Chapter Text
The sun beats down on the asphalt of the playground, shingle brushed off scuffed knees to a symphony of children's laughter. Minho winces as he raises, stumbling over his laces as the heat rises on his cheeks. He palms down his clothes, retreating to the back of the field in search of somewhere soft to tend to his wounds, somewhere more private to regain his dignity. His usual spot resides toward the back corner, behind the bushes that conceal a small circle of boulders. It’s somewhere he often finds himself squirrelling away to, avoiding the prying eyes of his peers. Dust swirls in the air as his feet drag, making a metal note to polish off his shoes before his Eomma scolds him for making a mess again.
As he passes by the break in the shrubbery, he’s greeted by a small creature with wide eyes and soft cheeks, knees scuffed similarly to his own with an even smaller creature circling his legs – shrilling purrs of a scruffy tabby cat, Minho’s favourite stray. He approaches gently, squatting down to meet the strange boy's stance and offering his hand for her to bunt against.
“You met Hae,” Minho greets gently as to not startle the cat or the boy, the latter of which seems more intimidated than the cat. Minho finds it wholly endearing.
“She has a name?” The boy whispers, voice squeaky and shy as he pets her hind.
Minho shrugs in response. Seeking solitude here often, he has become familiar with the few cats who stray onto school property, armed with a pocketful of Churus that he sneaks from the family home. He pulls one out of his pocket, ripping the film off and offering it to the boy, whose eyes crease as he breaks into a smile, accepting gratefully. Minho feels the vaguest hint of butterflies tickling his stomach, a giddy feeling rising for being the cause of that smile.
“You’re new,” Minho states, not a question so much as an observation.
“You’re bleeding,” He responds, gesturing to the grazes on Minho’s knees.
“I am.” Minho rubs at his knee, smearing the blood across his skin. The boy's eyebrows pinch together as he pulls a tissue from his pocket, offering it to Minho with a shy smile.
“Jisung,” The boy says, returning his attention to Hae as she chews at the empty Churu wrapper.
“Minho,” He returns, patting at the scuff on his knee. “Why are you here?”
“My parents just moved here.”
Minho feels mischief tugging at his chest, unsure if the boy can take some light teasing considering his defensive demeanor. “To this bush?”
“Oh. No,” He chuckles weakly, crimson painting the apples of his cheeks. “To a house. I don’t know anyone here yet. Hae is my first friend… Maybe you can be my second?” His nerves show through his words, a little timid and reserved as he avoids Minho’s gaze.
“Hm.” Minho nods contemplatively. “I don’t think you want to be friends with me.” A sad smile graces his features, fingers tickled by Hae’s purring as he scratches under her chin.
Jisung pouts as he finally attempts to meet Minho’s eyes, which are focused on the bundle of fur making its way into the space between his legs. “Why?”
“The other kids think I’m weird. They’ll think you’re weird too.”
“I like weird,” He states plainly, as if deciding to be friends with Minho won’t be a deciding factor in how his time here continues, as if it isn’t social suicide to be associated with Minho.
It’s not that he is bullied per se, others don’t tend to go out of their way to be unpleasant to him. He’s just… different. Picked last in gym class, not invited to birthday parties, eats lunch alone. Despite the countless nights of turning it over in his head, trying to figure out why he struggles so much with his peers, he’s never quite been able to pin-point what it is about him that makes him feel this way. Like an outcast, more content in his own head than in the company of others. Never able to shift the uncomfortable feeling of attention on him, the panic squeezing his chest when faced with a social interaction he hasn’t rehearsed for. He is weird, defaults to defensive when spoken to, unable to quell the simmering anxiety that every interaction is some elaborate set-up intending to make fun of him somehow.
Minho returns a grateful smile to Jisung. The fragile boy from earlier begins to disappear before Minho’s eyes, instead replaced with a glint of determination and a beaming smile. He raises to his feet, offering Minho his hand as the chimes indicating the end of lunch breach their little bubble, spooking Hae. Minho’s hand grasps Jisung’s, a warm buzz of electricity coursing through his veins on contact.
Jisung practically skips them across the courtyard, hands still linked as they approach their class lines. The butterflies in his stomach swarm like a tornado now, a fullness in Minho’s chest at the realisation this is the first time he hasn’t squirmed under someone's attention
It felt too grand to be sure of at the time, but now Minho knows for sure. It was the start of something special.
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Jealousy is an ugly emotion, one that Minho is learning comes naturally to him. One that he’s just about introspective enough to put under a microscope, and just about avoidant enough to avoid focusing the lens for better resolution. Somewhere, he knows why. But it’s not somewhere he’d venture with any haste.
Minho and Jisung are best friends. Jealousy has its own best friend – guilt. Confronting your jealousy means accepting the guilt that comes with it. One late night spiral had Minho’s hand retracting as if he had touched hot coals. It was then that he decided he would lock the feelings away, push them down and refuse to acknowledge them. Even now, years after he became accustomed to the churning in his stomach and the pressure at the base of his skull. Through deep breaths and clenched fists, he physically shakes the thoughts out of his head, time and time again. Jisung thinks it's a little twitch of his, a quirk.
It’s not.
In retrospect, it was only a matter of time before the dam broke and the monster under his bed reared its ugly head – before he didn’t catch it in time, before Minho and Jisung’s very first argument.
“I just don’t see how you can’t understand that this is important to me!” Minho exasperates, hands flailing as he paces Jisung’s bedroom in efforts to work away some of the restless energy that has accumulated.
“Minho,” Jisung sighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be this mad about it.”
“Mad about it? Jisung, why wouldn’t I be mad about it? It’s our thing, it always has been, and it’s taken you what? Two minutes to share it with someone else?”
“I’m just trying to make friends now you’re gone…” Jisung sighs, hands clenched in his lap where he sits, knees knocked together on the bed. He sounds sad, and if Minho could take a minute to calm down he’d realise what he was doing, how he was acting. But all he can see is red.
“I’m not gone Jisung, the only difference is not seeing you at school! I thought the things we did together mean as much to you as they do to me. But clearly they don’t–”
“Minho, I thought you’d be happy for me. You know how scared I was to be alone.” Jisung's shaky voice breaks as the first tears breach his lash line. Minho begins sinking through the carpet, suddenly aware of the mess he’s made yet somehow too stubborn to back down, venom crawling up his throat before he’s able to intervene.
“Yeah? Well you’re not alone now you have Felix, so I guess you don’t have to be scared anymore,” Minho states plainly and devoid of emotion, taking one hard look at Jisung, his face screwed up and shoulders shaking, before spinning on his heel and leaving.
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May holds an arsenal of varying weather conditions, playing weather predictions a fool. Despite the forecasted rain, the sun beams down, glistening on the river. The humidity holds the threat of a downpour – it’ll storm later, no doubt.
They secured a good spot, picnic blankets laid out and a haphazard collection of snacks from the nearest GS25, no time to arrange a banquet with the last minute plans. It’s nice to get together like this, the endless chatter and giggles filling blank days of the calendar with nonsense. It makes Minho feel fond. He thinks as much as he braids Felix’s hair, intertwining blonde strands with daisies.
The silence is comfortable, relaxing after a long week of preparations, only broken by the sounds of a shitty bluetooth speaker playing soft, acoustic music. An occasional breeze picks up, taking Felix’s stray hairs with it. Minho grunts in frustration as he struggles to grasp the flyaways, tongue poking out in concentration that’s soon broken by Jisung giggling under his breath.
“What’s so funny? You want a turn?” Minho chides playfully.
“No, no. I was just thinking about our first fight. The one over Felix.” Jisung stretches on the grass, leaning back on his wrists as he fondly watches the two looking so comfortable – a stark contrast from the start of their acquaintance with each other.
Felix’s attention is piqueted, eyes widening in some comical mixture of amusement and alarm. “You guys fought over me?”
In perfect disharmony, Jisung and Minho answer at once, a relaxed “Yup” and a mortified “No!”
Felix eyes Jisung curiously before wiggling in Minho’s grip to meet his gaze despite the hands weaving braids into his hair. The tips of Minho’s ears begin to glow, almost contending with Jisung’s smugness.
“You did hyung! You were jealous. Wanted to keep me all to yourself forever. Now you see why I liked Yongbokkie so much though, don’t you?” Jisung teases in response, crawling over the blanket to rub Felix’s freckled cheek affectionately. With Felix’s braid secured, Minho shuffles back to his spot on the blanket. At his lack of response, Jisung continues his teasing. “Can he watch Given with us now, hyung?”
Felix’s eyes go comically wide as he doubles over, leaving the two of them rolling in the grass and slapping each other’s thighs at Minho’s expense.
“Stop,” Minho grumbles. “It wasn’t my proudest moment."
“Please. You still shoot daggers at any Alpha that approaches him”
“Yes. Because they don’t deserve him,” Minho sings songs, light and airy but sure.
“How could you know that?”
“I just do. I have an instinct. I’m keeping my Jisungie safe.” Minho plays it off with an exaggerated display of affection, grasping Jisung’s waist and yanking them sideways, clinging to him like an octopus as he rolls them off the picnic blanket into the grass.
“Hyunnggg. Stop,” Jisung sniffles. “You know I have hayfever.”
“Hmm but Sungie, you look so pretty when your eyes are all red and watery,” He teases, with more truth laced in than any of them suspect. The hint of blush making its way up Jisung’s neck fills Minho with a sense of satisfaction that he dutifully files away in the corner of his mind bound by caution tape, heeding a warning he only ignores deep into twilight hours.
They wrestle in the dirt, Jisung squirming under Minho’s grip and using as much force as he can to flip them over. His efforts get them rolled onto their side, legs intertwined, before a Seungmin launches a football directly into Jisung’s ass. He whines and pouts in complaint, soothed by Minho rubbing circles into the tender flesh. Jisung so much as preens in his arms, over-expressive and sheltered by Minho’s embrace.
“Get a room! I can smell you from here!” Changbin yells as he runs past, chasing after the football Minho threw back at them with vengeance.
“I’ve been trying! He’s just too dense to realise!” Jisung shouts back, that same flirty manner as usual, played up for their friends. Minho definitely has not spent many sleepless nights over analysing their banter. Why would he do that?
Felix winces in their direction, wafting the air. “Jisung, if you smell any sweeter we’ll have a pack on us soon.”
“I don’t know why I’m friends with you people. You’re so mean to me,” Jisung pouts.
Presenting late rarely bothers Minho until times like this, when he can’t understand the subtle communication without the context of pheromones. It troubles him, though he tries his best to ignore it. How often he walks into a room unable to understand how everyone is feeling, whether there’s tension he’s none the wiser to. It’s difficult enough socially, but dampens further when it becomes part of a joke Minho can’t understand, forced to observe from the sidelines and laugh along as if he understands.
“Sorry hyung. They’re just teasing me.” Jisung notices, of course, with a timid smile on his face and a reassuring squeeze.
Felix raises an eyebrow, his face speaking volumes. Jisung cocks his head and blinks with emphasis, prompting Felix’s eyebrow to drop. Yet again, Minho feels witness to an interaction he can’t begin to decipher.
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Minho squirms uncomfortably, shrugging the duvet off his body in efforts to relieve the cold sweat caking his skin. The weight on his limbs drags him down, movements heavy, the effort required unmeasurable. A wave of nausea overcomes him at the very same time he becomes overwhelmed by the need of comfort, yearning for the feeling of a mother wrapping a scarf around your neck, tugging up the zip of your coat before sending you off to play in the snow, knowing you’ll return to a lit fireplace and a warm mug of hot chocolate. Frustrated tears brim at Minho’s waterline, the pounding in his head doing little to help him make sense of the terror he has woken to. The ringing of his phone cuts through his temples as he makes a feeble attempt to retrieve it from the tangle of sheets and pillows he finds himself engulfed in.
“Hyung, are you okay?” Jisung’s tone verges on the edge of panic as he speaks. Minho groans in response, unable to get his mouth around any words of substance to reassure the younger. It dawns on him then, he was meant to have met Jisung by now, judging by the amount of light breaching through the gap in his curtains.
“Sick,” Minho musters, groaning as he pushes his hips down into the mattress, becoming all too aware of his arousal and the way Jisung’s gravelly tone sends shivers down his spine.
“I’m coming home.” Jisung concludes simply, ending the call. Minho has every intention of ridding himself of his clothes and forcing himself to shower before Jisung arrives, but instead lay paralyzed by the weight of his fever and the restless urge below the hem of his sweats.
Minho shivers, eyes lazily trailing the walls of his room, skimming over the anime figures and piles of clean laundry waiting to be put away. His mind is an incomprehensible jumble, thoughts unorganised yet overwhelmed by an overarching tone of want. Images flash through his mind of everywhere he has found comfort. Jisung’s arms, his warm palms, his stupid fuckboy cologne he saves for late night outings that Minho hates to admit he has grown fond of – “Smells alpha like, don’t you think? It’ll save me any bother,” he claimed once.
The door swinging open draws his attention, the pinch in Jisung’s brows straightening out into a look of sympathy, his eyes wide and somewhat alarmed, though Minho can tell he’s doing his best to school his reaction. He gathers that he must look as rough as he feels.
“Oh hyung,” Jisung sighs softly, dropping his bag of groceries to the floor before gently approaching the bed, perching on the edge as he pulls the layers off Minho’s sweat slicked body. Minho does little in response, goes limp and allows Jisung to minister him as he pleases, waiting patiently when he returns with cold washcloths to place over his forehead.
With a shaky hand, Jisung pushes back his bangs, trailing a thumb to wipe away the tears Minho hadn’t realised had fallen. He lifts his head cautiously, wrapping another cold compress around the back of his neck.
“Really sick,” Minho slurs as he pouts at Jisung, who looks alarmingly concerned.
“No, hyung,” Jisung's smile is strained and it unsettles Minho. “I think you’re presenting.” He speaks so softly, clearly to avoid panicking Minho, who thankfully is so far removed that he fails to realise the gravity of the situation for a few minutes.
“You need to leave then,” Minho concludes, knowing that an alpha in rut, little alone during presentation, is categorically unsafe – especially when Minho has no experience in controlling any hormonal urges.
Jisung’s expression twists, as if he’s about to deliver bad news. Minho can feel the restriction in Jisung’s throat, a consequence of their connection. Minho always knows how Jisung feels, it’s like he’s there with him at times. He never questions it, but he always knows. An intuition.
The realisation that he must be missing something pivotal leaves him with an uncomfortable pit in his stomach, joining the flurry of nausea and pangs of arousal in an unappetizing concoction.
Once again he seems to resort to his gentle one liner, guiding Minho toward an answer he isn’t yet able to see for himself. “No, hyung.”
Jisung smooths out the crease in Minho’s brow with his thumb, a simple gesture that leaves Minho squirming where he lays, letting out a happy sigh despite his discomfort. They’re familiar with skinship, both reeling in the comfort of touching one another, a way they’ve been for as long as either can remember. An exhausted whine escapes his lips as he chases Jisung’s touch, craving more.
“You’re presenting as an omega.”
In his heat-addled mind, it takes Minho a frightening amount of time to come to his senses, to realise the scents in the room he doesn’t recognise, unsure of what belongs to him and what to Jisung. In a moment of poor social etiquette, at the very least, Minho shoots up from his place to shove his head directly into Jisung’s scent gland. Despite his clear shock, he chuckles along, cradling the back of Minho’s head, fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck as he tilts his head to allow Minho better access.
His scent is delicious, Minho concludes, suddenly understanding why Jisung douses himself in fragrance when he leaves the house late at night. A soft, floral lavender with a sweet undertone of fresh vanilla. He indulges shamelessly, and Jisung lets him, a shiver running down his spine as Minho’s tongue traces the skin there. The fingers at his nape graze his scalp, Jisung’s breath hitching as Minho lets out a shaky, pleased sigh at the pressure. Head drawn back by Jisung’s grasp, he searches for something in Minho’s eyes.
“You smell good,” Minho states, eyes unfocused and blown wide in pleasure as he attempts to return Jisung’s gaze.
Jisung’s tongue dips out to lick the seam of his lip, a gesture Minho’s hungry eyes follow with purpose as the tug in his stomach pulls exponentially harder.
“So do you,” He breathes out in response, looking flustered.
“What do I smell like?”
“Chamomile. Honey. Oats? Sweet. So sweet.” He threads his fingers through Minho’s hair as he speaks, tucking his hair behind his ear. The air feels charged, potentially driven by Minho’s infatuation with Jisung, or the heat itself. The reason matters not, all Minho knows is that he wants to exist in this bubble forever.
“You’re taking it well, that’s good,” Jisung notes as he pets Minho, who melts into his touch. He lets himself fall back into the mattress, tugging Jisung down with him. He takes little notice of the comment, running on reduced brain power with little desire to figure out why he wouldn’t be okay when comforted by Jisung’s scent.
“Should we bathe you and then cuddle?” Jisung asks politely, probably as a direct result of being dragged into Minho’s body. A hum of agreement precedes ushering to the bathroom, where Minho sheds his clothes and waits patiently for the bath to run.
The scent of lavender fills the room - whether it be from Jisung or the bath oils is unknown to Minho but he finds it comforting regardless. The lulling of the water as Jisung’s fingertips skim the surface of the water relaxes Minho, the bubbles on Jisung’s veiny hands leaves his mind stuttering, unearthing a subtle appreciation he hadn’t acknowledged before. Jisung’s hands are kind, they bring him comfort, hold him up. His wrists delicate, slender fingers made to pull apart fruits, long enough to stretch an octave of a piano. Pretty hands, Minho notes. The prettiest. His nail beds are long, skin at the side of his nails meticulously bitten off, looking worse for wear in some places where a misjudged tug of skin between the teeth no doubt drew blood. His nails are graced in a soft lavender. A little on the nose, but endearing nonetheless.
Jisung hoists them both into the tub, nestling Minho between his legs before running a soapy sponge down his back. The water is tepid, Minho is grateful for that – no doubt his own body heat will raise the temperature of the water in due time. He rests his head on his forearms where they wrap around his knees, letting Jisung bathe him in the way he sees fit. The bubbles shine back at him, mocking him as the very beginning of the cramps set in, acknowledged with a sharp intake of air.
Jisung hums in sympathy as he begins to lather the shampoo. “Starting to hurt?”
Minho nods in affirmation, hugging his knees closer to his body. “I’m an omega,” He states, the first time he has acknowledged it out loud, the sentence beginning to raise panic in his chest, embers catching on drywood. Jisung snuffs out the kindling of the flames, soothing him through emission of calming pheromones, the sweetness of the vanilla tone softening the blow.
“You are.”
“I didn’t think–” Jisung cuts Minho’s sentence short, shushing him with a gentle tug of hair, eliciting a small whine from the elder.
“Not now, baby.” Baby? “You won’t have the energy to unpack this until later. Try not to think about it.” Jisung’s voice is reassuring, though Minho knows him well enough to recognise that it isn’t just him he’s trying to calm.
“But my–”
“I know,” Jisung interrupts, tone still light and comforting, as if cooing at a frightened kitten. “I know.”
Minho takes Jisung’s guidance, blocking out the thoughts in his head and instead focusing on Jisung’s nails grazing his scalp, letting out a series of pleased hums as he leans into the touch. The silence is comfortable enough for Minho to begin to drift asleep right there, wet and tucked between Jisung’s open knees.
The serenity is broken by a shaky whisper, so quiet that Minho isn’t entirely sure he didn’t imagine it. “Do you want me to help you?”
Minho lets out a questioning hum, in part to confirm Jisung actually spoke and to get a little more clarity on what he meant by that.
“When it fully starts, do you want me to be here? Like...” His voice trails off as he picks the words. “To help make you feel better.” He lands on.
Minho turns his body to meet Jisung’s gaze, water splashing over the edges of the bathtub as he does so. With a shaky hand and boldness that surprises him, he rests a hand on Jisung’s pec, thumb grazing over his nipple. “Like this?”
Jisung bites his lip and lets out a shaky exhale, meeting Minho’s eyes with hesitance.
“Yeah. Like that,” He breathes, shivering under Minho’s touch. His hand still rests there, feeling Jisung’s shallow and rapid breaths, the thundering of his heart in his chest. Minho hums, pleased, taking in Jisung’s features. He’s beautiful as always, but something more meets him – something new. Dilated pupils obscured by a half lidded gaze, red-bitten lips and a flush on his cheeks.
Minho winces as a wave of cramps trample his abdomen, forcing through his discomfort to choke out a couple of words. “You’re sensitive.”
“Yeah. I bet you are too.”
Jisung runs a hand down the side of Minho’s neck, fingertips grazing his scent gland, making him squirm. His curious hand descends, mirroring Minho’s earlier action, thumb grazing his nipple gently before lightly rolling the bud between his thumb and forefinger.
“Oh,” Minho lets out, hips pressing forward into nothing at the gentle touch.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“We should… Get out and make your nest.” Jisung seems to be trying to physically shake thoughts out of his head, finding the will to be sensible. Which to his credit, is needed, because Minho’s next move was to drag Jisung and throw them both backwards in the bath to be engulfed by bubbles.
Minho sits wrapped in his towel on the clean laundry chair, watching impatiently as Jisung flies around their apartment gathering construction materials for his nest – the shared blanket from the living room, with scent traces of everyone who’s visited lately. The giant Snorlax plushie that resides there after Jisung and Felix couldn’t agree on who’s room it gets to live in. Dirty laundry in Jisung’s arms piled up to his shoulders, a peep of one of Chan’s hoodies that Felix must have stolen recently. He’s barely keeping hold of the mountain of items, gripping his fingers around the materials tactfully, biceps engaged and veins on his forearm prominent.
Minho watches, entranced, as Jisung meticulously arranges them on his bed, occasionally shaking his head and withdrawing, looking toward Minho for approval when he nudges items across the nest. He looks so stressed, and although Minho is impatient, breathing through cramps with a light sheen on his skin, he struggles to fight the urge to wipe the crease from between Jisung’s brows.
Jisung’s concentration is broken, frozen before turning to Minho with the softest, gooiest gaze he’s ever seen. His eyebrows pinch upwards, eyes shining and lower lip jutting, a hand drawn to his chest as he coos. Minho prickles under the attention, blush rising as he wonders what elicited such a reaction.
“Baby’s first calming pheromones,” Jisung fondly squeaks at Minho, crossing the room to tug him up and guide him to the nest.
“Oh, I didn’t realise…”
“I know.” Jisung kisses his nose, pushing Minho’s back gently into the nest. The towel beneath him brushes against his skin, the soft fibres enough to make him shiver.
Minho’s fingers dance up the soft skin of Jisung’s arm, quickly abandoning the tender touch in favour of looping his arms around Jisung’s shoulders and tugging him on top of him. With little regard for pleasantries, Minho burrows his head into Jisung’s neck, nosing at his scent gland.
“Wann’ smell you,” He slurs, using his grip to pull Jisung impossibly closer, pushing his hips up into the motion. Jisung barely stifles a groan, descending into light and airy breaths as Minho greedily mouths at his neck, nipping every so often.
“Ah, teeth.” Jisung sucks in a sharp intake of air, his tone pleading but some rational part of Minho’s mind tells him this isn’t meant to be encouraging. Nonetheless, he grazes a canine over Jisung’s jugular to push his luck.
Jisung pulls back and narrows his eyes, a warm, overarching vanilla to his scent. “What do you want, baby?”
Minho stares back through glazed eyes, trembling. Stringing a sentence together seems implausible in his current state, heat rising and muscles twitching involuntarily. His best efforts to respond fall short, coming out in a whine as he rolls his hips up into Jisung’s. He can feel the slick dampening his thighs, abdomen clenching around the hollowness he feels deep in his gut, searching for something that isn’t there.
The sweetness permeates the air, warm brown sugar with a nutty undertone. Time passes, or perhaps it doesn’t, Minho’s perception of time is nonexistent when the threads of his consciousness are tangled around the omega between his thighs.
“I know,” Jisung whispers in response to Minho’s whine, cupping his face and resting their foreheads together. His spare hand finds Minho, tangling their fingers together. “I’ve got you.”
He makes his way down Minho’s body in haste, tracing his lips down his chest. The softness of his tongue finds Minho’s nipple, circling the bud and varying pressure, squeezing their hands together when whimpers escape Minho’s throat.
Minho wiggles the towel off his hips, leaky tip standing to attention. Jisung makes his way further south, a soft exhale gracing the head of Minho’s cock. He looks ready to rapture, eyes blown wide like saucers. Feeling his impatience, Jisung has the kindness to kiss his tip, mouthing at it sloppily, eliciting another wave of slick from Minho. Jisung groans, the vibrations tempting Minho’s hips upwards in search of warmth.
“Please. Jisungie, it hurts. Need you,” Minho pants, thrusting into nothing.
Jisung nods in affirmation, acting decisively and rendering Minho useless in an instance. He seals his lips around the head of Minho’s cock, suckling lightly as he pushes a finger past Minho’s slick rim. He arches into the touch, nudging his cock deeper into Jisung’s throat, vibrating in feeble protest at the surprising intrusion. His finger sinks down to the knuckle, wiggling before another finger slips in alongside.
The pressure builds in Minho’s stomach, abdomen drawn taut and twitching. Jisung hums in response to Minho’s babbling, half-cut pleas and ‘fuck’s in response to the relentless pistoning to his prostate.
“Ah, gonna– sung,” He pants breathlessly. Jisung’s teary eyes meet Minho’s, moaning as his eyes roll back and he sinks impossibly lower, taking in Minho’s entire length just in time for his throat to be coated in Minho’s release.
It seems to last forever, twitching into the tightness of Jisung’s throat as his fingers continue to gently massage a soft spot inside of him. His thighs are still twitching, chest heaving as Jisung pulls back, cherry lips swollen and the residue of tears in his lash line. Minho’s slick coats Jisung’s chest, Jisung’s own slick is running down his thighs, twitching in their efforts to hold him upright. There’s so much slickness between them that Minho isn’t sure if he’d be able to find grip anywhere on Jisung’s body.
Minho is ravenous, something greedy and repressed taking precedence as he tackles Jisung into the mattress, his lips falling in a shocked ‘o’ when Minho straddles his thighs and braces himself on Jisung’s shoulders. The feeling of Jisung beneath him, squirming with pink gracing the apples of his cheeks, so plush and begging to be mouthed, satiates something shameful inside Minho.
With one of his hands, he smushes Jisung’s cheeks together, pressing their foreheads close enough for Jisung to watch Minho’s eyes roll back as Jisung’s tip nudges his hole, breathing heavily into each other's space. A spike of possession overcomes Minho, wetting his lips and letting them brush Jisung’s.
Despite his shaky thighs, Minho sinks down in one swift motion, eyes falling shut in relief and back tensing once fully seated. Jisung’s fingers sink into the meat of his hips, grip tight as he gently guides Minho to grind. A breathy crescendo of “ah, ah, ah” falls from Minho lips, harmonising with Jisung’s airy whines.
Their hands are everywhere, mapping a path, Minho bracing himself on Jisung’s waist, Jisung’s palm rubbing circles into Minho’s tip where it’s pressed against the plush of his stomach. Wet. Wet everywhere, the squelching from Minho’s slick, dripping down onto Jisung’s thighs, the leaking of precum, the thin gleam of perspiration on their skin.
Minho swivels his hips, grazing Jisung’s cock against his walls as Jisung grips him tighter, head tipped back in pleasure, the veins in his neck protruding with his laboured breaths.
“Feels too good,” Minho whines. “My knees– oh, shaking so hard I can’t– can you help me move?”
“Fuck,” Jisung exhales, tone low in contrast to his whines. “I don’t– don’t think I can.”
Minho chokes on a moan as Jisung squirms underneath him, tip grazing his prostate. Jisung’s hands grab at him, grounding himself with a vice grip on Minho’s arm.
“There, there, please, please,” Minho begs, eyes threatening to spill over with frustrated tears.
“Fuck. Come here.” Jisung beckons Minho forward, lightly knocking his arms away from where they provide leverage. He stumbles forward, head falling into the crook of Jisung’s neck, letting out another moan as the shift in angle hits a new spot that has Minho’s nerve endings on fire – an overwhelming fullness likened to static accented with sharp shoots of pleasure adding to the building pressure low in his abdomen.
Jisung’s arms find their way around Minho’s back, hands holding him over the shoulders as he plants his heels to thrust up into Minho’s heat. Gentle, lacking force or expertise, still vibrating from how he squirms with pleasure. Minho’s moans are muffled into Jisung’s neck, floral scent blooming as radiantly as the person it belongs to. The encouragement seems to steady his thrusts, slow and controlled, Jisung’s light and airy moans turning into low grunts.
“Hah– I can– can feel you. Throbbing.”
Jisung moans loudly in response, using his grip to pull Minho back so their eyes meet. He looks fucked-out, lips swollen from where he’s been biting them, eyes half-lidded and fighting to open wider to take in the sight of Minho – how he’s flushed red from the tips of his ears down to his chest, blotchy red marks standing out against his pale skin, eyes glazed and red-rimmed. He sits upright, jolting Minho in his lap and sinking impossibly deeper, the tears in his eyes spilling over.
“Full of you, Jisungie. Always have been, now– now I really am,” Minho marvels, finding the energy to bounce in Jisung’s lap, whose fingers scramble for grip, no doubt leaving a trail of red grazes on Minho’s back in their wake, painting a pretty canvas of their mutual pleasure.
“So good,” Jisung whines into Minho’s chest, his tears dampening his skin. Peppered kisses litter his pecs, perky lips sealing around the bud of his nipple, provoking Minho’s back to arch as his hips stutter.
“I can’t–fuck–can’t keep moving if you do that.”
Jisung nods breathlessly, tapping Minho before turning them over, slipping out in the process.
“Nonono. Back. Come back, need you inside. Please,” Minho whimpers, legs spread as he pulls Jisung in, falling face first so their lips graze ever so slightly. Minho locks his ankles around the small of Jisung’s back, urging him closer. Eager to please, Jisung pushes himself back in, head resting on Minho’s chest as he lets out a pleased moan at the sensation of Minho’s slick hole engulfing him. He stays there for the first few strokes, head lulled and whining sweetly as Minho gently tugs on his hair in time with his thrusts.
“You feel so good,” Jisung slurs. They move together in synchrony, Minho’s legs encouraging Jisung’s sloppy thrusts. They aren’t precise, barely consistent, with Jisung shaking so hard from the pleasure. The sight is one that overwhelms Minho, muscles shaking with the force of their contraction as he clenches down, watching Jisung fall apart whilst fucking him.
“You’re so pretty,” Minho breathes, holding Jisung’s face between his hands, squishing his cheeks together as the drool escapes his lips. Jisung’s eyes refocus, the glaze from earlier replaced by an earnest bashfulness, flicking down to look at Minho’s lips as he begins to messily work Minho’s cock between them.
“Jisungie, can I–”
“Yes.”
“You don’t even know what–”
“Don’t care,” he responds, each word punctuated by a thrust harder than the last. “Whatever you want. Yes.”
Minho takes it as all the confirmation he needs before dragging Jisung’s face into his space, greedily licking into his mouth with no time for pleasantries. Jisung moans into the kiss, hips rutting forward to elicit a reciprocal moan from Minho. It’s messy, spit coating their chins, teeth clacking from their desperation. Jisung tastes of cherries and Minho wants every last drop. They stay panting into each other's mouth as Jisung’s pace increases.
“Fuck, like that.”
“Yeah,” Jisung moans in agreement.
“Kiss me,” Minho squeaks, feeling his orgasm rapidly approaching as his muscles begin to twitch uncontrollably, tension drawn not far from spilling over.
“Hah-” Jisung smiles, eyebrows drawn in from pleasure. Fuck. He’s beautiful, and fuck, Minho is so fucked. He’s never going to be able to move on from this. Jisung’s face is animate, expressive at the best of times. How he looks right now is downright pornographic. He leans in to seal their lips, slower this time as the pace of the strokes on his cock increase until he unravels, back arching and hole clenching, whining into Jisung’s mouth. Jisung’s hips stutter as he follows in tandem, leaving Minho to swallow his moans as they rock gently through the aftershocks.
Jisung becomes restless under Minho, tapping his thigh to prompt him to move.
“No, don’t wanna.”
Jisung hums in sympathy, kneading at Minho’s hips. “Do you have a plug?”
He shakes his head, bonelessly exhausted.
“Can you pass my phone?” Jisung asks, rubbing at Minho’s side.
Despite his confusion, he complies without will to protest. Jisung hurriedly taps away at his screen, holding it above Minho’s head that still lay collapsed on his chest.
The bedroom door creaks open to make way for a hesitant Felix, eyes shielded as he kicks his way across the room, dropping something on the bed before spinning on his heel and exiting with haste.
Minho hums, pleased with Jisung for his ingenuity. It might not take, but Minho will be damned if he lets a drop of Jisung out. In fact, he’d probably cry, which was his plan if Jisung didn’t appease him by staying still.
Jisung shifts his hips inside of Minho, gingerly making a few shallow thrusts.
“Think you can take it?” Jisung asks as he presents the plug. Mint green, flared in some effort to emulate a knot. Minho salivates at the sight, clenching down involuntarily.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Jisung giggles, sliding himself out and replacing his cock with the plug before Minho can whine about being empty. After wiping Minho down, they snuggle under a thin sheet, awaiting the next wave.
“You smell so good. So sweet like honey. Makes me want to suck on honeycomb,” Jisung remarks casually, making Minho blush and hide his face in Jisung’s chest.
“You can’t just say that,” Minho complains.
“Why? Are you shy?” Jisung questions, genuinely.
“Yes,” Minho grumbles. “Thank you.”
Jisung lets the silence stretch on as he rubs his fingertips down Minho’s arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “For what?”
“Offering to help, was really good.”
“I’m glad, I’ve never done that before.”
Some sick possession fills Minho with glee, burnt at the edges by a subtle panic.
“You? Never? Jisung, I didn’t know– did you? God, you didn’t feel like you had to help, did you?” Minho’s words come out in a ramble, incoherent to anyone but Jisung, who’s more than accustomed with the speed at which the syllables fall from his lips.
“I wanted to, hyung,” Jisung reassures. “Fucking is harder than I thought, it feels so good, I don’t know how to keep my rhythm. Jus’ wanted to melt.”
“That’s why I was so bad at riding you.”
“Tskk. You weren’t bad.”
“I think you’re just holedumb.”
“Holedumb?” Jisung splutters.
“Yeah. Like knotdumb but for holes.”
“Yes, hyungie,” He responds cutely. “I’m holedumb for you.”
Minho’s first heat passes in a blur – legs over Jisung’s shoulders, face pressed down into the mattress, held up on his knees as Jisung rolls his hips into Minho’s heat from behind, his back to Jisung’s chest. Sucked, fucked and satiated, but taken care of. So much care that Minho fears these memories will haunt him, the affectionate gazes across the bedsheets between waves, the thumb that traced his lip. Jisung’s fingers tracing the muscles of Minho’s arm when he thought he was sleeping, murmuring about how beautiful he is. The heat that rose in Minho’s cheeks must have been a sure indicator that he wasn’t asleep at the time. Nonetheless, Jisung continued handling him with adoration.
A traitorous part of Minho’s mind replays every frame, chopped and stilled. Hands all over his body, Jisung’s breath in his ears, coated in Jisung’s affection and Jisung’s slick and JisungJisungJisung.
⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆
They don’t talk about it, much to Minho’s dismay. After the week has passed, the others stumble into the apartment with a homebaked cake, courtesy of Felix of course, graced with the smeared letterings of “IT’S AN OMEGA”. The red icing cuts through thick buttercream, seeming somewhat threatening.
“Have you told your parents yet?” Seungmin asks through a mouthful of cake, icing smudged around the corners of his mouth as if no one had taught him how to take a mouthful. Jisung shoots him a cold look, a panicked gaze which seems to beg him to avoid the elephant in the room. Minho pets his arm gently, grateful for his intervention – his scary little guard dog.
“No,” Minho states plainly, shrugging. His body language makes him appear flippant, though in reality he’s distracted from his own terror by the memories of Jisung’s hands pulling him apart and sewing him back together. Reality can wait until later.
“Do you think they’ll take it well?” Changbin pries gently, soon interrupted by Seungmin’s typical levels of humour.
“I think they’ll send him back to where he came from and ask for the spare parts.”
Felix slaps Seungmin’s arm, jaw dropped and scandalised. Minho chuckles, appreciating Seungmin’s methods of lightening the tone. From an outside perspective, it seems the two terrorise each other, in actuality, Seungmin knows how to steer directions away from emotions or heavy topics. Though his methods may be crass, it’s something Minho has grown fond of over the years.
“Maybe they’ll disown me,” Minho shrugs, tone light as if not spilling his crippling fear.
What the others know of Minho’s family is vague at best, by design. A ‘pure’ bloodline, if you ask the wrong types of people – with his presentation breaking their generational run of primary and secondary genders aligning ‘conventionally’, going far back to the days when male omegas were less common. A traditional, conservative dream complimenting their well-respected family empire. It was never a question to them what Minho would present as, it was a given, as a Lee.
His social rearing had only prepared him for being an alpha, a title he never wanted to begin with but was led to believe would be inevitable. The contrast feels like an unwelcome headrush – the relief that he won’t be forced to play puppet in their family succession plan, the guilt that he doesn’t care, the fear of being the first male omega. Unless he’s not, and the others were erased from the bloodline and ignored in pursuit of prosperity, Minho’s brain unhelpfully supplies.
It’s an overwhelming amount of information to take in at once. Minho doesn’t lean toward docile or agreeable, unaccustomed to playing up his assets for the most favourable outcomes. Is that how it needs to be now?
Minho had always pictured himself with an omega. His fantasies have always revolved around slick-damp thighs and sweet whines, a certain pair of stuffed cheeks and glossy lips – though he wouldn’t admit that part out loud. If his subgender wouldn’t be the last straw, his preference certainly would. The feeling weighs uncomfortably in his stomach, drowned out by the noise of his friends fussing and chatting between themselves.
He turns it over in his head, inspects it from every angle to find the source of his discomfort. He likes being an omega. Heats are meant to be terrible, although Minho isn’t a fan of the fever or the pain, he enjoys the headspace. The feeling of letting go, being at the will of others, the slick coating the meat of his thighs, proof of his desire. For all the discomfort a heat brings, the catharsis of being taken care of without having to ask makes it worth it. Jisung made it worth it.
It’s too much to ponder, especially considering their company. Minho realises as much when Jisung tugs on his sleeve.
“Is this too much right now?” He whispers privately.
“No, it’s okay,” Minho reassures him, ruffling his hair. Jisung looks unconvinced, pouting as he brings another forkful of cake to his mouth, leaving crumbs on his lips that Minho swipes away with his thumb.
It dawns on him then, the feeling he has. In an instance, it comes crashing down, ribs collapsing and puncturing his lungs in the process. Jisung. Would Jisung ever settle down with another omega? The realisation has Minho sinking in quicksand, images of a life he had dreamt up with the younger flipping through his mind's eye like a tortuous montage of everything that could’ve been.
He had always planned to confess eventually, a romantic gesture, though not grand or overstated. Something Jisung would like, thought out in detail and private enough for him to shed a tear without the pressure of on-lookers. Years of repression has his love spilling over through his eyes, making a mockery of his silent yearning. Captured in the background of an inordinate amount of photos, Minho staring at Jisung as if he had hung the moon and stars.
Sometimes their quiet moments felt like the prelude to something grander, a fleeting touch or shared look that lingers a little too long, the very fibres of their beings urging to gravitate toward the other. Minho feels it, has felt it, for years. That tug in his chest, unsatisfied until their hands are intertwined.
Jisung’s nose scrunches up cutely, eyebrows pinching into a frown. “If you’re going to lie to me, you’ll need to learn how to control your scent,” He sulks, tone light enough for Minho to recognise he isn’t hurt by Minho’s avoidance.
⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆
It all changes soon after. Minho can categorise his feelings about recent events into before and after. Before, when he was reeling over the events of his heat, ardently running his fingertips over the faded hickeys adorning his collarbones whilst imaging confessing. After, when Minho walked into the party to see Jisung, in his fitted crop top, navel piercing glistening above the waistband of his baggy jeans with the glint of a singular, dangling earring adorning his left lobe. It was unmistakable – the safety pin he always wore, the delicate hinge peppered with the same crystals that embellish the orb hanging from it. Unfastened. A tiny rebellion turned tradition amongst omegas, a subtle yet understood signal symbolising a willingness for courtship.
Heart stuttering in his chest, Minho halts in his steps, breath stolen from his lungs as if plunged in freezing cold water.
The singular piece of jewellery, welcoming alphas, tips Minho’s world on its axis and renders him useless. The scene before him feels like a movie, the bodies scattered around the room fading into the background, the melody of the music reduced to a hum as the bass persists its thumping. And in the centre of it all, Jisung, clear and in focus, head tilted back in laughter as his smile gleams – the light catching the intricate arrangement of crystals, taunting Minho.
He isn’t sure how long he stands there before an enquiring hand pats his shoulder.
“You good?” Chan asks, spinning Minho on his heels to study his features inquisitively. Lost for words, Minho stares back, willing the tears that threaten to fall to recede. Chan holds his shoulders reassuringly, glancing behind his head to follow where he was looking.
“Ah,” Chan acknowledges, observing the source of Minho’s discomfort. “Should we get some air?”
Minho nods in agreement, the numbness in his limbs leaving him grateful for Chan’s guidance through the crowd and out of the French doors. The cold air is welcomed as the breeze sweeps his hair out of place, hand ruffling the strands in attempts to calm it. Being away from the stimulation is sobering, the static fading to make way for the fire burning in his gut.
Chan rubs his back where they sit as his mind races over all the reasons Jisung wouldn’t tell him that he was planning this. He’s arguably the least decisive person Minho knows, gathering the opinion of the council for every minor decision he makes – like “Should I shower before I go to shop? Or maybe I should shower after, because we’re going out tonight and I’ll be fresher the later I leave it. What do you think?”
An ugly and consuming feeling festers in Minho’s chest, somewhat akin to frustration but more hurt, more agonising. Jisung makes a decision like this, so lightly, without a second thought. Not for himself, not for his own regard, not for Minho – Minho, who has been intertwined with Jisung since they were nothing but strangers with matching scrapes and an aversion to their classmates. Minho, who was held so gently under Jisung’s adored gaze so recently.
His heat felt like a prominent bruise, tangible evidence of Jisung’s touch, a constant reminder that he had been the eye of his affection, albeit briefly. If Minho’s mind had been tormenting him, pressing on the flesh for the pain to remind himself it happened, this was the equivalent of catching the healing wound on the same doorhandle that inflicted it. The same motion, the same pressure point, undoing the work of the healing vasculature, opening the floodgates to reinvigorate the same old injury.
Chan breaks Minho’s spiral. “He didn’t tell you?”
Minho picks at a frey on the rip of his jeans, refusing eye contact. A pledge of silence is easier than saying the truth out loud. The whole, heartbreaking truth. A silent crisis unfolds within him, thoughts racing and utterly overwhelming him, leaving his chest heavy.
Jisung is the first person Minho goes to with everything, whether it be picking which colour hoodie to buy or grieving over a lost one. Jisung is his go to person, his emergency contact. Isn’t that reciprocated? Has Minho’s hopeless pining evolved to the extent of completely misjudging their friendship?
And to think, before this, Minho had entertained the thought that the week they had spent together, bodies pressed up against one another, tangled in bedsheets, had meant something to Jisung, as it did to him. He should’ve known better. Minho was in heat, needed guidance and support, and Jisung was just there. It’s an omega thing, maybe if Minho hadn’t spent his entire upbringing convinced he’d present as an alpha, he’d have had the foresight to reel back his delusions. To root himself in the reality that most unmated omegas help each other through heats, and it never means anything.
With a humourless laugh to himself, Minho comes to accept this as another example of how he’s a broken omega, too far removed from the socialisation between them to understand the basics – you look out for each other out of obligation. Not transactional, but close enough. Of course, he was foolish enough to read into Jisung’s soft gaze and bitten lips. He was trying to soothe him, not show affection. Not like Minho, whose sickly-sweet honeyed slick was but a fraction of the sticky desire he has for Jisung.
Suddenly, it feels too vulnerable – the way he laid himself bare for Jisung, opened himself up for him. Just for him to confidently, publicly, express his desire for a mate not a week later. A real mate, one who can claim him and pup him. Not Minho, soft with the scent of a calming brewed tea, lurking in the shadows of Jisung’s affection.
Jisung can have his picket fenced pipedream – not that it seems all that fitting for him, but then again, neither does signalling for courtship out of nowhere. Maybe he never knew him at all.
“How do you feel?” Chan’s question reminds Minho of his presence, finally relenting his assault of loose threads on his thigh to turn his attention to him.
“Sad. Angry.” He states plainly, the rest of his sentence coming out as a whisper. “Betrayed. I think. But I don’t know if that’s fair.” He uses the cuff of his fuzzy blue sweater to dab at the residue of tears on his face, sighing into the motion with dejection.
“I’m sure he had his reasons?” Chan offers, though it comes out as more of a question, enough for Minho to know that he sees this as out of character too. Minho shrugs, offering a hand to Chan as he stands from the steps they sat on, tugging him gently in the direction of the door.
“I’m getting drunk over it. Let's go.”
Chan cringes as he squeezes his hand, following along in his path. “Okay, Min. I’ll stay sober over it and make sure you’re good. Let me know when you’ve had your fill, I’ll get us food on the way home. You can stay at ours tonight if you want.”
Minho nods gratefully, relieved to be away from his own dorm for the night. As it stands, he doesn’t want to look at Jisung, has nothing to say that won’t come out tinged with venom. It would be unfair of him, he knows. So for tonight, distance is his best friend.
The bumping of bustling bodies left Minho sticky, splashes of cherry-flavoured alcopops offending the material of his sweater. Drowning his sorrows worked a charm, dancing with strangers until his head began to spin removed him from his body, removed his mind from Jisung, who he hadn’t even greeted tonight.
Stumbling through the crowd, Minho all but falls through the bathroom door, in dire need of a splash of water and a break from the buzz. As luck would have it, Jisung is already there. Pretty, doe-eyed and slightly glazed from the alcohol, reapplying lip gloss in the mirror. Minho laughs to himself as he approaches the sink, turning the cold water on and letting it run before meeting Jisung’s eyes in the mirror, noting his own hard glare, edges ragged.
“Min? I didn’t think you were here?”
“Surprised you were thinking of me at all,” Minho snorts in response, mentally cursing himself for not keeping his lips sealed. Jisung pouts, eyes narrowing as his nose twitches.
“You’re upset with me,” Jisung states plainly. At least he knows now, Minho thinks.
He gags, choking down a “no shit” before it leaves his lips, suppressing the urge to throw his words like daggers. His least desirable trait is his sharp tongue, hissing in defence like a frightened kitten, fur stood to attention. It should indicate his hurt, but he can hardly blame others for only ever noticing the sharpness of his claws.
He feels that way now, backed into a corner, alone in a room with Jisung when he should be as far away from him as possible.
“I’m sorry. I’m just tired. Getting used to all this.” He makes a clockwise motion with his finger pointed to the ceiling. “The scents and stuff.”
Jisung’s fingers haven’t made contact with Minho’s arm before he involuntarily flinches away from the touch. Suddenly, Jisung’s comforting scent thins, lavender fading to leave only subtle hints of a burnt vanilla. Whilst Minho is still learning to decipher pheromones, he can infer that Jisung feels just a little hurt.
The night trails on, too many sweet drinks to mask the taste of alcohol. Sticky. Predictably, Minho’s head is filled with cotton and his heart doesn’t hurt any less. At the first twinge of pressure on his temples, he rounded for another drink. If he can’t beat it, he can certainly try to drown it. Chan finds his shoulders, dragging him away from the alpha he was dancing with and into a quiet corner of the party.
“What are you doing?” He hisses, tugging on Minho’s sleeve.
“Dancing.”
“Minho, he wanted to eat you. You really couldn’t tell?”
“So?”
“Hey, don’t ‘so’ me. I know you’re upset but you need to be sensible. We’re leaving now.”
Minho looks over Chan’s shoulder, meeting Jisung’s eye from across the room. He stands adorned, the centrepiece of the conversation. Surrounded by alphas making small talk, leaving Minho’s stomach rolling with the realisation of what they all likely have in mind. In another world, Minho would be standing right by his side, his presence enough to warn them off. An arm slung around Jisung’s shoulder, a shooing motion with his hand and shit-eating grin on his face that says something along the lines of “sucks to be you, he’s mine”.
His chest clenches and once again he finds himself fighting tears, which only feeds into his frustrations. Before presenting, he never cried this much. Though he knows better, there’s a haunting echo in his mind. Weak.
“Min...”
Minho shakes off his pain, straightens his back and loops his arms over Chan’s shoulders, pulling him close. Chan’s hands hesitate, eventually settling on Minho’s waist to keep him standing upright on his unsteady feet. They sway like that, one of Chan’s hands rubbing his back.
“I know,” he repeats, over and over.
Minho buries his head into Chan’s neck, causing him to suck in a sharp breath that Minho dutifully ignores, instead taking comfort in the ocean breeze of the alphas scent. The quiet sobs wrack through his body regardless.
“We need to teach you some social etiquette,” he remarks, endeared.
Minho dares to raise his eyes again, and meets Jisung, who breaks his stare to act nonchalant as if the tight grip on his drink, the plastic of the cup bending under the force of his fingers, isn’t evidence enough of his attention.
Minho looks right through him, leaning into Chan’s ear. “You’re right. We should leave.”
The uber ride is melancholy, the rain pouring outside making a mockery of the storm inside of Minho. Traffic lights and headlights blurred into sprites across his vision, whether it be due to the droplets of water racing down the windows or the haze of tears in Minho’s eyes.
They move in silence, Chan handling Minho in a way borne from the intimacy of knowing someone. Handing him comfortable clothes, putting an old series on they’ve seen a thousand times and tilting the phone toward him gently, seeking approval for their delivery order. Minho nibbles the straw in the tall glass of ice water Chan handed off to him, trying to regulate the mess of neurotransmitters wreaking havoc on his nervous system. To the surprise of no one, not even Minho himself, getting drunk over it did not help.
Minho picks at the edges of the pizza he knows will make him feel better tomorrow if he can just force it down, despite his stomach’s protests.
“How do you read scents?”
Chan tilts his head, pondering thoughtfully. “Well, it’s kinda intuitive.”
Minho groans, wishing for an answer that came with a manual as opposed to one learnt through experience – experience he is lacking, years behind his peers. It feels impossible, and he begins to wonder if the insecurity from not understanding is worse than before he presented. At least then, there were no expectations on him to understand pheromones, being that he couldn’t smell them nor produce them. Now it feels as if he’s been thrusted into circumstances beyond his control, thrown into the driver's seat on the highway going 100 when he just got his license.
His line of inquiry needs to provide more clarity, something, anything for him to latch onto, to understand what he’s missing. Maybe that way, he could make sense of Jisung.
“How do you control your scent?”
“I guess you have to become conscious of it first. How it changes, how to mask it.”
Minho hums in agreement, tucking his feet under the blankets as he accepts that he likely won’t leave this conversation with a comprehensive guide on how to omega.
“You don’t need to worry though. It’ll come with time.”
“I don’t know how to be around Jisung right now,” Minho sighs.
“Felix mentioned that…” Chan trails off, wincing.
“Yeah. He was there when I.. When we… So yeah. Whatever he told you? Probably true.”
Not that Felix would ever intentionally lie, but he has a habit of being a little overexcited, exaggerating a little. Not through malice, simply blinding optimism. His outlook is positive, his interpretations more so. Emphasis on the ‘probably’, as Jisung did take enough pity on Minho to help him through his heat, but no – it doesn’t mean anything. Not to Jisung, at least. That much is evident after tonight.
Chan has a tendency of staring into your soul like he can see right through you, which makes him both the best and worst person to have loaded conversations with.
“How do you feel about it?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Minho deadpans.
Chan hesitates for a minute, as if to give Minho some time to think. He purses his lips and nods, leaning back before responding. “I think that depends who you ask.”
Minho rolls his eyes, sighing, not taking particular pleasure in the direction their conversation is going. Chan looks back at him encouragingly regardless.
“Yeah. Sure. Pass me the dip?”
“Minho–”
“Nope. Dip please.”
Chan signs in defeat, handing the garlic and herb dip before ruffling Minho’s hair, an affectionate gesture where Minho can fill the blanks of his thoughts without the words “you’ll always be my most stubborn dongsaeng”.