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When he finally realises that Jisung is way too drunk to keep his shit together, it’s already too late to blame it on himself.
Oh well, Minho thinks, shrugging internally as he downs the remnants of his sad excuse for a makgeolli-based cocktail, I’m not his mother. Not when I’m drunk myself, at least.
Not that he hasn’t tried. He’s nudged Jisung’s glass progressively farther out of reach, hoping the lazy ass would give up. He’s shot the waiter a look every time Jisung ordered yet another round. He’s even warned him he’ll spank him if he passes out in their common living room. To that, Jisung only winked.
Minho sighs — more at Seungmin than at Jisung. Tonight Seungmin just can’t renounce his role as the knight in shining armour for two grown men who can’t hold their alcohol. But Seungmin’s presence isn’t nearly as menacing as Minho’s when it comes to scolding, so the two rascals find it even easier to ignore him. Still, he’s stressing way too much — a clear sign that beer is a better choice than rice wine to stay responsible, and a worse one to have any fun.
They’ve known it from the start: putting the sunshine twins in the same room with loud music and heavy drinks can only end in a night of babysitting or trying to roll with it — and the first option has already failed miserably. Seungmin just refuses to accept it… or maybe he just needs another beer.
But Minho isn’t his mother either. When Yongbok shouts “shots!” he only smiles politely and waves him off with a muttered “whatever.”
The look in Seungmin’s eyes screams betrayal: don’t encourage them. But the protector telepathy is not broken, Minho is simply deciding to ignore it.
When the waiter comes back with four glasses and a classy black bottle on his tray, Yongbok waves a 50,000 won bill at the poor guy, slurring something vaguely Konglish that sounds like, “It’s for my dear friend here.”
The server tries to deflect the attempt in his most polite tone. “That’s very generous, sir. Maybe you should reconsider in a calmer moment.”
“Horseshit. It’s for you, mate.”
Seungmin snatches the bill from Yongbok’s hand and shoves it at the waiter, something very close to homicide glinting in his eyes. “It’s for you only if you stop serving them. Understood?”
The waiter nods, swallowing around the sudden knot in his throat. “Sir.”
But Yongbok is faster than both of them and grabs the soju bottle from the tray, handing it to his roommate himself. “You’re the youngest at the table. Serve your hyungs, Puppy.”
The order comes out far more affectionate than intended, his eyes glossier and rounder than usual despite the alcohol haze. Seungmin can’t do much but sigh again and pour shots of the very expensive-looking distilled soju. The first glass slides to Minho, the second to Jisung. After serving the wild tipper, Seungmin sets the bottle down.
Yongbok pouts. “You’re not fun,” he whines.
“I’m not,” Seungmin replies. “That’s how you survive most of the time.”
“You really aren’t, though,” Minho adds, downing his soju in a single, almost elegant sip.
The table goes silent for a second. It’s not the drinking — Minho can hold his liquor better than anyone else at the table. It’s the way he does it. Smooth, deliberate, like he knows he’s being watched and for once he doesn’t really mind it. Like maybe he’s leaning a bit into it. That’s not how this usually goes — but tonight he is their hyung, nobody above him to stress about their image. Except for their situational maknae.
“That was hot,” Jisung comments.
“It really was!” Yongbok confirms, finding his drunk companion’s hand for an uncoordinated high-five.
Seungmin looks like he might implode. So Minho just takes the soju bottle from the table and serves him as well. He doesn’t lift his gaze from the glass as he pours, just casually cooing to the swooning idiots.
“Whatever. I’m off-duty tonight,” he declares dryly. “Go make out between the two of you or something. Leave oppa be.”
“Oppa,” chirps Yongbok in his cutest falsetto.
“Oppa!” echoes Jisung, eyes wide and imploring.
Seungmin glances at the oldest once more, hoping to reconnect their broken telepathic field. They’re never going to stop now.
Minho knows. Which is probably why he doesn’t react when Yongbok grins suddenly, wide and bright, like he’s just had the best idea of his life.
“Oh! I can do better, bro,” he announces, already tugging his chair back a little. “Watch.”
“Don’t—” Seungmin starts, too late, because Yongbok has already tossed his blond hair back and folded his hands behind his back before wrapping his lips around the rim of the shotglass. Then he tips his head back, lining the shot up with more confidence than balance.
The glass never quite makes it all the way. He laughs halfway through, chokes just a bit — soju sloshing dangerously close to disaster — before he swallows it loudly anyway, triumphant and flushed, absolutely soaked in his own success as his Adam’s apple bobs once along his throat.
Minho just reaches out, pulling the empty glass away before it can tip. Calm. Unbothered.
The table explodes unevenly. Yongbok laughs loudest. Jisung cheers like this was a personal victory. Seungmin presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut, already regretting every life choice that led here.
“Please,” he begs quietly. “Just. Please.”
Jisung takes his glass and sips politely, almost offended by the insinuation. “I’m older and more responsible,” he declares in his big boy voice.
“By less than twelve hours,” Minho points out.
The glass lands back on the table. “Twenty-eight, please. Still older.”
“So mature,” Yongbok adds, his tone dreamy and vaguely girlish.
Jisung immediately picks up on it. “Oppa!”
“Oppa!” Yongbok parrots him.
Seungmin palms his whole face with both hands, a low groan escaping him. Then he finally reaches for the untouched glass of soju and downs the shot, defeated. Minho smiles. Isn’t it nice, not being their mother.
Once more, the sunshine twins’ palms meet mid-air in triumph.
“At least get yourselves some food, morons,” Seungmin tries, weakly.
Yongbok points at the empty bowl in front of them, tapping the edge with a damp fingertip until the remaining crumbles stick, then sucking it clean. “We got food.”
“I meant real food,” Seungmin says. “Not shrimp crackers.”
“Yeah,” Jisung adds seriously. “We should get honey butter chips as well—” but his suggestion is cut off by a sharp scream as Yongbok bites down on his exposed shoulder. Hard.
His whine subsides almost immediately, melting into a surprised hum as extremely soft, pleasantly warm, slightly oily lips press into the affected area, diffusing the sudden jolt of pain. Yongbok kissed it better. Once. Twice. And now he’s nuzzling along the length of Jisung’s shoulder, up to the curve of his neck, before finally settling his cheek there, the sound he makes uncannily close to a purr.
Minho would never say it out loud, but the drunken gremlin is, in fact, stupidly cute. And the look of pure shock on Jisung’s face is pretty cute too. Oh, whatever — even the outrage in Seungmin’s eyes is kind of endearing. But Minho, he realises as he lets those far too soft thoughts surface, is definitely drunk as well. Drunk — although still very much dignified.
His glass is empty when he reaches for it again. He blinks at it once, then sets it back down, expression perfectly composed. Oh God, he suddenly thinks. I'm not their mother. I'm their alcoholic aunt.
Jisung squints at Yongbok for a long second, lips already pulled into something halfway between a pout and a smirk.
“So?” he asks, puckering exaggeratedly. “You wanna smooch me like hyung said or what?”
It’s clearly meant to be a joke, like so many times before. Even on camera. They’ll get closer, almost scarily so, slow enough that someone can always chicken out — usually Jisung himself.
But this time Yongbok doesn’t even hesitate. He doesn’t take the time to put on his best dreamy loverboy eyes, doesn’t cup his jaw, doesn’t tease it out. He just goes for it and pecks him on the lips — quick, soft, a barely-there press that still lands square and warm.
Jisung freezes for half a heartbeat. Then he feels Yongbok smiling against his mouth, and instinct kicks in. He kisses back before he can even process that those berry-flavoured lips are his almost-twin’s. They pull apart at the same time.
For a second, they just stare at each other — and then they dissolve into laughter, loud and breathless and stupid, foreheads knocking together as they giggle like they’ve just gotten away with something illegal. Yongbok snaps his teeth, trying to bite again, and Jisung laughs harder, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to kiss him back, failing spectacularly.
“Okay,” Seungmin says, flat and final, shoving his chair back loudly. “That’s it. We’re going home. Now.”
Minho nods immediately, already on his feet, calm as ever.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Good call.”
The laughter doesn’t quite stop when they stand — it just fades into something quieter, breathless and close. Too close for a crowded bar. Too loud for fame, anyway. Minho spots the reckless idiots reaching for each other’s hands a second too late, Jisung already nuzzling into Yongbok’s neck.
Telepathy back online. Pay. Now. Seungmin obeys immediately, sprinting toward the register with his phone ready for swan dive Olympic tapping.
Minho barely nudges Yongbok towards the door with a hand pressed on the small of his back — and the blond heartthrob immediately turns around to wink at him.
“Mihno hyung!” he recites loudly, “Sungie is right here!”
“Sungie doesn’t mind,” Jisung cuts in, pulling his almost-twin closer, enough to wrap his arm around his waist and giggle again into the curve of his neck.
“This is a tragedy,” says Seungmin, coming back victorious from his paying mission.
“Nah,” the oldest minimises, “this is honestly pretty funny.”
“Out.”
“Yessir,” the drunken couple replies in unison.
The night air is refreshing, but not cold. The sky is completely black, the stars swallowed by the city glow. Even this poorly lit street is awash with the flicker of neon signs.
As they stumble along, it’s easy to lose track of whose smile is whose: Yongbok and Jisung clinging to each other like some strange newborn creature, unsteady and exuberant, taking its first steps on all fours.
Seungmin and Minho follow a few paces behind, at a safe distance. When Seungmin tries to surge forward — to put a stop to Yongbok’s latest stunt, namely grabbing Jisung by the chin and planting a giggly peck on his lips — Minho stops him with an open hand to his chest.
“They’re not hurting anyone.”
Seungmin huffs, anxious. “They might be seen. Pictures. Phones.”
“Isn’t AI crazy these days, huh?”
“Except this is not AI and they’re actually—”
Jisung, apparently taking the hint for once, grabs Yongbok by the collar and backs him into a lamppost, kissing him properly this time — still impossibly soft, considering the sudden confidence.
“—making out,” Seungmin finishes weakly. “In public.”
Yongbok whines just a little too loudly when Jisung bites down on his lower lip.
“Well,” Minho finally admits, tilting his head, “that’s objectively a lot of tongue.”
“Thank you.”
Minho’s slap lands square between Seungmin’s shoulders, sharp enough to jolt him forward a step. The youngest coughs once as he regains his balance. The oldest checks his watch, calm as ever, tapping a couple settings.
“Well,” he says evenly, “let’s drop the lovebirds at yours.”
Seungmin looks back in silence, the only sound on the street the soft, breathless giggling of the two idiots — now deeply invested in counting Yongbok’s freckles.
“Why ours?” he asks finally, baffled. “You two live on the other side of the hall.”
Minho smiles and sighs at the same time.
“Because, my friend, I’m the only one with a double bed,” he explains calmly. “And I’m not giving it up for these two.”
Seungmin’s expression curdles into an embarrassed mix of disgust and dawning realisation.
“Are they going to…?”
“Unlikely,” Minho says. “Too drunk. Still.”
Seungmin stops walking altogether. Just… stalls there, shoulder brushing the shutter of a closed convenience store like it might offer guidance. Minho clicks his tongue once and takes him gently by the elbow, steering him forward.
“Come on. You’re thinking too hard.”
“You can stay at mine,” Minho adds a beat later, like it’s an afterthought.
Seungmin stiffens.
“—to sleep,” Minho clarifies immediately. Then, softer, amused: “Relax, kiddo. Hyung drank too.”
“Okay,” Minho says, already turning back. “Field trip’s over.”
He reaches them first. Jisung doesn’t notice — he’s still tracing imaginary constellations across Yongbok’s cheek with one finger.
“Kids,” Minho calls mildly.
No response.
He sighs and cups the back of Yongbok’s neck like a rebel kitten, firm but gentle, peeling him away from Jisung with practiced ease. Yongbok makes an indignant little noise, like a squeaky toy being taken away mid-play.
“Oi,” he protests, blinking up at Minho. “We were busy.”
“You were snogging under a streetlight,” Minho replies. “That’s not a hobby.”
Seungmin steps in to grab Jisung by the sleeve, immediately regretting it when Jisung latches onto his arm instead.
“Puppy,” Jisung whines, heavy and warm, “tell hyung he’s being mean.”
“Hyung,” Seungmin says tightly, already dragging him forward, “you’re being mean.”
“Duly noted,” Minho says, steering Yongbok the other way.
The two gremlins keep reaching for each other as they’re hauled apart, fingers brushing, missing, reconnecting for half a second at a time — until Minho finally slots himself between them.
“Walk,” he orders calmly. Somehow, they do, although protesting.
“Oh — Puppy?” Minho adds, almost as an afterthought.
“Yes?”
Minho smiles, easy and unapologetic. “You’re cute. But don’t get ideas. Not really my type.”
Seungmin groans. “I was not—”
“Good,” Minho cuts in. “I suggest the couch. Hannie's room is not a viable option.”
***
When they finally burst into laughter again, it’s at the realisation that Minho and Seungmin have already disappeared.
Minho had marched them inside first, no ceremony whatsoever, one hand gripping each of them by the nape like unruly kittens, manoeuvring them down the hallway while they protested loudly and uselessly. Seungmin had veered off to the kitchen on autopilot, returning with two full glasses of water and a bucket that landed on the floor with a decisive thunk.
Once the two of them were sitting on the edge of the bed, shoes were kicked off without discussion. Jackets followed — Seungmin handling Yongbok’s, Minho dealing with Jisung’s — and the sunshine twins, half-collapsed against each other, immediately started giggling about how the situation was getting steamy.
Minho did not dignify that with a response. He simply grabbed them both and shoved them down onto the bed in one efficient motion.
“Minho-hyung!” Yongbok had groaned loudly. “So eager!”
This time, a response had come. “You’re way too pretty for my taste. Both of you.”
Jisung instantly giggled. “Hyung thinks you’re pretty.”
“Do me a favour,” Seungmin had said on his way out, already halfway down the hall. “Don’t die.”
The door had closed behind them.
Jisung’s laugh is already halfway into Yongbok’s shoulder, muffled and breathy, the kind that shakes instead of sounds. Yongbok answers with one of his own, bright and hiccupy, rolling onto his back and tugging Jisung with him until they’re tangled again, knees bumping, foreheads knocking.
“This is your fault,” Jisung accuses fondly, rubbing his nose against Yongbok’s cheek just because it’s there. He smells of sea breeze and alcohol, like a drunken night on the beach. His lips instinctively press against the warmth of the jawline right in front of them.
Yongbok hums softly, purring almost. “It’s always my fault,” he admits, “I just always find a way out.”
“That’s because you’re pretty.”
Yongbok shifts again, restless, like he’s suddenly realised something important and forgotten what it was. He props himself up on one elbow, blinking down at Jisung with unfocused concentration.
“You’re in my bed,” he says, pleased, as if this is new information.
“Unfortunately,” Jisung murmurs, smiling anyway.
Yongbok hums at that, low and content, and then he’s leaning in again — slower this time, uncoordinated but deliberate. Jisung lets it happen for a second, then another. His hand comes up almost absentmindedly, fingers curling into the fabric at Yongbok’s side to keep him from tipping over. Yongbok takes that as encouragement and presses closer, a little sigh slipping out of him as he noses at the corner of Jisung’s mouth, greedy in the gentlest way.
Their lips slot together, warm and humid, finding each other in languid, unhurried morsels. They keep stopping without meaning to — foreheads resting together, breath mixing, like they forget what they were doing and remember each other instead.
“You’re pretty too,” Yongbok whispers between them.
“You’re prettier,” Jisung sighs. “Like, annoyingly so.”
It’s a joke, but neither laughs. They both know it’s true.
“You’re so warm.”
“Your lips are so soft.”
When their tongues brush, it’s unclear who whimpers first — but it’s Yongbok who presses closer, bumping their teeth together clumsily and swallowing Jisung’s protest right after. Yongbok smiles against his mouth, like the kissing itself is funny somehow, like it’s just another thing they’re bad at together. They share too much breath and definitely too much saliva, as if their mouths can’t quite remember how anatomy works — did they always have noses? And chins?
Yongbok has always had a lot of hair, though. Enough for it to fall into their eyes and stick to wet lips. That’s absolutely the only reason Jisung feels the need to tenderly move it out of the way, fingers dipping into that blond sea. The reason he keeps stroking it afterward, though, remains a mystery.
It’s not really intentional when Yongbok’s right hand roams along Jisung’s side, seeking warmth under his shirt — it’s just skin brushing skin, following the pleasurable sensation of pliant flesh under his fingertips. It’s not like they’ve never done this before. They’ve always given each other back scratches, head pats, leg massages. From time to time, they all end up tangled together on someone’s couch — the kind of closeness that just happens when you toss eight adolescents into the world with no emotional safety net whatsoever. If anything, it was even encouraged by the company. It builds trust. Kinship. It’s supposed to feel nice. It sells.
If they were sober, maybe the sunshine twins would wonder whether the company would still encourage it if it involved moaning into each other’s mouths. But neither of them is. The thought dissolves into another lazy kiss before it can properly form.
It flickers back online, though, when Jisung shifts closer, restless, and grinds softly against Yongbok’s leg: it’s just a glimpse, the suspicion of the suspicion of doing something they’re not supposed to do. But it feels good.
It feels good without a goal, without direction. They’re both probably too drunk to even have a proper erection, let alone do something about it. Just bodies being warm and too close. Jisung does it again without thinking, a lazy press that Yongbok answers instinctively, like his body remembers the shape of him even if his head doesn’t.
It’s almost by muscle memory that a small hand grasps the waistband of the other’s sweatpants, pulling him closer and staying there — not really venturing under the elastic but clutching it, knuckles brushing the tattooed “t” that disappears under the fabric like a dirty secret they’re not gonna share anyway. But in the meantime, it still. Feels. Good. Like the smell of a flower you won’t pluck from its stem, or the fur of a sleeping animal you won’t wear as a coat.
“Lix,” Jisung gasps, eyes closed more from exhaustion than pleasure.
“Mh?”
Conversing while kissing is not the easiest of tasks. Stopping brushing lips and noses together like sleepy kittens, on the other hand, feels impossible.
“Felix?”
Jisung sounds worried.
“M-mmh?”
Not much better, but more present. Yongbok’s mouth moves away, tracing his chin and jaw instead, to give Jisung enough space to speak properly. But instead of speaking, he sighs.
“We’re still friends, right?”
He’s trying to sound casual, but the real question echoes in the room, heavy with consequences. Yongbok can almost taste his worry seeping through his neck. He kisses it better, as if swallowing it down. Then he props up on one elbow, his head heavy against his numb hand. He gives a lazy, tipsy grin, blinking slowly, and kisses the corner of Jisung’s mouth with an amused hum.
“Nah,” he says.
Jisung’s eyes widen in sudden alertness. Another tiny kiss.
“…you’re my bro.”
Jisung’s hand comes up suddenly, fingers curling around the dog tag resting against Yongbok’s chest, the diamond-studded cross hidden in his fist, the cool metal biting into his knuckles as he tugs him closer. The kiss that follows is sharp, messy, breathless. Is he trying to make a point? The exchange is all teeth and heat — enough to make Yongbok yelp.
And then he lets go just as abruptly, the chain slipping through his fingers, the cross sparkling back into place.
“I’m not your bro,” he says, breathless, forehead knocking into Yongbok’s. “I’m your hyung.”
There’s a beat. Then Yongbok snorts, the sound cracking straight through whatever tension was left. Jisung chuckles back, aware of his own idiocy.
Kisses keep coming like waves after a storm, licking at the shoreline without beating it, gentler and slower with every lap. They never actually stop, but they definitely lose momentum, rhythm and intention. Sometimes they miss the spot completely, landing on chins, noses, cheeks.
Jisung’s hand is still tangled in blond hair, but it’s gone loose, fingers barely moving. Yongbok’s is tucked between his own legs, pressed against his groin like a self-soothing overgrown child. Breathing evens out and limbs tangle instinctively. They never really stop kissing on purpose… they just forget to initiate another one.
“You comfy?” Jisung murmurs, already halfway asleep.
Yongbok hums something barely unintelligible, but still laced with irony: “Yes hyung.”
They giggle again, one last time. Warm. Quiet. Right. Like littermates crashing out after an exhausting playing session.
And it still. Feels. Good.