick his tongue out like a school kid—a gesture which only brightens the smile on Changbin’s lips. “Not to mention that now you owe us both a detailed explanation of what the fuck is going on with you two.”

“Fair enough,” Changbin pretends to understand the trajectory of the conversation, as he takes a seat right in front of them on the other side of the table. “Since you already know the—erm—scene that happened during karaoke, I’m going to basically give you highlights of the conversation we had in the car.”

Minho supposes it is Changbin’s practice of dealing with the audience every day, be it on his Instagram lives or his booming video channel, that makes him such a good storyteller. He’s patient as he waits for the both of them to nod along, before breaking down the night’s events into a simplistic progression to follow. Rather than coming across as disconnected though, the impact on him of reminiscing it all over makes itself prominent as a shade of red breaks out on the younger’s neck and travels all the way up to the apples of his cheeks.

“I was going to drive away, but Channie caught up to me and said he wouldn’t get out,” he groans at the memory, the sound coming across as a pained attempt at imitating the original frustration. “I threatened that I’d walk home, but it didn’t work. He grabbed my hand to stop me and then basically we fell asleep talking. I was honest to him about all the time I’ve held back my feelings, and he talked about never having had the courage to explore what any of our relationship meant. He certainly didn’t have a reason to consider I went along with whatever we had going on. But now that he was processing years and years’ worth of feelings, he needed some time to make his peace with it—which I could only say was fair, considering I spent about a month denying reality when it was my turn during university.”

“So, for now, we’re taking it slow and testing the waters at a pace we’re both comfortable with.”

“And you’re fine with that?” Minho earnestly asks, hoping that it isn’t another one of those times where Changbin’s burying down his struggles to be a safety net for Chan.

It’s reassuring to have his worries cease within the next moment though, as Changbin smiles back—hearty and wide. Minho thinks it is the best culmination he could’ve asked for all their whispered talks and secret rants about yearning.

“Yeah, I am,” Changbin clearly states, without a speck of doubt lacing his words.  “I know it sounds like we’re only going to be revolving around familiar territories this way, but that would’ve been an absolute torture like before if Channie didn’t assure me before hand that he definitely has some not-so-platonic feelings.”

“Oh?” Minho’s eyebrow suggestively arcs up, an inevitable smirk tipping at the corner of his lips as he earns a giggle from Changbin.

“Yeah, I know. I’m planning to revolve around that theme a lot on our date, tonight.”

“I pray for Channie hyung’s sanity,” Jisung sighs, shaking his head as he redirects his focus back onto the leftover food on his plate.

“I’m sure he will be needing that,” Changbin innocently mumbles in agreement, as if he isn’t going to be the perpetrator for all of Chan’s flustered responses. “I am going to go now though, because I don’t want to come across as the guy who shows up late on the first date.”

“You’re showing up to his workplace with a change of clothes. I’m not sure the criteria applies to you.”

“Well, then we’ll make up some rules just for ourselves.”

“Disgusting,” Minho scowls exaggeratedly, recovering soon enough to wave goodbye to the man who skips his way to the exit. 

Once Changbin’s out and about in the world pursuing his love life though, Minho’s focus redirects itself back onto the man seated at his side and his lack of one thereof—a frustrating realization he happens to arrive at, which leaves him groaning. He decides to keep that epiphany limited to himself though, even as Jisung turns to look at him with a confused lift of his eyebrows, resorting to a lesser transparent reason for his annoyance.

“I can’t believe I had to hear about Changbin’s lovesick rants for about an year unprompted but when it comes to them actually going on dates suddenly he’s a goddamn secret keeper.”

“You must demand justice, hyung-ah,” Jisung supplies him pity, jutting out his lower lip in sympathy as he pats Minho’s back in an exaggerated show. “Do you want me to give them a notice that they’re morally obligated to be transparent with us about how their relationship is going?”

“Uhm hm,” Minho nods in consideration despite knowing the amused tone of Jisung’s proposition, a part of him actually wanting to be insufferable and agree. He supposes that’s not the appropriate way to go through; something in the spirit of respecting their friends’ privacy and what not he guesses. “I see the perfect logic in it but they might think of us as invasive, you know?”

“We could always cover it up in the spirit of transparency,” he watches Jisung’s lips lift in a mischievous smirk, as if already devising plans in his head about how the confrontation should go. “Something about how good friends, mind you brothers even, share everything with each other.”

“Oh! That reminds me, I had something to tell you.”

It isn’t exactly the most truthful of truths he offers Jisung again, considering that the thought had been circling around in his head since the past week where he’s been ruminating over the kind of situation which would make his proposition appropriate. He knows the potential of it being invasive, of him coming across as being far more involved in Jisung’s life than the other has allowed himself to be. He wishes though that he had thought more about those considerations before he had impulsively followed his heart, driven by a simple urge to do something—do anything —which would allow him to show Jisung that he has meant every word. None of his appreciation for Jisung’s music and dedication, his hard work and strength, has been empty words but proses that have strung from the deepest layers of his heart.

Maybe it’s the confidence of having such good intentions at the end and being much familiar with Jisung’s confidence which allows him to subside his worries and speak up at this moment. That, and the worry building up on Jisung’s forehead with every passing second that Minho hesitates further—all of which pushes him to spill out the insides of his head in a rant, with all of his practiced monologues and scripts forgotten.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad,” Minho begins, smiling in hopes that it’ll calm down Jisung. “I just—well, I couldn’t stop thinking about how you deserve to have a platform for your talent after you played Close for me. I know it isn’t my place to suggest something like this when I don’t even know if you want to pursue something in the industry again but—.”

“Hyung,” Jisung interrupts him, his hand finding Minho’s leg under the table as he gently taps to shift all of Minho’s attention away from the voices in his head once and for all. “You don’t have to think it over so much. I trust you.”

“You do?”

It’s stupid. Minho knows he has no reason to feel so small, the walls caving in on him as his voice is barely an insecure whisper when he seeks confirmation.

“More than you realize.”

It’s hopeless. Minho thinks he’s a lost cause with the amount of power Jisung has over him; he could choose to be the most devastating ruiner in any moment he chooses to be. Minho shouldn’t be reverent of everything Jisung gives him, whether it’s a spark leaving his days brightened or a never-ending fire leaving him ablaze to ashes.

“Thanks, Jisungie,” he heartily whispers, a sudden surge of confidence guiding him as he places his hand on top of Jisung’s. “Again though, please don’t feel obligated to say anything. You can think it over as much as you want and let me know your decision.”

He doesn’t know when he starts playing with the other’s fingers though, intertwining them with his own and getting lost in the perfect fit of his own amongst their gaps.

“I talked to a friend of mine who’s an artist—Seungmin,” he lets the words flow out of him recklessly without much consideration, with his mind focusing on the stability of warmth. Jisung doesn’t withdraw. “He recently signed with a record label, which isn’t the biggest or too reputed ones here but it’s still growing. I told him about your music, and he said that he could arrange an interview with one of the executives there. You could join them as a producer  or as an artist—whatever you prefer, right now or at a later time—but if you do want a starting point then this can be something.”

Minho wants to sneak a look at Jisung’s face to gauge his reaction; he wants to know whether to continue or identify his boundaries and stop right then and there. But the utmost silence of his surroundings and the intoxicating feeling of Jisung’s touch against his own doesn’t allow him to break away from the moment, as he puts all his trust in the younger and keeps going. All the while keeping his gaze focused upon the tangled mess of their hands.

“I know it’s a humble one considering that your music, you , deserve the absolute best, Jisungie. But I wanted to do something in my capacity, to help you get a bit closer to that. I understand though if it’s not something you—.”

“Hyung,” he’s so lost in his own head that Minho doesn’t even realize Jisung’s inching close until he feels the suffocation from Jisung’s arms wrapping around him in an embrace—enveloping all and every part of him, until the only thing he’s registering is Jisung. His warmth, his touch, his breaths.

He’s so hypersensitive to everything and anything that is a part of Jisung in this moment that he’s forgotten what would happen if the younger was to withdraw right then. What would this moment be, or what would he be, if not an accessory coming to life in Jisung’s limelight?

“Has someone told you how weird you are?” he snaps out of the dread with Jisung’s breath hitting his face as the younger withdraws in the slightest to get a better view of Minho’s face—his arms still holding Minho in place.

The only reason Minho doesn’t crumble though is the ghost of a distance between them, barely there to separate them and yet enough to spark within him a painful yearning as he fights the heavens and above to not jump right back in. And the fact that he sees there, hints of himself present in Jisung’s being—in his rushing heartbeat and glossy eyes.

“You’re not exactly the first but I’m going to hold back the answer for my dignity.”

“Don’t,” Jisung shakes his head with the cheekiest smile spread across his face, bearing no mind to the tear that slips down his cheek. “I like weird.”

“And what does that say about you?” Minho doesn’t have to look in any mirror to know his own grin’s just as wide, if not more.

“That I have a phenomenal taste,” Jisung confidently states, before his façade crumbles and he’s jumping back into comfort—into Minho’s warmth as the older is much prepared to return the embrace this time. “Which I wouldn’t change for the world if it means I get to have you around. What you’ve done for me, hyung—I don’t have any words that would be enough to thank you. All I can say is that it is the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

You deserve a thousand more, Minho almost says out of habit from all the conversations he has been having with himself. Some sprawled over sleepless nights, and others over iced americano as food for thought—all of them having the same constant denominator of Jisung circling around his head and leaving him in awe of all that the younger is. It’s a secret much too cherished though, which he prefers to keep to himself as a comforting dialogue to recite over and over again. Each line is a part of a never-ending tale that sings of Jisung’s worthiness and Minho’s yearning to surrender to it.

“I’m glad to be able to do that, Sung,” he chooses to whisper instead, fingers rising until they’re combing through the younger’s hair.

He doesn’t expect the gesture to earn a content sigh from the younger though—one too resembling his childhood cat that purred with the minimal pats that Minho would give him. He’s filled with fondness and a smile which doesn’t seem to die down no matter how much his cheeks hurt; proudly on display even as Jisung retreats to a safer distance and stares at him for minutes unknown.

“Although I’m not sure about the exact things I’ll go for, I’ll still put together a portfolio of sorts of some of my music for them.”

“That sounds perfect,” Minho cheers him on, nodding in affirmation as he watches Jisung muster up confidence in a fight against all insecurities. “I’ll give you Seungmin’s number tomorrow so feel free to reach out to him whenever you feel prepared. He’s a little in-your-face but I promise he doesn’t bite,” he adds as a last consideration, knowing that a lot of them must be stemming from the foreignness of the person involved as well.

It isn’t too strong of an assurance, but with the newfound knowledge of Jisung’s trust placed in him, he hopes it’ll be enough.

“Can’t be too difficult after I’ve learnt to handle you this well,” he is proven right when the slightest hint of tension on Jisung’s forehead disappears into his scrunched up nose.

“I’ve been too easy on you.”

“Yeah, well you like me too much to do something about it.”

Minho’s doubts are only confirmed when he doesn’t have anything to retaliate with to the accusation, just a defeated shaking of his head and avoidance at his disposal as he gets up from place to head towards the kitchen. “It’s getting late. Get some rest, Jisung.”

Jisung must truly deem him too predictable though because he barges through the defenses, reaching out for Minho’s wrist and stilling him in place.

“Hyung, stay the night?”

Minho’s convinced he’s forgotten how to breathe.

Despite knowing Minho too well though, he doesn’t seem to be conscious of himself and his actions because Jisung catches himself just as off guard as the man in front of him with the words that escape his throat. His eyes widen comically within an instant, searching and grasping for an answer in their eye contact before floundering.

“I-I mean, you could stay and help me decide some things about the songs I should show and what to tell the label and—and maybe you can tell me a bit about Seungmin as well. If you think I should show him some of the songs beforehand or would it be fine—like you could help me figure out things, I don’t know—.”

“Okay.”

“Huh?” Jisung’s head shoots up in a motion so quick it’s bound to give him whiplash, as his eyes search Minho’s face for confirmation that he hadn’t just imagined the other’s agreement.

It’s a blessing though, that despite his heart hammering inside his chest and comprehension escaping him altogether, Minho’s still able to remember his answer—restating it with a more confident tone, as he raises his voice above a mere choked whisper.

“Okay,” he repeats, passing a fond smile in Jisung’s direction before gathering up his dishes. “Give me a minute to clean up, yeah? Then I’ll be right there with you.”

With the immediate nod that Jisung gives him, he expects the younger to walk away to his room already—leaving Minho enough time to stabilize his breathing and calm the thumping heart in his chest, all the while pushing down whatever hopes and fears that threaten to sprout within him. He never gets the chance to carry on with his plans though, because Jisung stays rooted in his presence as a shadow. 

He helps Minho carry the dishes over to the sink, leans against the counter patiently as Minho cleans up the leftovers lying around, and makes himself known with the weight of his attention that follows Minho’s every step. Minho doesn’t get to understand the reason behind Jisung’s actions—if he’s waiting for the older in fear that he’s going to back out or if he just appreciates the company right on—considering the limited devices he has at his disposal amongst a befuddled brain. It’s jarring and counterproductive to Minho’s plans to calm himself down, as all he ends up with are heavy breaths at the possibility of being under the same scrutiny from much lesser distance soon.

“Done, let’s go,” Minho makes his peace with the state of affairs, giving into the hands of fate as he turns around to find Jisung smiling and prepared to lead the way.

It’s childish though, he knows, to find comfort in Jisung’s company as the younger leads him down the hallways and living spaces he has traversed of his own accord for more than a hundred times before. He can’t shake off the feeling nevertheless, basking in the glory of having someone at a side to lead him through the house which still feels like a maze stripped of any life. At least, that’s how it used to be before he became able to see moments of his own strapped to the couch and all the walls he has leaned against while giggling and giving in Jisung’s voice which catches him at unprecedented times. Sometimes it’s about sharing silent epiphanies, and others are more light hearted banters but Minho cherishes all of them alike.

The only new territory for his journey today is actually crossing the threshold of Jisung’s door and entering into a space much personal for the younger.

He doesn’t know what he had been expecting—messy or clean, it isn’t a clear answer with all the sides he has seen of Jisung. What he gets is a space clearly being lived in with hints of Jisung’s presence in it being much prominent in every corner that Minho explores with his inquisitive gaze, be it the guitar balancing off the wall or the daisy-print comforter spread across the younger’s bed. And despite not having any expectations, Minho decides this is the perfect manifestation of what he could’ve imagined it to be: disheveled to the extent it isn’t bothersome, with the air holding remnants of all warmth and music Jisung must’ve been spilling out into his stacked diaries and devices.

“Give me a minute, alright?” he watches Jisung’s figure detach from his side and rush to the bedding, picking up remnants of it all away to make space for Minho.

It’s a miracle Minho doesn’t melt then and there—for the feeling of being wanted to the lengths of being accommodated for without being asked, he never expected to find it somewhere in this house. Certainly not in the life of the younger son, who he was convinced was nothing but an absolute snob.

“Ta-da,” he allows himself to let some of the gratitude seep away though, as a soft smile tugs at the corners of his lips when Jisung triumphantly directs him towards their abode for the night. “You’ll be taking the right side, I’m assuming?”

“Han Jisung,” Minho gasps, leaving Jisung frozen as the younger turns around confused for the sudden change of tone in Minho’s mood. “You have ten seconds to explain how you know that before I start assuming creepy possibilities.”

“Hey! Come on,” Jisung scoffs, jumping into a defense with nothing but reddened cheeks and flustered gestures advocating for him. “You’re the one who mentioned it when you talked about fighting with Jeongin all the time in your childhood room. Does my consideration mean nothing to you?”

Even with just that though, Jisung must know that he’s won. It’s no secret when Minho’s gaze softens, an overwhelming familiar need urging him to do something which would let Jisung know about what he’s doing to Minho and his minimal remnants of sanity. Which would let Jisung know in return that he’s heard and remembered, for times immemorial, just like he’s been remembering Minho’s silliest rants.

“You know what, the offer is revoked now,” he watches Jisung capitalize on his upper hand, huffing and pouting as he crosses past Minho onto the right side of the bed. “Toss and turn the entire night on that side for all I care.”

“Jisung-ah,” Minho hums as he walks over to Jisung, lowering his head until the younger is forced to look at him squarely in the eye. “Don’t be like that, hm? Hyung’s sorry.”

For all the weapons Jisung holds against him, he figures he’s not as unarmed either when Jisung visibly deflates for all his ego—turning away in a nervous defense, as he coughs up some courage to reply.

“Insufferable,” Jisung begins, shaking his head as he plants himself on the other side of the mattress—burying his head into the pillows, in possible hopes that it’ll do a better job of feigning confidence than his own body. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re still choosing to keep me around.”

“I might change my mind if you don’t get your ass into bed right this second.”

“I thought we were going to talk music,” Minho surrenders, not willing to take the risk when the potential cost sends a shiver down his spine.

The proximity sure is scarier once he’s making himself comfortable next to Jisung, but it’s the chance of losing this moment—of the chance he has to spend any and every moment he gets to know more of Jisung—that keeps him grounded in his spot even as Jisung turns to lay on his back instead.

“We were but now that I’m in bed, I realize I’m too tired for it,” Jisung mumbles, more to himself than to Minho, contently.

He expects Jisung to fumble for an explanation like before, but gets proven wrong when the other simply owns up to keeping Minho’s company around aimlessly; no tasks or goals in mind, but just the two of them laying down together with their hearts aching to shuffle closer.

“You’re making me suspicious now, Jisung-ah” Minho laughs, slipping down into the mattress himself as he holds back on reaching out—wanting to make sure that it’s real. This moment, Jisung and the ease enveloping them too as if they’ve been this close for as long as he can remember. “I’m going to start thinking that all this was an elaborate ploy to get me to stay.”

“Maybe it was. Deal with it.”

“I am dealing with it,” Minho laughs, turning to his side to get a better look at the man next to him. “Next time though, just ask me directly.”

Even though he has spent months mapping out every bit of Jisung’s being—his starry eyes, his heart-shaped smile, his chubby cheeks—he has never been this close to be able to see beyond. Right now, though, as Jisung continues to lie down with his eyes snapped shut and gives Minho enough time to recklessly stare to the contentment of his heart, Minho sees things he has never seen before. He sees the small mole on Jisung’s neck, and wonders of the many more constellations Jisung holds unseen. He sees the hints of a crease on Jisung’s forehead, and holds back on smoothening it out with his touch. He hears Jisung breath, and wonders if he’s feeling just as dizzy at the prospect of existing so close to Minho as he does.

He burns aflame with every bit of desperation clouding up inside him, and wonders if Jisung’s restraining himself just as much—his closed eyes being a cage to all the feelings which may threaten to break free and rush towards the object of all their desires.

The answer comes sooner than he expects, leaving him like a deer caught in the headlights, as Jisung’s opening eyes come to rest their gaze upon him without a second of wandering. He’s still not strong enough to sustain under their force though, crumbling in his devotion to reading them for their truth as his breath picks up his pace at having been caught. All while still being unable to look away—a magnetic pull keeping him right where he belongs.

“You’re going to get bored of me if you stare this long, hyung.”

“What?” Minho barely sputters out, his senses failing him as he lays there motionless.

The surprise permeating through him refuses to feel real, his body refusing to believe that Jisung had caught him so openly as he lays there staring—watching as Jisung turns to his side too, catching Minho’s gaze just as boldly with an unnamed feeling in his eyes.

“What?” Jisung repeats after him, a teasing lilt of his voice morphing into unbridled endearment that bounces off every bit of him. 

“I wasn’t staring,” Minho pathetically attempts to convince Jisung of his innocence. “I was just…”. 

He gives up on the endeavor altogether though when the lie doesn’t sound believable even to his ears, coughing out his embarrassment in hopes that it’ll allow him to breathe a little better. It doesn’t work in his favor though, because with every second that Minho spends flustered under Jisung’s very much aware gaze, the younger only brightens up in his conviction until all that’s left is a heart-shaped grin in its full glory. 

Usually, it is the innocent joy in that smile of Jisung’s that Minho considers to be his most treasured consequence—tracing its curves and dips to make sure that it’s a possession easily retrievable any moment he desires comfort in his head. It’s an enigma how the same object today becomes a yielding force against him, daring to break his nonchalance and leave his affection spilling out in an exhibition for anyone who dares to appreciate. He can never know for sure though if Jisung’s one of the arts connoisseur, especially of the pieces which are nothing but an ode to the divinity that he himself holds. Minho wishes he knew the answer, to be able to either break apart or break away as an answer in this moment, but he doesn’t.

So, he chooses the only other option. Of keeping himself just as mysterious of his intentions, or so he hopes, as he turns away to the other side leaving Jisung with no more opportunities to read him open. 

It seems to be working according to plan as the only sound he hears is the thumping of his own heart in his chest, the rhythm refusing to slow itself down to the normal as he imagines the look in Jisung’s eyes over and over again; hoping, pleading, to have an answer about the unfamiliar meaning tucked under it and give a name to it. 

It starts off as something tender, so delicate that Minho scares himself at the possibility of breaking it all over into oblivion—the only thing guiding him further being faith in Jisung and all their time together. The closer he gets to it, it earns the face of a saddened weight, something so akin to yearning that pains Minho to even think of and pleads to him to reach out with a cure. A step further tells him of its permanence though, of a feeling so all-consuming and welcomed that it’s coursing through every bit of Jisung’s body. Minho’s sure he’s about to understand it all, with another few rounds of reading over that look again as he remembers it to be in his memory, when a distraction rids him of all answers altogether.

Leading him back to the starting point, and yet not stirring within him any frustration because now he seems to have assistance to lead him down the path easier if he attempts to unravel again.

The one that circles around his waist in the form of Jisung’s arms, finding their long awaited place in the curves and holding on as an oath of something far more beyond than this moment. The one that breathes into him a life from Jisung’s breath fanning against his skin, as the younger buries his head into Minho’s back. The one that stays wordless, and still sings to him about layers and layers of devotion unmasked—a melody that lulls them both to sleep with lighter hearts.

✦

Minho is used to finding Jisung’s rhythm reverberating inside his head.

He’s gotten used to falling asleep to the sound of Jisung talking to him, the younger’s voice shifting between an excited high as he yaps around an interest or a melancholic low as he reminisces of times long gone. He’s used to waking up to the melody of Close guiding him to the hallways of the house, reminding him of a person willing and wanting to know him for all his fears and likes. He’s used to having every bit of Jisung’s existence engraved inside his memory—overwhelming his senses and leaving him nothing but a humble lover hopelessly being strung along. 

Maybe that’s the reason it doesn’t scare him when he wakes up this morning to the sound of Jisung breathing next to him. He doesn’t scatter away at the sight of Jisung laying wide awake before him and studying him all over carefully, doesn’t run away from the mess that is their tangled legs or the stable hold of Jisung’s arms circled around him, even after the blanket of sleep dissipates away, leaving him more conscious and aware than ever before. Instead, he feels at peace—the closest he has been to what he understands to be the solace of a home—as he settles into the sanctuary. 

Another one of this world’s beings succumbing itself to the temptation of gathering all of Jisung’s endearment. Soaking it up, leaving it intertwined and inseparable from his own self.

“Hi,” he hears Jisung whisper next to him, thankful for the absolute quiet enveloping them too which allows him to gather a taste of that affection. 

It’s a wonder he isn’t already going delirious when the greeting sounds so different from all the types he’s known before; Jisung’s morning voice leaving it to be a bit more deeper and hushed, and yet dripping down with overwhelming fondness.

“Hi,” Minho doesn’t even know if he’s spoken out loud, as he barely dares to break the serenity of this moment. 

All because he trusts in Jisung to catch the words just as easily as he did the other’s, considering all they seem to be breathing in is each other’s air—the one thickened with the weight of their rushing hearts and vulnerabilities. A more conscious version of him would laugh, calling him hopelessly poetic and pathetically devoted, to be expecting that from a man who’s nothing to him at this moment. He’s much more than a friend, much less than a lover. He’s much more than Minho thought he would be, much less than Minho wants him to be. He’s nothing and everything in between, and Minho doesn’t know where that leaves his faith.

In a stranded land, or cradled against all harm?

“Hi, sleepyhead,” Jisung repeats, this time with a soft giggle covering most of his words.

Minho wants it to be the latter.

“Slept well?” Jisung settles down into a comfortable whisper again, his fingers drawing circles into Minho’s back—the touch ticklish from where it ghosts against Minho’s clothed skin.

Minho needs it to be the latter.

“Uhm hm,” he hums along in affirmation, surprising himself with the fact that he slept better than he expected himself to. “What about you?”

When he had accepted Jisung’s proposal of staying the night, all he had expected was a sleepless, pointless war of nerves where he would’ve spent the entire time being hypersensitive to the younger by his side. Jisung’s arms spooning around him though, were nothing less of a lullaby as it had sent all his panic crashing and drowning against an overwhelming tide of comfort—demanding for his barbed wires to be put down, and letting that butterfly feeling flutter inside him freely. 

He doesn’t know enough to say whether the solace had been mirrored right for Jisung as well, but something about the younger’s refusal to let go makes Minho think it’s more likely than not. The fact that Jisung’s held him close, pulled him as closer as possible until they’re an indistinguishable mess of two bodies tangled along, makes him hopeful of being an embrace warm enough for the younger.

Jisung pondering, with his lips parting to confirm his hopes right within the second, isn’t something Minho feels prepared for in the moment. Not when they’re lying so close down and Minho’s rationality has already seeped into lands unknown, all of him overwhelmed with the need to gather more and more of that divine intoxication that Jisung seems to be offering him.

One verbalized confirmation, a hopeful permission, and he doesn’t know where it’s going to lead him.

“Never mind, don’t give me an answer,” he says before Jisung can even get a word out, closing his eyes and burying his head closer into the pillow.

“Why not?”

Even with his eyes closed though, Minho hears the amusement in Jisung’s voice which must be taking over his face in a cheeky grin. He can only be proud when the image conjures up so well in his head, a direct imitation of the one he would get if he were to sneak a look right now—a testimony of his faith, and his dedication evidencing itself for him to celebrate.

It lends him predictability, knowing that his nonchalance is going to sound unbelievable and leave the man at his side unconvinced and yet he speaks it out loud in hopes Jisung would let it pass. Even if it comes with burying down hopes and putting out sparks which await to flame all over, wanting Jisung to know him just as well.

“Just because,” Minho mumbles, ignoring the way his own heart drops when Jisung’s hand stiffens.

He wonders if this is going to be the moment where this ends—if Jisung’s going to withdraw and leave Minho scarred from all the enchantments and engravings of his touch that he has meticulously painted into Minho’s skin. If this is all Minho’s ever going to get, when the entirety of his being demands to be painted anew by Jisung; his smiles and his sorrows, his demons and his dreams, all of which carry shades Minho think would suit him well.

“You’re asking for too much, I fear; I’m an honest man, hyung,” he hears his doubts submerging away though, when Jisung chuckles next to him—the sound so close, as if his own at the pathetic attempts he’s making to push away the grand feeling looming at the corner. “I don’t think I can live with myself if I don’t tell you that I slept the best I have in a long time. You deserve to know that, don’t you?”

And there it goes—Minho’s defenses and his fears dissipating with the slightest nudge into the direction. Leaving him ungrounded to the extent that he has to pull himself closer to Jisung, burying his face into Jisung’s neck.

“I told you not to say it,” Minho whines against Jisung’s skin, nuzzling in hopes of hiding away the heat he can feel creeping up his ears.

“And be an ungrateful brat? Sorry, can not do that to my reputation. I’m pretty sure that’s what had you hating me for all those days anyways.”

Minho scoffs, retreating from his safe haven to stare at Jisung with an offended expression. He’s not sure if the feeling quite reaches an authentic display though, when inside he’s just thinking over about having been understood by Jisung for far longer than he had expected.

“Uhm, I never said I hated you,” he tries to state as convincingly as possible, knowing it’s a failed attempt considering all the times he had made sure to throw the sentiment in Jisung’s face.

“Who are you kidding, hyung? I know you couldn’t stand me in the slightest,” Jisung instantly catches him for the lie, giggling when Minho accepts his defeat and returns to his previous position in hopes it’ll make him invisible. “It doesn’t bother me anymore though. Not when things have changed so much now.”

The ghost of a smile creeps its way onto the corners of Minho’s lips when he realizes just how much he mirrors that realization—how the only thing blooming in his heart at reminiscence of their previous brawls is gratitude for having led them here. Even if they had marked a rocky start and made Minho a lot more wary than he needed to be, he doesn’t dare to imagine how they could’ve ended if not for their misunderstandings and childish arguments.

"It scares me though,” Jisung’s voice pulls him out from the web of possibilities, leaving him a little heavy-hearted from where it suddenly sounds a lot more quieter—insecure. “What if it all changes again? What if you get tired of me, hyung?”

“Jisung-ah,” Minho withdraws, untangling himself to catch a look at Jisung whose expression only sours further when his grip on Minho’s waist loosens in the movement.

Jisung doesn’t let it on too much though, keeping a brave face as he gulps down whatever’s building up inside his throat.

“What if all of it changes when it’s clearly capable of?” It must not be a battle won so easily though, because he hears Jisung falter; his voice wavering.

Minho’s hand reaches out before he can even register his actions himself, coming to cradle Jisung’s cheek and tracing against it lines of his own certainty—knowing well enough that they don’t stand a chance against all that Jisung has drawn onto him, but he hopes it’s enough in his moment. He hopes it’s enough of a conviction as Jisung’s eyes flutter close against the warm touch for a moment before the younger musters up strength, willing himself to listen patiently.

“Oh, how I wish it would, Jisungie,” Minho holds back the burning feeling behind his eyes, as he commits this view in front of him to the strongest of memories. Watching, and memorizing, each of Jisung’s blink and breath as the younger processes his words slowly as if they’ve got all the time in this world. “Then I might’ve been able to stop myself way sooner.”

A tear slips down Jisung’s cheek, Minho’s wandering touch coming to claim it and letting it linger against himself as a prized possession.

“Would it be too selfish of me if I asked you to keep going?” Jisung’s whispering now, his confession becoming a secret from everything and everyone that’s not Minho. “I know you might not want things to be like I do, but I don’t want you to stop in the slightest. I don’t want you to walk out of here today without knowing for sure that I can have you by my side again. Not when the reminders of this are around me all the time—in my house, in my music and now in my sleep too. I can’t escape you anywhere anymore, and I don’t want to.”

“Jisung-ah, listen to hyung, please?” Minho begs, seeking permission in Jisung’s eyes as he stares deep into the embers and realizes how stupid all of this is.

How they have been burning within the same fire, mere breaths away, and still unaware.

“I’m scared to.”

“I know you are, baby,” Minho leans in, trying to get Jisung to see its flame within himself too, until he’s close enough to be resting his forehead against Jisung’s. He stays there for breaths uncounted, smoothening the worry out of the creases with a soft kiss and retreating only when he feels the younger’s breathing stabilize under him.

“I know you are, but you have to believe me when I say this, alright?” he begins again with a deep breath, allowing his feelings to pour out unrestrained. “You have to believe me when I tell you that I’m not leaving. You can have me whenever, wherever, you want. I know we’re bound to change and grow, probably even fight and misunderstand each other more than we have before, but none of that is strong enough to make me let go of this. You have pieces of me in your life, but I have you memorized in myself, Jisungie. What makes you think I’d be able to live with that if I were to walk away from you?”

“You do?”

“Uhm, hm. What do you think makes me stare so much? I’m capturing all of you in this head of mine, I promise.”

“And what are you capturing right now?”

“Right now?” Minho smiles, watching as Jisung expectantly awaits a peek into his private treasure. Maybe it’s the way Jisung’s eyes glisten at the prospect of it that he agrees without any defense, baring his secrets open. “I’m making sure I remember this moment—how your eyes look like the starry night sky, how despite having a tear stain running down your cheek you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m learning how cute your nose looks when you scrunch it up in an attempt to hold yourself back from crying,” he travels thoroughly, with permission to traverse lands carefully as he refines everything about Jisung that he has learnt through brief stolen glances. 

That is, until he lands his sight onto Jisung’s lips and realizes it to be territory he has never trespassed before, not when the terrains of it make for a fallible place—capable of leading him down, and leaving him irreparable from being consumed by the need to get closer. 

“Hyung?” his hesitation must not go unnoticed though, because the next time he lifts his eyes to Jisung’s, they’re ridden with a brief moment of concern. 

It’s only there for a split second though, dissipating away as soon as he catches Jisung’s gaze and being overwhelmingly replaced by something that seems akin to what courses through Minho. At least that’s what he thinks it to be.

He’s still running over in his head on how to confirm his suspicions when Jisung beats him to the answer—leaning in until their noses are ghosting against each other’s.

“Can I—?”

Minho thinks Jisung’s absolutely cruel for keeping him at bay still, when the steep slope is right under him—demanding for him to fall once and for all. 

And so he decides to be the fairer one amongst them two, giving into the gravity even before Jisung can finish speaking and crashing against Jisung’s lips in a chaste kiss. He expects Jisung to withdraw from the surprise, but it’s his own lips that tug into an unexpected smile as he feels Jisung fall against him—defenses and safety nets forgotten. He doesn’t know how long he stays there or how deep he’s descended, all of his senses being clouded with the taste of Jisung against his own tongue—both of them savoring each and every second possible, until they’re forced to separate while gasping for air. 

The burning feeling in their lungs though does nothing to deter them apart—not when they seemed to have found each amongst the comfort of the flames. Minho’s forehead resting against Jisung’s as they stay there connected.

“I’m learning how difficult it’s going to be for me to stop kissing you.”