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2:43 a.m.
Minho’s living room is dim and quiet, lit only by the TV and the soft gold of a nearby lamp. The evening has dissolved into the kind of comfortable silence that only comes from hours of doing nothing in good company. An empty takeout box lies sideways on the coffee table, chopsticks still stuck in it. Jisung is curled beside Minho on the couch, an open bottle of soju dangling from his fingers, wrapped in a throw blanket and a buzz that’s making him unusually still.
A playlist hums quietly from the TV– mostly mellow tracks, a few recent releases, some older ones shuffled in. Neither of them is paying close attention, just letting it fill the room.
Jisung is swaying a little, half-tuned in to the music, his head resting against the couch cushions. He hasn’t said anything in a while, which Minho takes as a sign he’s deep into the soft stage of tipsy.
Minho doesn’t mind it. Not really. It’s kind of cute.
His head is leaned back against the couch, eyes half-lidded. Their night is quiet, except for the sound of their breathing, the distant hum of city traffic, and the occasional clink of a bottle hitting the table.
He loves nights like this. He would say he could get used to nights like this– if he wasn’t already.
On the screen, the next song plays. Minho hears the opening piano chords before he sees the name appear.
Yuuri – Leo.
His thumb is hovering over the remote. Jisung shifts forward slightly, as if drawn in by the first few notes.
Minho doesn’t skip this one, because Jisung loves it.
“God,” Jisung sighs softly, “This song always makes me feel things.”
Minho hums in response– in agreement. He can feel Jisung shifting a little closer.
“I remember you singing this one.”
“Barely,” Minho giggles.
He doesn’t turn to look at Jisung, but he hears his voice begin to sing along, low and a little off-key in that lazy, half-drunk way he gets late at night. It’s sweet, if a little clumsy, and something about it makes Minho’s chest ache in the nicest way.
Maybe that’s what gets him to start quietly humming along too.
They stay that way for a little while, both turned toward the screen, faces lit by its cool blue glow, letting the song wash over them as it swells toward its emotional core– a quiet love letter, not to a person, but to a dog, Leo.
Minho knows this. He knows the lyrics are from the perspective of a beloved pet looking up at the one he loves. He knows it’s bittersweet, but he also knows it's meant to be comforting.
Though it's so lonely, though I'm so sad
I'll always be at your side, my most beloved…
Then, somewhere behind him, he hears it.
A sniffle.
Minho turns, confused, and catches Jisung wiping at his cheek.
“…Are you crying?” he asks, frowning.
Jisung blinks at him, glassy-eyed and a tiny bit miserable. He doesn’t even pretend to deny it this time. He lifts his head with the devastated honesty only the heartbroken and intoxicated can manage.
“Yes,” he admits simply. “I’m crying. Because I’m drunk.”
“Oh.” Minho blinks, then lets out a startled laugh. “Oh, no.”
Jisung sniffs again and nods, lower lip wobbling. “I’m drunk, and it’s a beautiful song, and I’m full of feelings!”
Minho can’t help it– he starts laughing.
Not unkindly. Just… helplessly. That helpless, affectionate, absolutely stupid way you do when someone is so sincerely wrecked by something you don’t quite understand but love them too much to mock.
Jisung waves his hand, as if to clear the air of the emotions that are threatening to swallow him whole. “It’s heartbreaking! The dog is saying goodbye to his owner. He’s– he’s thanking him. Like, can you imagine that? A dog just sitting there, loving you his whole life, and then he’s just gone–” His voice cracks mid-sentence and he hiccups, sniffling harder.
He stops short with a gasp.
Minho follows his gaze and spots Soonie, the oldest of his three cats, curled on the armchair across the room like the gingery loaf of bread that he is. He blinks slowly at them, then resumes grooming his paw.
Jisung’s bottom lip quivers. “Oh my God, hyung. Your cats. Your babies. They love you so much.”
Minho chokes on a laugh. “Jisungie, please–”
“What if one day he just– thanks you?” Jisung sobs, motioning in his direction. “Like, what if he knows you rescued him, and he’s been loving you quietly all this time, and one day he just goes, and you never get to tell him–”
Minho throws his head back with a sigh, laughing in disbelief. “You know I do tell him, right? I tell all of them. Every single day.”
“I know! Because you’re a good cat dad!” Jisung nods, eyes glossy and red. “I tell Bbama I love him every time I see him too. I just– pets don’t live long enough, and they don’t even speak our language, but they know love, and that’s what this song means, hyung.”
Minho shakes his head, still grinning, but something in his chest tugs– gently, unexpectedly.
Because, yeah. He’s laughing. But he also can’t imagine a world without Soonie curled on his chest, or Doongie and Dori weaving between his legs every time he comes home to visit. He looks over at him– oblivious, sleepy, slightly cranky– and the idea of someday losing him makes his insides twist, just for a second.
But he doesn’t say that.
Instead, he watches Jisung hiccup through the tail end of his emotional spiral, eyes shining, voice thick.
“I just…” Jisung trails off and presses the sleeve of his hoodie to his eyes. “I love his voice. It’s so– so human,” he mumbles, another tiny hiccup escaping his throat. “It’s so emotional and warm, and it– it just feels like he means every word, you know? Like someone’s patting your back while you cry. I wish I could write a song like that.”
Minho is about to answer, tell him he’s being super stupid right now and that he has, in fact, written many songs that feel exactly like that already, when Jisung turns to him– locking eyes with him in a way that makes him brace for impact.
“But you know whose voice I really love?” Jisung asks him.
“Oh no,” Minho says under his breath.
“Yours,” Jisung answers, pointing at him. “Lee Minho, your voice is everything.”
Minho groans, but Jisung is already going.
“I’m serious,” he insists. “You have a really, really nice voice, hyung. I love it.”
Minho opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a bewildered little breath. He can already feel the heat rising up to his cheeks.
“I mean, I know I tell you this already,” Jisung continues, “when we’re working. But I mean it, hyung. You’ve gotten so good! Like, your tone has opened up so much this year? And your control is– wah, seriously, you’re so much better than you were when we started.”
Minho looks at him, fully turned now, and tries not to smile. And it’s so, so unbelievably hard. Because Jisung’s face is flushed from the soju, his eyes shiny with tears, and he’s looking at Minho like he’s made of stardust and harmonies and wonder– and Minho can’t help but feel like maybe he is.
“You’re so drunk, Jisungie,” Minho says, mostly because he has to say something.
Jisung nods solemnly. “Yes. But that doesn’t make me wrong!”
Minho shakes his head, amusement flickering behind his eyes. “Oh my God.”
“And you’re talented,” Jisung goes on, jabbing a finger in his direction. “You work for it! You take vocal lessons, you practice, you listen to me when I give you notes, and you actually try. Not everyone does that. Some people coast. But not you.”
Minho swallows. He’s not smiling now, he’s just– staring. Like an idiot.
He watches Jisung with a strange mix of affection and awe. The compliments are half-slurred, sure, but they’re also uncannily specific– the way only a producer would speak. This isn’t just drunken flattery. Jisung is giving him notes. Encouragement. Praise from someone who knows exactly what he’s talking about.
It’s not like he wasn’t used to praise. In fact, he’s been hearing it for the longest time– almost ever since they debuted. How great of a dancer he is. How good and stable his vocals are. His fans are endlessly kind to him. His family is proud of him. His friends tell him he’s amazing.
But Jisung– Jisung is different. His members are different too. And Jisung is a music producer– and not just any producer. Jisung’s opinion is earned.
Praise always feels good. It’s comforting. But from Jisung– who’s heard every flat take and fragile attempt, and watched him since he could barely get through one without breaking or second-guessing himself– it’s something else entirely.
And maybe Minho is a little whipped, because instead of rolling his eyes or brushing it off, he feels his chest getting warmer.
Because Jisung keeps going. “You’re just gonna keep getting better, too. Like, I know it. Every time we work together, I get excited because I’m like, what’s Minho gonna do this time? How’s he going to surprise me? You know I love working with you, right?”
“I know, Jisungie.” he whispers, looking down at his hands with a soft smile.
“You’re gonna keep getting better,” Jisung mumbles again, eyes already starting to drift, the weight of all his affection clearly too much for his small body to carry now. “You can do anything.”
Minho sits there for a long moment, quietly stunned. Jisung’s soju bottle is resting against his thigh, still half-full. Probably more than he needs.
Minho reaches for it, fingers brushing against Jisung’s as he gently takes it out of his hands. That brief contact is warm– electric, almost– and Minho swallows once, quietly, before placing the bottle on the coffee table.
“Okay,” he sighs, “I think that’s enough soju for you tonight.”
Jisung blinks up at him.
Minho grabs a water bottle from the table, quickly uncapping it and placing it into his hands instead.
“Hydrate,” he says, still grinning. “I don’t know if you have more spiraling left in you, but I don’t think I can survive it unless you pace yourself.”
Jisung looks down at the water. Then up at Minho.
“I’m not spiraling,” he grumbles.
And as Jisung gulps down the water– partly out of obedience, partly because he is a little dizzy– Minho watches him with a soft kind of flutter in his chest.
Because yeah, it’s funny.
But it’s also kind of beautiful.
And maybe he's not ready for Jisung to stop.
3:03 a.m.
“...You know I love your voice, right?”
“I know, Jisungie.”
Minho smiles, still half-lounged against the armrest, watching Jisung clutch his water bottle like a microphone. His hair's a little messy, one sock has fallen halfway off, and he positively looks like the world's cutest disaster.
Minho glances down at the curve of Jisung’s cheek, the faint flush across his nose, the way his lips are slightly parted like he's mid-thought even when he's silent. He’s beautiful in that effortless, infuriating way. Pretty, but expressive. Loud with feeling, even when he isn’t saying anything.
And he’s saying plenty.
Minho tells himself not to read into it. This is just Jisung being drunk and dramatic– two things Jisung excels at, separately and in combination.
Still, it’s cute. Ridiculous– but cute.
He leans his head back against the couch, lets out a quiet breath, and says again, this time a little softer, “I know, bug.”
3:23 a.m.
“...I just love it. It makes me feel so much. Remember that one time you went into the booth, and it was, like, take four? And I didn’t say anything after, because you were so amazing and I was actually speechless?”
“I remember, Jisungie.”
Minho does remember. He also remembers that Jisung did eventually say something– a long string of praise, including “you sounded like a feeling I didn’t have words for yet.” He didn't understand it then. He still doesn’t.
He thinks about it all the time.
3:33 a.m.
“Remember when you had to go film for Lee Mujin Service?” Jisung says, his words slurring just a little, eyes half-closed but still full of spark. “You were pretending to be all cool about it the morning before filming, like ‘Yeah, it’s fine, I’m fine, I can do it.’”
Minho raises an eyebrow. “I was cool about it.”
Jisung waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, you looked cool about it. But you were nervous. I could tell. You always get this tight line right here–” He reaches up clumsily and boops Minho’s jawline with one finger. “Like you’re biting down on the cool guy act.”
Minho groans. “Stop.”
“You called me right after, remember? Like, ten minutes after you left the set. Didn’t even say hi, just went, ‘I think it went well, but I’m not sure. What if it didn’t go well?’”
Minho closes his eyes. “Don’t do this.”
Jisung giggles. “You were so cute. You always act all unbothered, but then you call me the second it’s over. I’m your little post-performance emotional support blanket.”
“Shut up!” Minho runs a hand through his hair, ears starting to burn.
Jisung leans into him, grinning. “Make me.”
Minho doesn’t. He just shakes his head and takes a sip of soju, praying that sweet alcohol saves him from the embarrassment.
It doesn’t.
3:43 a.m.
“...It’s just such a romantic voice. It’s mellow, but also warm. Like if someone sang into a mug of tea and handed it to you in bed.”
“Did you eat something weird, or is this still the soju talking?”
Jisung snorts. “No. It’s me talking.”
Minho doesn’t have a response to that. He just makes Jisung take another sip of water and pretends not to feel warm in the face.
4:03 a.m.
“...I mean, we work so well together. It’s because I get your voice, you know? Like I understand what it wants to do. What it’s made for.”
“Apparently, it wants to make you cry for two hours straight.”
Jisung shrugs dramatically, nearly knocking his water bottle off the couch. “That’s fine. I’m not weak, I’m not afraid of feelings. I was born to suffer. From having them.”
Minho’s starting to feel helpless. Not because it’s annoying– far from it. But because Jisung doesn’t look like he intends to stop. Every time Minho thinks he's winding down, he picks up another thread– another compliment, another memory, another reason why Minho’s voice makes him feel things.
Minho wants to laugh. But he also wants to listen forever.
4:13 a.m.
“...You’re so good at love songs, hyung. Like, so good. It’s so unfair!”
He pauses, but not for long– just long enough for him to immerse himself in passionately singing the chorus of Felix’s Unfair before he gets back to drunk-talking.
“Your tone just... wraps around the lyrics. You could be singing about heartbreak or kissing someone in the rain or whatever, and it just melts into it.”
“Melts, huh?”
“Like ice cream on a warm summer day.”
Minho covers his face with one hand. He can’t decide if he’s being flirted with or attacked.
Possibly both.
4:33 a.m.
Jisung is halfway on Minho’s lap now, the blanket tangled around both of them. He’s still clutching the water bottle, but his head is tilted back lazily against Minho’s shoulder. The TV’s gone quiet– the playlist ended ten minutes ago– but Jisung hasn’t noticed.
His voice is much lower now. Slower. Sleepy, but clear.
“You know…” he murmurs, eyes lidded, “I always think about you when I’m writing love songs.”
Minho’s breath catches.
Jisung doesn’t notice that either. He’s too far gone, too deep in it now.
“Even when I don’t mean to,” he continues. “Like, I’ll be working on something, and then suddenly it’s just you. Your voice. You singing it. You looking like you do when you’re trying not to smile after a good take.”
Minho swallows. His throat feels tight. His pulse jumps in his wrist– ridiculous, honestly, because this is just Jisung being drunk, right? Rambling. Emotional. Affectionate. The usual.
Except it doesn’t sound like the usual.
Jisung’s voice softens impossibly more now, his words tumbling out between drowsy breaths. “I think it’s because I imagine you singing them, so they all start sounding like you. Even the ones that aren’t supposed to be about anyone…”
“What about them?” he asks him, not sure whether the answer is something he dreads or longs for.
Jisung turns his head slightly, eyes finding Minho’s.
“...I think they’re about you anyway.”
Minho forgets how to breathe.
Every thought overlaps. He’s drunk. He doesn’t mean it. He’s drunk. But what if he does?
He can feel the warmth where Jisung’s hand rests against his thigh, where their legs overlap, and suddenly everything feels too close. Too bright. Too real.
He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t say anything either.
He just looks at Jisung in his arms– flushed and soft and so, so heartbreakingly open– and his mind starts running loops it’ll never escape from. He feels his heart fold inward, like a paper crane, quiet and delicate and full of something he doesn’t want to find a name for.
Not panic, exactly.
But something dangerously close.
The kind that settles under his skin and refuses to leave.
5:43 a.m.
Jisung’s now fully in Minho’s lap, head heavy on his shoulder, his words slowing, but not stopping. His voice is slurred around the edges, barely more than a whisper.
“It’s not just your voice, you know,” he says. “It’s you.”
Minho doesn’t know if it’s possible to tense up and melt at the same time, but here he is, trying it out.
Stop talking.
Jisung shifts slightly, his gaze distant again, but still talking– as if he’s talking about something simple. As if he’s talking about the weather.
“I don’t just love you when you sing. I love you when you talk. When you giggle at your own dumb jokes. When you get annoyed at me for not doing the dishes and then do them for me anyway.”
Please, stop talking.
“I love you when you cook for me. Or when you buy me food just ‘cause you’re thinking about me. I love you when you try to make me feel better when I'm sad, even when you don’t know how. And I love you when you’re sad, too.”
That makes Minho blink. Once. Twice.
Jisung's words soften, even more tender now, more careful.
“You don’t cry when you’re sad,” he murmurs. “You act like nothing’s wrong, but I know. I’ve always known.”
Something pulls in Minho’s chest. Like a knot getting tight.
Jisung turns his face slightly, his cheek pressed right over Minho’s heart, nuzzling into his shirt, tying the knot even tighter. “You’ve always been there for me. Even through the bad stuff– the worst stuff. You always asked if I wanted to talk, and you always stayed when I didn’t.”
He pauses, breath hitching slightly. Minho thinks he’s crying, but when he looks down, their eyes meet. Jisung’s gaze is glazed, soft, unfocused but warm. He is blinking up at him, Slowly. Like–
Like a cat.
The way a cat looks at you when curled in your lap, purring silently, content to just be there, quietly, safely, close, with you. Trusting. Affectionate. He gives Minho that look cats only give you when you’ve earned them– loving, slow, and entirely sincere.
“How can anyone not love you?” he whispers. “You’re so easy to love.”
And that’s what hits Minho.
That’s the one that actually lands.
Because easy to love is not something he’s ever believed about himself. Not once. Maybe it was his sharpness– his features, his attitude, the way his voice flattens when he doesn’t want to be vulnerable. The dry sarcasm, the blunt edges, his aversion to fanservice, the unwillingness to say what people want to hear just because they want to hear it. He’s never tried to be hard to love. But he’s never believed he made it easy either.
Yet here’s Jisung, looking half asleep, half drunk, and completely sure.
Saying it like it's just… the truth.
Minho sits there in silence for a long moment, his heart in a knot he can’t even begin to untangle.
He gently shifts, lifting Jisung off the couch with the slow, practiced care of having done so countless times before.
Jisung hums in surprise but doesn’t resist– just melts into his arms.
“I’ve got you, bug,” Minho whispers softly into his hair.
I always do.
Soonie jumps down from the armchair and follows them down the hall. The other two– Doongie and Dori– trot behind, sleepy and curious.
Minho nudges the door open with his foot and carries Jisung into the bedroom. The blankets are still rumpled from earlier, and the soft sound of cat paws on hardwood is the only thing that breaks the quiet.
He lays Jisung down gently, and the boy sinks into the bed with a soft sigh.
Minho starts to pull away, but Jisung reaches out with lazy arms and tugs at his sleeve.
“Come here,” he whines.
Minho does.
He climbs into bed beside him. The cats leap up one by one, circling once before settling around them. Dori curls against Jisung’s back. Soonie claims Minho’s feet. Doongie finds a spot between them and promptly flops over.
Jisung let out a soft, sleepy giggle. The one that bubbles out when he’s too tired to hold it in.
“You’re like a cat too,” he murmurs. “My cat.”
Minho turns his head to look at him. “Yeah?”
Jisung nods, lids heavy. “My cat. My lino-nyang.”
Then he shifts closer, sliding against him with slow, boneless determination. His face tucks in near Minho’s shoulder, forehead brushing against his collarbone.
Without thinking, Minho wraps an arm around him. His hand rises instinctively to the back of Jisung’s neck, fingers sliding gently into his hair.
Jisung lets out a quiet sound –soft and content– something between a hum and a sigh, but it’s close enough to a purr that makes Minho’s eyes do an affectionate roll.
He glances down at him, shaking his head fondly.
You’re more like a cat than I am.
“I’ll take good care of you,” Jisung mumbles, voice muffled against his shirt. “I’ll make sure you’re always loved and safe.”
Minho chuckles. Then smiles, small but real. “Thank you, baby,” he says.
Jisung reaches for his hand beneath the blanket, holds on–
–and then leans in.
He leans in like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like the thought comes and he just follows it, his lips brushing Minho’s in a soft, but certain press.
The kiss is barely there– clumsy and sweet like strawberry soju. It’s more warmth than precision, a little off-centered, but somehow still perfect.
Minho kisses him back, just enough before they pull apart, Jisung fading into sleep.
It’s quick. Gentle. More feeling than form.
Minho would write a love song about it if he could.
“You can thank me,” Jisung whispers, eyes already drifting shut, “but you can’t leave me, okay?”
Then, he settles back against him with a sleepy sigh, lips curved faintly into a smile.
And then he’s gone. Asleep, mouth parted slightly, body curled into Minho’s.
Minho lets out a breath, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
I love you. I love you too much to leave you.
“I won’t leave you,” he whispers back.
Minho lies awake for a moment. His fingers are still in Jisung’s hair, his other hand still holding Jisung’s under the blanket.
There’s no noise now. No playlist. No drunken monologues. Just the sound of Jisung breathing softly beside him, and the cats tucked in around them.
And you can’t leave me, okay?
That’s the last thought he lets himself have before sleep pulls him under, and love goes quiet in the dark– soft as fur, and just as real.