Archive of Our Own

Everything has a rhythm.

That’s what Minho has always known. That’s what he’s always lived by. Life means movement, and movement has a rhythm.

Seungmin waits three minutes before he takes the first sip of his coffee in the morning. If he waits any less than that, his face scrunches up when his tongue gets burnt. It’s quiet in the dorm in the early hours of the morning, the four of them sitting together and scrolling their phones in comfortable silence.

They’re supposed to be filming a few videos in preparation for the comeback, but their evening is free, a rare blessing in such busy times. Minho takes his phone out, and texts Jisung to see if he wants to watch a movie at night.

It’s a habit, formed through years of getting closer. Something that now comes as naturally as practicing a dance routine that’s been engraved into your muscle memory. When they are granted the gift of free time, Minho reaches out to Jisung, or Jisung beats him to it.

Can’t, Jisung replies after a while, adding the pouting hamster sticker that usually makes Minho laugh. It's closer to the time of the start of their schedule, he probably just woke up. Have to go to the studio with Chan hyung tonight.

Minho doesn’t sulk, but he quickly realizes there is nothing else he is looking forward to doing in the evening. Maybe he’ll watch a movie anyway, hoping that time won’t pass slowly in an otherwise empty bed.

It’s late at night when his bedroom door slowly opens, a head popping in through the crack. The room is dark and quiet, but Minho can’t be mistaken about this. Jisung doesn’t knock. Never does. He fits himself into Minho’s space like he belongs there. Minho never had to voice it out to him that he does.

“Hyung,” Jisung whispers. “Are you awake?”

Instead of replying, Minho scoots over on the bed to give him space to lie down. Jisung is fresh out of the shower, right after his studio session. The smell of shampoo is as obvious in his hair as frustration is in his eyes. Minho doesn’t have to ask, but when Jisung’s head rests against his chest like a puzzle piece he’d been searching for all evening, Minho has to speak of anything, lest Jisung’s ear finds the stuttering sound of his heartbeat.

“How was it?” he asks. “At the studio?”

A breath ghosts the arm he lifts to wrap around Jisung. With the way they’re lying, he can only see the top of his head. “Not great. Words weren’t coming to me.”

Words aren’t needed, in this small and dark room. Jisung sometimes does that, like another habit practiced until perfection. He finds Minho, when other things can’t be found.

“Sleep, jagi,” he tells him. Jisung nods. Then he’s out like a light.

His mother takes too long to answer the door. Minho wonders if she’s cooking or if she’s on the phone with his aunt gossiping like they usually do. When she opens up, her smile is radiant. “Oh, baby, you’re here already!” She says, surprised as if Minho hadn’t told her he’s coming around this time. She looks to his side and her smile widens. “You brought Hannie, too!”

Jisung greets her with a polite bow. The sun paints his cheeks a little rosy, the warmth of the last days of summer lingering under his skin. Minho can’t help but watch, a fond smile on his face.

Being the most stubborn person Minho knows — and being the source of this very trait he recognizes in himself — his mother doesn’t allow them to help her with dinner, no matter how much they insist. Admitting defeat, they go up to the second floor to the room where all the cat toys are. Dori sits in Jisung’s lap immediately like he recognizes an old friend.

“Hyung,” Jisung says, a full smile on his face and cat fur all over his clothes. When Minho meets his eyes, Jisung’s expression turns bashful, voice dropping to a whisper.

“Do you think the cats will enjoy spending a few days as a vacation at our place in the future?”

The sun sets in the window behind them, golden rays framing Jisung’s figure. Minho thinks this is the most beautiful Jisung’s ever looked. Then he thinks he says that to himself every time he looks at him.

He opens his mouth to speak, but his breath seems stuck somewhere deep in his lungs.

He wakes up.

“Morning, hyungie,” Jisung whispers, his voice hoarse. He burrows a little deeper, right where he slept against Minho’s chest. Minho loves him when he’s like this. When sleep clings to his eyelashes and he lets himself be kissed without having to joke about it. Despite the whiplash of being pulled from the land of dreams, Minho eases into the rhythm of Jisung’s slow breathing. Presses a kiss to the crown of his head.

“Morning.”

Moments pass. Neither of them moves. Jisung’s warmth trickles into Minho’s chest. His morning star is as close as ever to reach. But Minho’s hands are small, and the sky is infinitely vast.

“We have an early start today,” is what Jisung says to remind him of that fact. As tight as Minho wants to cling, he will have to let him go. Will have to acquaint himself with the emptiness between his ribs once again.

“Hmm.”

It’s selfish, the way he wishes for a miracle — even if this miracle was a disaster — just to keep Jisung in his arms for a little longer. It’s another habit, the way Jisung reminds him that he was always a little selfish, a little greedy.

“Don’t tell Chan hyung I said this,” Jisung starts. His voice is a murmur, a secret between the two of them. “But I hate the new dorms.”

Minho doesn’t tell him about the dreams he has. There are things they share with each other, and things they don’t. It’s a comfortable habit, a familiar truth. Minho thinks— he thinks if he tells Jisung he dreams of a future he spends with him, it would break the habit, and it would cost him the comfort of waking up from those dreams to find Jisung wrapped in his arms.

He doesn’t tell him that when they first moved to the new dorms, he spent a whole week unable to sleep, his bed feeling too big and too empty, too cold against his outstretched arms. Jisung’s words now tell him that he too found himself out of rhythm when they were suddenly snatched apart. But Minho can’t afford to think about that. Can’t afford to think of them sharing his bed as something beyond a small comfort at the end of a long day. Can’t afford to think of it as a need.

“Yeah,” he says, because he may not share everything with Jisung, but he is not a liar, he cannot deny that he too hates them. But he can’t let them soak in the truth for too long a time either. He follows it in the same breath with, “We should get up.”

There’s a moment, a fraction of a second, where Minho thinks Jisung holds on just a bit tighter. It’s dangerous, how something that might be the fault of Minho’s imagination, of his own wishful thinking, would make his heart speed up like that. It’s dangerous when Jisung is still tucked so deeply into him that there’s no way he misses it.

Jisung exhales. Then he says, “Okay.” Lifts his head, his expression sorrowful for a moment before he controls it again. “I’ll borrow a hat to go back to mine.”

Jisung sits up. And Minho almost reaches for him again.

Doesn’t.

“Take a mask too.”

The first dream he ever had about Jisung, was barely a week after meeting him. Minho doesn’t fully remember it, but vague fragments of it remain nestled in his brain. A seaside and a sunset, and a gummy smile that left him breathless.

Minho thinks he’s loved him ever since.

Chan doesn’t ask, even if his eyes keep knowingly finding him through the mirror during practice. If Minho had to guess, he’d say he didn’t ask Jisung either. Because it’s one thing to know the truth, and another to let the truth be known. Chan knows. Has known for years. And it isn’t because Minho volunteered the information. But because he thinks anyone who takes a single look at him will see it.

He wonders if Jisung does too.

Practice is long and exhausting, but it’s familiar. Minho goes through it with mastered strokes. Leaves his thoughts by the dance studio’s door, and lets his body move on autopilot.

His first ever dance teacher, back when he was still a middle school student, told him that the reason he was so good was because he recognized and followed the rhythm of the music well. Twelve-year-old Minho didn’t fully understand what that meant at the time, but now he thinks he does.

Everything has a rhythm, and Minho follows it well. It’s easy, to surrender himself to the flow of it, rather than try to figure it out or try to break free from it. It worked better for him that way. It carved him, body and soul, sandpaper to smoothen out his rough edges.

He surrenders himself to it, knowing fully that the current might lead him to crash upon the rocks by the shore, instead of gently laying him on the sand.

That night, Minho sleeps alone, his bed cold and uninviting. When it’s late and he hears a knock on his door, he knows it’s not Jisung. 

Yongbok takes a single step inside. He has a smile on his face that Minho can only call empathetic. His voice is low like he’s afraid to startle a stray kitten stuck in a tree. Minho hates it. Hates how transparent he is. But disproving it now— it needs energy.

Practice was long and exhausting, and Minho’s alone in his bed right now.

“Hyung. We’re getting food. Do you want to order something?”

They eat their meals together. It’s another habit they formed since moving to the new dorms. But Minho feels out of rhythm, slightly out of breath. Thinks that if he can’t have Jisung in his arms, he should at least meet him in his dreams.

“Thanks, Yongbok-ah. Think I’ll try to sleep.”

Yongbok leaves with a hum through pursed lips. Minho closes his eyes and waits for sleep to come.

Then they’re on the bus, traveling through the countryside. The bus stop is next to what appears to be a corn field. Jisung looks at him with a playful smile on his face. Without a word, he leads him to get off the bus when it stops.

“Where are you going?” Minho asks as Jisung takes off running, through the corn field, swallowed by the tall leaves. Minho starts running after him.

Jisung stops and turns, a smile as bright as the sun on his face. “You decide, hyung.”

He’s just out of reach when Minho aims to catch him. Turns around again and starts running, faster, disappearing in the sea of greens and yellows.

The field echoes Minho’s voice when he shouts “Jisung-ah!” at the top of his lungs. There is no reply. Minho only hears the hiss of the crops as two bodies travel through them. He continues running after the shadow of Jisung.

“I love you!”

There’s a soft giggle, coming from somewhere close to Minho. Makes him stop and turn his head left and right to try to find him, all his efforts in vain.

“I know that, hyung.”

Minho wakes up.

It’s hard, sometimes, when he wakes up from a dream like this, when he wakes up alone in bed. Minho’s brain clings to the pieces of the dream, the sound of laughter still echoing in his ears. The clock reads half past six in the morning. Minho can go back to sleep for another hour or two, but he isn’t sure he wants to.

At the company, Minho can’t help but notice the bags under Jisung’s eyes. He curses himself, his lethal combination of selfishness and cowardice. Fails to decide what would count as worse: if Jisung lost sleep because he too hates being alone in his bed, or if Minho has deluded himself into thinking that his absence would have such an effect on the younger.

“Minho hyung,” says Changbin, his tone aiming for casual. “You seem to be out of it.”

Practice is over. They’re having ice cream in a circle on the floor of the heated studio. Minho’s body is sore and Chan’s eyes are knowing. He bites into his ice cream, the coldness of it unforgiving. Without looking up, he says, “Do they grow corn in Korea?”

Next to him, Hyunjin sputters out a laugh, while Seungmin has a tired expression on his face like it takes him more physical energy to try to keep up with Minho when he talks than when he dances. Confused eyes blink at Minho while he continues eating. Across the circle from him, Jisung silently takes his phone out of his pocket.

“Most of it is imported, apparently,” he says after a moment. “But there are some fields. In Jecheon.”

For the first time since the beginning of practice, Minho looks Chan dead in the eyes. He hopes it’s enough to tell him what Minho can’t bring himself to say with his tongue.

Do you see why it can only be him?

Chan isn’t mean. He’s one of the kindest people Minho knows. Minho never told him how he feels about Jisung, but he thinks he knows where a conversation like that would go.

Because Chan is nice, but he’s also knowing. He’s been sculpted by unrelenting pressure over the years in this company. He knows the bitter taste of loss more than anyone else, and he tries his best not to let them know it too.

But Minho knows. Knows how easily everything can be snatched away from the grip of his fingers. Was cruelly reminded once of how fragile, how breakable his precious happiness is.

They don’t talk about it often, heartache begs to be left until it heals, the tender skin covering it threatening to be torn at the slightest mention even after all these years. They only touch upon it when it is mentioned by a variety show’s host or magazine interviewer. But Minho thinks about it, sometimes, in the late hours of the night when he’s alone with the shadows, in the last moments before his eyelids drop granting him the comfort of sleep.

He thinks about it, not only as a reminder of the taste of loss, but also as a reminder of what makes him hold on. Because everything has a rhythm, and years ago, when Minho was new and ignorant and easily picked apart, when things got tough and he struggled to follow along, it was Jisung who found his hand and grabbed it, tapped the beat of the music on the palm of it, helping him find his rhythm.

Minho thinks about it, sometimes. Thinks he’s loved him ever since.

It’s dark, when he opens his eyes. He’s in a hall that leads to the stage where Jisung performs with a guitar strapped to his shoulder. Minho watches in awe. Jisung’s honey skin beading with sweat, his stage outfit sticking to his body. He takes a seat in front of a standing mic and adjusts it. The lights on stage dim and the audience collectively gasps. Minho holds his breath as Jisung says with a smile, “I want to perform for you a special song that I wrote for a special person.”

With the first few notes echoing melodically, Minho’s eyes start to tear up. He’s never heard the song before, or maybe it’s the way everything sounds so deep and vague and distant, like he’s listening in from under water.

The thing about dreams, is that they have no rhythm. They abide by no laws or logic. Minho has been to outer space with Jisung in his dreams, and they were able to talk and breathe and laugh just fine.

Right now, Minho knows he’s dreaming because the song Jisung performs has no rhythm, no matter how hard Minho tries to find it. The crowds of fans have no faces, a blur in the dark. Minho knows he’s dreaming, but he tries to enjoy it anyway.

Suddenly, Jisung heads backstage, in an intermission between his songs. He takes the guitar off his shoulder and hands it to someone. Walks towards Minho like he’s his destination. “Hey there, gorgeous.”

Minho is dreaming, but he can feel the way his heart flips. Jisung is so, very close. He is so, very beautiful.

“Kiss me,” Minho blurts.

Jisung puffs out a laugh. Makes a point of looking around them. “Here?”

It’s a dream. There are no consequences. “Yes,” Minho says. “Please.”

It starts fading, everything around him. Time and space catching up to him, like a physical thing with arms and legs trying to get him for breaking the rules, for demanding more than he’s allowed. Minho holds onto Jisung. Pulls him closer, almost bumping into him with the force of it.

It’s gonna end soon. He’s running out of time. “Please.”

Jisung smiles. “Okay,” he says. Comes closer. Minho closes his eyes.

He wakes up.

It’s a little unfair, that even in a fake reality created by his own brain, Minho isn’t granted the knowledge of what Jisung’s lips would taste like. It’s unfair that he wakes up and finds himself in Jisung’s bed, and hates himself for greedily thinking it isn’t enough.

Jisung, in his beautiful, deep morning voice, whispers, “Hyungie.”

Minho’s tears fall.

He doesn’t let them be seen, though. Buries his face in Jisung’s shirt and lets himself be held. Lets the fabric of Jisung’s shirt soak up his tears and soak his lungs with his scent. It’s unfair, but at least he gets to have this. So Minho holds onto it tightly, and sighs out when Jisung does too.

“You were dreaming.”

He doesn’t say it like a question, and Minho’s heart begins to race, wondering about how transparent the veil he thinks he keeps to conceal the truth actually is. Jisung’s hand plays with his hair, the rhythm familiar and comforting. Minho syncs his breathing to it. Waits for the next question that he can’t bring himself to find an answer for.

But Jisung doesn’t ask. Because this, Minho thinks, is one of the things they don’t talk about. “Hyung,” he whispers instead, low, even if nobody else is around to hear. “I know you can’t stay—”

It’s not subtle, this time, not a secret. Jisung wraps his arms around him tighter. Nuzzles his face into the side of his neck. Minho’s skin prickles with goosebumps under the touch. He holds him back with equal strength, and so much more desperation.

“—but I really, really wish you could.”

Minho wishes too, to stay, to never have to leave. He wishes he could burrow into Jisung’s chest and make a home for himself there. Jisung pulls away. Looks at him, surely seeing the red in his eyes.

His hand still plays with Minho’s hair, gentle and grounding, moving his overgrown bangs away from his eyes. His voice is featherlight, tickling Minho’s ears. “Come back to me? Tonight?”

Next to the company, there’s a path that trails through a small park, a shortcut to a convenience store a bit further than the closest seven eleven that is always crowded with waiting fans. Minho takes that route sometimes, when he has some time to spare, or when it’s too loud in his head.

It’s nice in the summer, a patch of greenery in the heart of the concrete city. Instead of the sound of cars, Minho could hear the cicadas. Sometimes, he sees dragonflies hopping between the flowers and the leaves.

One time, barely a couple of months after joining the company, Jisung had been with him, wanting to get some snacks in between their busy training sessions. They didn’t talk much, but they somehow knew they didn’t need to. Minho watched two blue dragonflies flying around each other. Mindlessly, he asked, “Do you think the beat of a dragonfly’s wings has a rhythm?”

They reached the convenience store by then, so Jisung didn’t get a chance to reply, only letting out a relieved sigh when they were hit with the cool breeze of the air-conditioned store. The day went on as usual. Then, at night, Jisung let himself into Minho’s room and sat comfortably on the bed. Without any introductions or explanations, he said. “It does have a rhythm. I tried searching, and it said that it’s 30 beats per second. Then I tried searching for songs that match that rhythm, but I searched for songs at 30 beats per minute by mistake, and they were all slow songs, like Waltz.” He stopped. Laughed at himself. Minho was left speechless, staring at him in awe.

“And now I can’t help but imagine that the two dragonflies we saw earlier were slow-dancing together. Isn’t that cute?”

Minho paused for a moment. Let the words sink in. Took in the sight of Jisung’s smile as he delivered his discovery. All of a sudden, breathing became difficult. Minho didn’t realize he was crying until Jisung’s eyebrows pinched together and he lunged forward to hug him. “I’m sorry, hyung,” he said, like a reflex. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Minho replied, letting out a wet chuckle. He hugged him back. Held him close. “Just Tired. Overwhelmed.”

Jisung laid them down on the bed, not letting go. “Okay,” he whispered, his voice gentle. “Let’s go to sleep, then.”

That was the first night Jisung slept in his bed. And this, right now, is the first time he asks him to come back to him.

Minho walks into Jisung’s room and sees a full movie night set-up, popcorn in a bowl, lights dimmed, laptop perched on the bed. Jisung has a grin on his face as he welcomes him in. “Thought we’d watch the new Ghibli movie,” he says.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not on Netflix yet,” Minho says, already making way towards the bed.

“There’s this beautiful thing called piracy, hyung.”

He lifts the blanket for Minho to fit beneath it. It’s cold outside, so the cover is welcome. Jisung places the bowl of popcorn in Minho’s lap, and the laptop on his own. Without another word said, Jisung presses play.

Two hours later, silence falls upon the room for a long moment before Jisung’s laughter rings through it. He’s laying his head on Minho’s shoulder. Minho has spent the last half hour of the movie resisting the urge to pet him like a kitten.

“I think I should’ve watched this when I had more than three working brain cells.”

Jisung laughs again. Doesn’t move his head. “I don’t know about that. Mine were working on full power and I still didn’t get anything.”

Despite Jisung saying that, Minho knows there’s more to come. Everything Jisung consumes makes the wheels in his brain turn in a new way. By the time the screen goes to black, and Minho loses against the temptation and brings his clean hand to play with his soft hair, Jisung says, “Sometimes I think I— I don’t know what I am. As a person. Like— I feel like there’s no real me. Like I am just the sum of little bits and pieces of the people I know, and the places I’ve been.”

The rumble of his voice sends a shiver down Minho’s spine. It’s surreal, somehow, to be on the receiving end of such confessions, when Minho knows Jisung doesn’t allow many people such a window into his thoughts. Minho’s hand keeps playing with his hair, fingers threading through the soft locks. “What do you mean by that?”

Jisung lifts his arm up, angling it so Minho can see the marks on it. “Like, this—” he says. “That’s the vaccine. And this—” He lets out a chuckle and points to the redness on his palm that Minho’s been worriedly eyeing all evening. “That’s me being an idiot while making the popcorn and burning myself. And this—” He shows a thin red line across his other hand. “That’s Jeongin. Gave me a papercut when he quickly snatched the lyrics sheet from me.”

He goes quiet, then, leaving space for Minho to start thinking. Of who he is, and who Jisung is. Of the heart that attempts to beat outside of his chest, wings flapping against his ribcage. Of his damned curiosity and greed, and the knowledge that Jisung never says anything he doesn’t mean.

“What about me?” Minho gives in and asks. “Which part of you is me?”

With the way they lay, Minho is barely able to catch a glimpse of Jisung’s smile. But he can clearly see his hand when he lifts it, brings a finger to his chest, pointing at the left side of it. “Here,” he says quietly. Then he moves his finger again, bringing it to his forehead. “And here.”

Minho’s hand pauses in Jisung’s hair. His heart stills, for a moment, when he hears the words. And he finds himself thinking, that if Jisung directs this question back at him, then he will not lie, he will not hold back. He will tell him that the answer is all of him.

All of him is Jisung. All of him is Jisung’s.

But Jisung doesn’t ask. Simply takes Minho’s hand in his, gently lowering them, thumb caressing over the knuckles. Minho thinks Jisung doesn’t ask because he already knows the answer. So he doesn’t say anything either. Lets the familiar touch ground him. Caresses Jisung’s hand too.

They wash up to get ready for bed, then settle back in again with the ease of a perfectly practiced habit. Jisung’s legs are tangled with his. His fingers tap against the wall of his chest. He blinks his doe eyes at him then looks away. There’s a shy look on his face now, different from how he left him before going to the bathroom, different from how he was before the movie. Minho wants to ask what prompted this change, but he’s too busy staring. Jisung’s cheeks are rosy. His next words are hushed.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, and then he stops.

Minho smiles at him. “You always are.”

“Hyung,” Jisung tries to whine, though it comes out a little breathless, unsure. He tries again. “Been thinking about you— your… mouth, your lips.”

Minho doesn’t know what to say. His heart threatens to flutter out of his chest, but he anchors it down with the weight of everything he feels, a familiar pull he’s acquainted himself with a long time ago with a conviction that it will always be that way.

In the end, he only manages to say, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jisung echoes, uncertain in its own right. But then he swallows, and he says—

“Been thinking about kissing them.”

It’s quiet all around them. The lights in the room are dimmed. Minho’s body feels too small for him. He wants to shed his skin and soar up somewhere into the night sky. Wants to meet the moon and the stars and deliver to them all his gratitude.

Just this morning, Minho woke up with tears in his eyes because the dream version of him didn’t get to kiss Jisung. And now here he is, lying in bed with Jisung who offers to change that in the blink of an eye.

Minho tries to regain his breath. Tries to remain on earth. After another moment, he says, “You can. If you want to.”

Jisung’s gaze drops to his lips for a second. Comes back up to meet his eyes. “Yeah?” Jisung asks, quiet.

“Yeah,” Minho manages to say. Then he adds: “Anything.”

He begins to count; the seconds, the beats, the breaths he takes. There’s a rhythm to silence too, to waiting. Even if it’s quiet, muted in the chests separated by mere inches on the bed.

One. Two. Three. And then Jisung’s lips are on his.

He wakes up.

The cold in Australia is different. Minho has a blanket on top of him yet the only warmth he feels is that of Jisung’s body. “Good morning,” he whispers when Jisung’s eyes sleepily blink at him. Jisung snuggles closer and plants a few kisses across his chest.

“Chan hyung is coming shortly.”

“Hmm.” It will take him a lot of effort to move away from this tiny piece of heaven he’s somehow been lucky enough to stumble upon. But Jisung asks him to do it, takes his hand and guides him to get up to the center of the room.

“Thought we could practice our first dance.”

“Now?” Minho asks. “When we’re both half asleep? Your coordination barely exists on a good day, jagi.”

“Hyungie,” Jisung softly whines. Wraps his arms around Minho’s neck. “Come on. Dance with me.”

Arms around his small waist. Jisung begins to hum as they sway together slowly. Minho feels more like they’re floating. Thinks that Chan will come later to take them to the civil registry only to find that they’ve flown far away together with the chilly winter breeze.

He tips his forehead against Jisung’s. Jisung closes his eyes and smiles up at him sweetly.

He says, “Can’t wait to officially, legally be yours tonight.”

Minho wakes up.

Practice wraps up early. The rest of their day is free. A small blessing before the chaos of their comeback. Things have been going well, preparation wise. But it’s harder for Minho to move on autopilot when there’s static in his ears, all day long, a current running faintly beneath the sound of the music they practice to. When Minho’s vision blurs, a scene loops in his mind endlessly, mercilessly, a smile and a few words engraved in his memory.

He wants to sigh out in frustration without worrying everyone else around him. Wants to scream at his subconscious for becoming his biggest enemy. Wants to be able to look at Jisung without his mind replaying a word whispered in his voice non-stop.

Yours. Yours. Yours.

They wrap up to head home, but before Minho can begin to think about what he should do in the evening to distract himself from the horrors of his dream, Chan says, “Let’s all have dinner together.” And he says it in his leader tone, not his hyung tone.

Plans for the evening decided, Minho guesses.

The food is delicious, more so when Minho focuses all of his attention on it rather than on thinking about what Chan might have to say, rather than let his mind wander to places he’s been so determined to keep locked even to his own greedy thoughts.

Chan puts his chopsticks down. Chooses a moment that makes what he has to say feel less like an official announcement. Casually, he starts. “You know, we’re renewing our contracts next year.”

Their current contracts end in 2025, but everyone treats it like it’s a given that they’ll all sign new ones before that. Not Minho, though. Minho has learned his lesson.

“I’m negotiating some things with the managers, and I’m sure we’ll be having many discussions about that soon. But there’s one thing I wanted to put out there for you guys to consider.”

All the clicking of cutlery stops. Curious eyes fix on Chan as he continues. “The lease of our dorms ends next year too,” he says. “I was thinking maybe— maybe it’s time to move out.”

Minho’s eyes immediately, instinctively dart towards Jisung, only to find him looking back. Minho averts his eyes quickly, guiltily, like he’s been caught, like everyone at the table — not just Jisung — now knows that the mere mention of their future makes Minho instantly think of him.

“Move out?” Asks Seungmin. His tone is flat, but Minho knows him better than this. He knows how much he too hates change.

“It’s just a suggestion,” Chan says. “And it won’t be for a while. We have a busy year, I know that, and I don’t want this to cause more instability. But most of us can drive now, and after the world tour, things will slow down a bit.” He finishes listing all the logical reasons. Attaches to the tail of it in a casual voice. “Again, it’s just a suggestion. Want you to think about it.”

Minho thinks about it. For the rest of their meal. On the way back to their dorm. As he cleans up and slips under the covers in his bed. The topic had changed after that, but Minho’s brain refused to let go of it.

It’s a weird thing, a mixture of hope and dread. Moving out of the dorms means more freedom; more freedom for Minho to spend time with Jisung without worry over speculating eyes—

And more freedom for Jisung to decide he doesn’t really want that now that the option is on the table.

Minho thinks about it, sometimes, how much of his bond with the members stems from proximity, how much they would voluntarily choose to be in each other’s orbits if the fabricated forcefield that has brought them together so far suddenly ceased to exist.

Somehow, he never wondered about that with Jisung. He always thought that their forcefield was a thing as natural as gravity, that their proximity stemmed from their bond. Somehow, he thought Jisung would always blend seamlessly into his life, that Minho would never have to acquaint himself with a new rhythm that didn’t include Jisung in it.

Now, in the darkness of his room as his pulse speeds up at the thought of the future, Minho wonders if he will be proven wrong.

The door creaks when it’s pushed open slowly. Before Minho even sees who it is, his heart begins to calm down. Jisung doesn’t ask if he’s awake like he usually does. Only silently walks into the room, and slips into his spot on the bed wrapping his arms around Minho.

The first breath he exhales feels more like a sigh. Minho holds him close, where he needs him, and belatedly realizes how late the time must be. “Can’t sleep?”

He curses the selfish part of himself, the part that waits until Jisung shakes his head, only to flood him with guilty satisfaction that Jisung still found his way to him when sleep evaded him, the part that makes him slip back into the barbed-wired zone of hope that he isn’t the only one thinking about their future and finding comfort in the other’s arms.

They don’t mention the dorm change. There are things they share with each other, and things they don’t. Minho doesn’t have to tell him that he couldn’t sleep either, Jisung can see it, could probably tell even before he made his way to the other dorm.

He’s too warm, all of a sudden, despite the cold of November. Each breath Jisung takes brings him closer to Minho’s heart. And Minho worries, because there’s a lot that Jisung can find there that Minho isn’t quite ready to be let known. He worries, about falling asleep with Jisung so close that he somehow slips into the dream as well and finds Minho still running after the ghost of him.

He worries about the truth escaping him without his knowledge or permission. So instead, Minho offers some of it himself.

He whispers, “I had a dream you kissed me.”

And it must not be as surprising as Minho thought it would be, because after a moment, Jisung pulls away, his palm replacing his cheek over Minho’s heart. He puts a few inches between them, and looks up to meet Minho’s eyes.

“Hyung—” he says softly, “that wasn’t a dream.”

Minho’s entire world is torn apart and then rebuilt from the ground up in a second, made into something beautiful and orderly. But his lungs feel like a void, not even a breath left in them to spare for him to say anything in reply.

In the end, it is Jisung who speaks. “Unless,” he says, his gaze dropping to Minho’s mouth. “Unless you mean… something else.”

Minho finally takes a breath. “Something else?”

There’s a rhythm to the rabbiting of his heart under Jisung’s hand. To the sweet hum Jisung lets out while still looking at his mouth. “I mean,” he whispers, licking his lips. “Something like—”

His sentence ends there, with his lips on Minho’s own. A full stop, and a new beginning. The kiss is different from the one in Minho’s dream— or the one he thought was in his dream. It’s everything he’s always known Jisung to be; over-eager and overly sweet, stardust on Minho’s starving tongue.  

Jisung brings himself closer. Moves his hand to tangle in the hair behind Minho’s ear and kisses him again, deeper. He takes Minho’s upper lip between his teeth. Runs his tongue over it. Lets out a sound so beautiful it lights Minho’s body up. Like a celestial object that has orbited too close to the sun.

Even when their lips part, their noses remain touching. Jisung’s hand is warm and gentle in Minho’s hair, while Minho’s keeps Jisung close, wrapping around his middle.

Their breaths are shared when Minho finally manages to speak. He doesn’t really know what he’s saying. “Yeah. Maybe something like that.”

They don’t speak, for a few more moments. They don’t kiss either. But their limbs remain intertwined. And there’s a beautiful smile on Jisung’s face.

“You’re smiling,” Minho whispers the obvious.

Jisung hums in response. “Mmm. Felt good—to make hyung’s dream come true.”

And then he kisses him again, somehow more eagerly, more desperately. His tongue licks the seam of Minho’s lips, asking for permission. Then, when Minho opens up for him, Jisung moves to straddle him, not breaking the kiss.

Suddenly, he’s everywhere. He’s everywhere. On top of Minho and inside his very core. The honey of him coating Minho’s lips. The warmth of his touch igniting him. Minho breaks for air, but Jisung just moves to his neck, not yet satisfied, as hungry as Minho’s ever known him to be.

When he swipes his tongue under the corner of Minho’s jaw, Minho stutters on a moan before he stops him, pulls him away. He watches the rhythm of his own panting chest. Watches the starlight in Jisung’s eyes, flitting between his own in search of an answer.

“Too much,” Minho only says.

Jisung watches him back. Takes a sharp breath. His lips are shiny and red. “Too much in a bad kind of way?”

He shakes his head. “Too much in an I don’t know what to do with myself kind of way.”

Jisung smiles, breathes out, and the rhythm of it is so familiar to Minho he’s no longer surprised when their chests move in sync. He moves back to lie down, facing him again. Brings himself closer. Whispers, “But can I kiss you again?”

“Yes,” Minho answers as soon as the question leaves his mouth. “Of course. Always.”

Jisung’s lips are soft and sweet, fitting perfectly with his own. He kisses him like he knows what he wants and knows how to take it. In the back of his mind, Minho wonders how many other lips he’s kissed before, how he got to be so good. Then he decides it doesn’t really matter. All those nights Minho spent alone and awake knowing Jisung wasn’t home. All the people Minho himself sought out in the past to fool his mind to forget. They don’t matter, not now, not with Jisung’s lips on his and the flame slowly spreading through him.

When he pulls away, Minho is completely out of breath.

He stares at him, for what feels like forever, eyes blinking and somehow still hungry. Minho brushes his bangs away from his eyes, his chest swelling at the small smile that stays on his face.

“You’re thinking again.”

Jisung lets out a small laugh, joyful and soft. “Yeah,” he says. “Thinking that I should’ve done this a long time ago.”

There’s a rhythm to the way Minho threads his fingers in Jisung’s hair, and the way Jisung melts into it, smiling sleepily even as he says, “Thinking that I want to kiss you some more.”

Minho wonders if Jisung knows, just how many times he’s caused his entire world to tilt on its axis, his timeline to freeze waiting for the next breath. “You can do that, tomorrow,” he says, still playing with his hair. “For now, let’s sleep, jagi.”

Somehow, it feels different now, using that word after Minho has come to know what Jisung’s lips feel like. Jisung smiles and snuggles into him, his cheeks the color of roses as he drifts to sleep in his arms. “Okay,” he whispers. Then adds, slowly, deliberately: “Good night, jagi.”

They’re at Music Core. It’s so early it’s still dark. But fans are as lively as ever, their screams of support loud in Minho’s ears even after they finish performing their song.

It’s a rush. It always is. Minho loves it, lives for it, or at least, so he thought.

The gifted room is a nice, welcome present, for more than just bragging rights. It’s quiet, and secluded, and Jisung is there with him when he makes his way to it, tugging him by the arm like it’s his room and Minho is just a lucky visitor.

“Slow down,” Minho tries to say, looking around them, taking note of who might be seeing them. But it’s all a blur. The only thing he can see is the few steps ahead of him, and the back of Jisung’s head.

“I can’t,” Jisung says. Then he disappears.

Minho turns left and right. Searches for him. Chanting his name in his mind when he can’t do it at the top of his lungs. Everything is a blur but he knows people are there. He worries if he calls for Jisung they’ll all be able to pick up on the longing every letter of his name would be charged with.

He reaches the room, then, down the hall, with his name on the door. The moment he steps inside, he’s pinned to the door with a soft thud, and there are soft lips on his neck, fluffy hair tickling his skin.

“Jisungie,” he breathlessly whispers, even before he looks down to make sure it’s him. Minho can never be wrong about this.

“Hyung,” Jisung exhales into his skin, low and rumbling. “Touch me.”

He starts to move his hands, but they feel heavy, chained down and immobile. Jisung whines, buries it in his neck. “Hyung, please.”

Minho wakes up.

Under the cold stream of the shower, Minho reaches two conclusions: The first is that his mind, down to the deepest subconscious level, will always want more, more of Jisung, more with Jisung. The more Jisung gives him in his waking hours, the greedier Minho will become in his sleep.

The second is that his waking life and his dreams are not two parallel lines that would never intersect like he used to think. The more Minho dreams about Jisung, the eerily closer it gets to his real life, and the blurrier these lines become. Minho’s problem, perhaps his dooming mistake, is that he remains like a child, small hands trying to hold onto the water slipping through his fingers.

When he comes out, the room is empty, his bed made, no trace of Jisung. They have an early schedule, he knows that. But he can’t help but feel like the room is a little emptier, a little lonelier, than it ever was.

For the rest of the day, Minho tries, to surrender himself back to the flow of a familiar rhythm, to go through the notions and forget about what he saw behind closed eyes. But it’s hard, when the whisper echoes in his mind and knocks him off his balance. It’s hard when he doesn’t know if finishing their schedule will mean him going back to a prison sentence in an empty room, or to the comfort of a warm body he now cannot sleep properly without having in his bed.

And Minho is selfish. He’s a little greedy, and perhaps really reckless. So instead of waiting to find out the answer by the time his eyes start to droop, he decides to carve an answer for himself, and makes his way to the other dorm once they finish their work for the day.

Chan and Changbin are in the living room, chatting over the laptop screen with take-out containers in front of them. They look at him with knowing eyes. Despite it being normal for any member to show up at the other dorm when they all know the passcodes to both. Minho burns under their gaze and refuses to let the fumes show. He simply bows his head in greeting, and makes a beeline for Jisung’s room. When he closes the door behind himself, he notices that the room is empty.

Jisung’s phone is on the bed. His things are scattered all around. Minho belatedly hears the distant sound of the water running and figures he is showering. He sits alone with his thoughts for a few minutes, spiraling somewhere further and further away from control.

When Jisung enters the room a few minutes later, wrapped in a towel, his hair damp and his skin flushed, every thought in Minho’s mind stills, except for one.

“Hyung?” Jisung questions, looking at where Minho sits on the bed fighting the demons of greed and want. Minho loses. Of course, he loses. He’s never had any chance of winning when loss tastes as good as Jisung’s lips. Nothing has ever felt more like a victory than this.

Minho doesn’t answer. He gets up, and meets Jisung by the door. Kisses him on the lips, making him gasp. One of Jisung’s hands lifts to Minho’s hair, while the other still clings to the towel in a tight fist around his waist. After the initial shock, he easily melts into it, and kisses him back.

He tastes just like he smells, fresh and sweet and otherworldly perfect. He sighs into the kiss in a way that makes Minho feel like he wasn’t the only one craving it. He lets him lick into his mouth and sucks in a sharp breath when they break apart.

“Hey,” Minho whispers, still a little cross-eyed, looking at Jisung’s spit-glossed lips while still close enough to kiss him again. Jisung smiles. Returns the greeting.

“I was getting ready. To come over.”

“Oh,” Minho only manages. One of his hands is on Jisung’s shoulder, still a little wet, water droplets like dew on flower petals in the early morning hours, when everything is golden and peaceful. “Is it okay?” He asks lowly. “That I came instead? If— If I stay over tonight?”

“Yeah,” Jisung answers. “Of course.” Looks down at himself, and his cheeks go a little rosier. “I’ll just…change.”

Jisung gets dressed and joins him on the bed, warm and smiley, fitting perfectly into his side. He looks at him for a moment. “This was the first time,” he whispers, a little shy about it.

“First time?”

“That you’ve kissed me.”

“Was—” Minho hesitates. Swallows before trying again. “Was that okay?”

“Yeah,” Jisung answers. He’s impossibly warm. “More than.”

“Okay.” He holds him closer. Breathes him in. Minho doesn’t know how to tell him that he’s been trying so hard to keep his greed under control, and that he keeps losing to it every single night. So in the end, he doesn’t say anything at all. He announces his surrender willingly this time, and kisses Jisung once again.

It’s chaste, slow and sweet and, weirdly enough, familiar by now. Jisung smiles softly at him, half asleep already. He says, “We’re free tomorrow.”

Promotions have ended. End of year shows are still a while away. They get to bask in the joy of what they’ve worked so hard for, even if only for a short time before they have to work hard again. Minho hums. Doesn’t say anything.

“Will be nice,” Jisung whispers into the silence, “to spend the morning with you as well.”

Chan and Changbin are at the studio when they wake up. Jisung says it like he already knew that would be the case, like he was maybe asked to join at some point. He says it after coming back to the bed from a trip to the bathroom. He smells like minty toothpaste now. And when he kisses Minho, he thinks it’s a little unfair that he wasn’t given the same opportunity to brush his teeth before kissing back.

But Jisung melts into it anyway, something soft and private, a hand on Minho’s cheek while they lie on their sides. Minho is a breath away from saying he thinks he’s still dreaming, but Jisung takes that away from him too when he says—

“Hyung, I’ve been thinking.”

And it’s a new habit, the way that Jisung saying he’s been thinking makes Minho’s heart start to race, like it anticipates something Minho has yet to see with his eyes. And it’s surreal, how every time, Jisung outdoes all his attempts to prepare himself for what he might say next.

“What have you been thinking about?”

“About…” Jisung caresses his cheek with a gentle thumb. Looks at him with dark eyes. “About more.”

He goes quiet, the way he does when he’s unsure. “More?” Minho asks, a hand lifting to his waist to reciprocate the comforting touch.

“More of…this,” Jisung whispers. Meets his eyes again. “More of you.”

Minho almost says it. Almost answers with what he’s always wanted to say. I’m all yours, I will never be anybody else’s.

It’s a lot, all at the same time, what Minho hopes to convey, what he has on his mind that feels too grand to be put into simple words. He suddenly thinks of sunrises and sunsets. Thinks of days stretching into nights, the rhythm or all that he has known. He thinks of the morning star he’s been orbiting for years, and how good it must feel to be pulled in all the way by the force of its gravity. He thinks— if Jisung asked him to split open his chest and rip his own heart out, then Minho would do it with a smile.

“You can,” he says shakily. And God, it feels so small, it’s not enough, nothing is ever enough. “You can have more, if you want, as much as you want.”

Jisung’s answer is an exhale, warm and impossibly close to Minho’s face. His answer is a pool of darkness in round, piercing eyes, and a look Minho thinks he’s never seen on his face before. His answer is a touch, daring and confident, and a kiss that turns into a black hole that swallows Minho entirely in the blink of an eye. His answer is Minho’s name moaned on an exhale and the heat of a flame that engulfs them both. His answer is a morning spent with them getting lost in each other, while the outside world fades into a blur.

His answer is a question, after they lay back together in bed, breaths still quick and heartbeats in sync.

“Can I say something strange?” he asks.

Jisung’s skin is liquid gold. His voice is the softness of a harp. He is the only one Minho will ever love, after knowing what it’s like to love him.

Minho wants to kiss the back of his hand, but he wonders if that’s too intimate. He wants to tell him he never forgets anything he’s ever said to him, but he fears it would freak him out. Minho wants to love him, in any way he’s allowed, even if the only way is by not letting his love show.

When he let Jisung touch him, when he fell apart by his hands, Minho bit his tongue lest the word he fears the most escapes him in his most vulnerable moments. Because he knows there’s a boundary there somewhere, and maybe he can’t see it clearly, but a confession is definitely somewhere beyond it. At least for now. And Minho might be greedy, but he isn’t stupid. Because there are things they share with each other, and things they don’t.

So, Minho opted for the safety of muffled sounds and breathy moans, while Jisung showered him with the sweetest words. Planted a gorgeous into the space between his ribs, a beautiful behind his ear, a so good for me down his torso.

Minho feels like he’s in full bloom.

“You can,” Minho whispers. His voice sounds a little foreign, like it knows his body doesn’t belong to him anymore. It belongs to Jisung.

Jisung tucks his bangs behind his ears, in desperate need of a cut. His touch lingers, something comforting and gentle. He smiles when Minho leans into it.

“This was somehow exactly like how I thought it would be. Yet also entirely different.”

Minho closes his eyes. I love you so much I feel it in every breath I take, he wants to say. But he can’t, so instead he says, “You’ve… thought about it?”

There’s no hint of doubt in Jisung’s eyes. His smile is as gentle as the warm sun on a cold winter day. “Haven’t you?”

Minho thinks about Jisung, in every single one of his waking hours, and then again after he sleeps. There’s… too much of it in his chest, the love. Minho wants to grow in size to accommodate more of it, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“I have. Of course, I have.”

Jisung opens his mouth next, but there’s a rustle, a sound from the living room that seems to remind them both that even if Chan and Changbin are at the studio, Hyunjin is still at the dorm. And oh, Minho sees it, for one fraction of a second before Jisung controls his expression again— the look of fear, of realization, of guilt.

There’s a lot of things that Minho can carry the weight of with Jisung, but guilt is not one of them. The fear alone is enough to break his back in half, adding guilt to it would mean Minho never makes it back up onto his feet ever again.

He hates it, but Minho has to avert his eyes, afraid of what he might see in Jisung’s if they meet again. The first realization then brings in a flood of them: his clothes being scattered on the bed while he still lies naked under the sheets, the bathroom Jisung shares with Hyunjin, the greed that turns the soil in his chest sour and threatens to weed out every seed Jisung had planted earlier gently.

“Hyung,” Jisung starts, but Minho tastes the acidity on his tongue, danger making his heart topple over in his chest. He reaches forward and holds on with panicked arms. Engulfs Jisung in a tight hug and squeezes his eyes shut. Burrows into his neck to be able to breathe again.

“Please,” he whispers there. “Please, just five more minutes.”

Jisung holds him back. Keeps him there, where Minho needs to be. Kisses the side of his neck, impossibly soft.

“Hyung,” he whispers again, so soft Minho feels blessed to be able to hear it. “Jagi,” he says, and doesn’t add anything else. Allows Minho to breathe him in. Gently, he caresses his back, his messy hair. “Stay for lunch?” He offers in another whisper. Minho nods, and wishes he never had to leave.

It’s late at night when there’s a faint knock on his door. And perhaps it’s Minho’s over-reliance on routine and familiarity, perhaps it’s him expecting the same rhythm to his every single day. But when he says “Come in,” and the door creaks open to reveal Chan standing there, Minho feels like his entire world has been tipped off balance.

The thing is, Chan hardly ever shows up at their dorm. Burdened by responsibilities too heavy for the whole team to carry, and burdened even more by his own thoughts. It’s rare that he has time to step into a place Minho has fought long and hard to convince him he doesn’t have to worry about. Sometimes, Minho admits to himself that it was his selfish way of compensating for the worry he gives Chan in other places.

He sits by the edge of the bed, and Minho suddenly feels like a grounded teenager in the presence of their disappointed parent. His heart beats erratically in his chest. Beyond the initial awkward greetings, he doesn’t manage a single word.

“I’m gonna say something that’s a bit harsh about the both of you,” Chan says, and he doesn’t have to define who both of you are— Minho already knows.

“I used to think it was Jisung that I had to tell to be careful, not fearful. And you that I had to slow down before you let the torrent carry you away.” He stops with a chuckle, a shake of his head. Tears climb up Minho’s throat, tight when he tries to swallow them down. He hugs a pillow to his chest, and waits to see if the rest of it will make him muffle the tears that will come into the fabric in his hands.

“We had a talk with the managers today, Bin and I,” he continues. “We move out next spring, I think. Out of the dorms. We’ll live in pairs, in apartments close to each other. And they—they agreed to let us decide who lives with who. No conditions. I made sure of that.”

It’s slow, when the tears start flowing. It’s not sadness in his chest, but a flood of relief and gratitude. Chan lets him cry it out, doesn’t try to stop his tears. He keeps a hand on his knee, and continues talking gently.

“I know you’re afraid, but you’re not stupid, Minho-yah. You know how much we’re allowed, and how much we’re not. You’re allowed this, at least, after so long, don’t you think?”

Minho starts sobbing, quietly into the pillow. It’s like his body doesn’t want him to believe this, like it’s physically trying to push the hope out with all of the tears. But there’s so much of it inside his chest he thinks he can never cry it all out, thinks there’s enough of it to grow a whole garden between his ribs.

“I didn’t tell Jisung,” says Chan softly. “You should be the one to tell him.”

He hiccups on his first attempt to say anything. Lifts his head finally to meet Chan’s eyes with his own bleary ones. And tries again. “What if— what if he doesn’t—”

Chan chuckles, dimples showing and all. “I just said you’re not stupid.”

Minho allows him to give him a hug.

He’s hanging the laundry to dry on the rooftop, colorful sheets and towels swinging with the slow breeze. Minho hears a rustle seconds before he sees Jisung’s face between the hanging laundry, walking slowly between greens and blues. “Hey, hyungie,” he says lightly. Minho thinks he’s in love with him.

He comes closer, then moves far away, lost in the sea of colors and the smell of fabric softener. Minho doesn’t call out to him, but he turns his head in his direction, wherever he appears with a soft smile. When he finally catches him in his arms, Jisung giggles, eyes crescents and smile like the sun. And Minho tells him, “I lo—”

“Shh, hyung,” Jisung interrupts, still sounding light. “Don’t say it, or the dream ends.”

Minho doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to say anything else. He simply nods, and lets Jisung pull him by the hand.

Then they’re laying in bed facing each other, a smile on Jisung’s face, stealing Minho’s breath away. “Close your eyes, hyung,” whispers Jisung, “so I can kiss you.”

Minho nods. Closes his eyes and waits.

Nothing comes.

So he opens his eyes again.

Jisung is right there, facing him, on the bed, his bed, sleeping. Jisung—his Jisung. Real Jisung, not the dream version—sleeps next to him, probably having sneaked in when Minho was out with exhaustion. For once, Minho is glad that the dream ended. His chest swells with adoration, leaving no space for greed. 

He lifts a hand to Jisung’s cheek, and his eyes slowly blink open. There’s a rhythm to the flutter of his eyelashes, Minho thinks, to the way his smile makes Minho’s heart stutter. Every single time.

Noise trickles in from outside the room, the coffee machine preparing Seungmin’s first cup of the day, the songs Jeongin plays in the bathroom while he showers. But it’s all muted, far away and faint. What Minho truly hears, is Jisung’s voice when their eyes meet.

“Morning,” he whispers softly. And Minho loves him, always will. His morning star, who might not be so out of reach.

It all goes quiet, all of a sudden. Jeongin finishes his shower, and Seungmin waits three minutes before taking his first sip of coffee. And into this silent, but familiar rhythm, Minho whispers a question.

“Do you want to live together? When we move out of the dorms?” And he hesitates, for a moment, but the stars in Jisung’s eyes guide him to continue. “Chan said we get to choose.”

His hand moves down to gently hold Jisung’s waist when he swallows before speaking. His smile is a little unsure, but the touch of his hand when he lifts it to Minho’s chest is as warm as ever.

“I’m very messy,” he says with a small chuckle. “And I’m moody about my personal space.”

“I know,” Minho replies, smiling. “And I talk in my sleep.”

Jisung laughs. His eyes are a little teary. “Yeah, you do.”

“And I’m bossy too, and sometimes a little whiny.”

“More like really whiny,” Jisung corrects. “You’re like a big baby.”

Minho pinches his waist lightly. He yelps, then breaks into another laugh that slowly eases into a smile that lingers in his eyes. His voice drops to a whisper. “And you still want this?”

“Yeah,” Minho replies, no hesitation. “I do. I— I want everything. With you.”

The smile Jisung gives him then makes his heart beat to a new rhythm, something closer to the happy chirp of birds, and warmth of the summer sun.

“Okay,” Jisung says softly. Leans in, and presses a kiss on his lips. “Okay,” he repeats, airy and on the verge of tears, more beautiful than anything Minho has ever dreamed of.

“Let's live together.”