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The door behind them shuts closed with a click, trapping Minho and Jisung in the narrow entryway. It’s a little over eleven, almost midnight. Today’s schedule was packed, holding on until now, the late hours of the night.
But regardless of their bones feeling heavy and their eyelids drooping, the smell of home settles over their senses, and Jisung sighs blissfully. Minho watches as Jisung’s palm grips onto his arm while he unties his shoelaces, appreciates the warmth it offers through his clothes. He toes off his sneakers, fitting his feet into white plastic flippers.
“Lemme help,” Jisung hums, fingers reaching to take off Minho’s puffer jacket. He hangs it on the rack right next to his own.
“Thank you, bug.” Minho lovingly runs his knuckles over his boyfriend’s icy pink cheek.
Jisung pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes shining in the orange hues coming from above their heads. He leans in to steal a brief peck.
Minho grins. No matter how fast exhaustion flows through his veins, he can’t not give Jisung the attention he aches for. So he wraps his arms around that tiny waist of his, thumbing at his tattoo where he knows it runs across his side, and deepens the kiss. It’s gentle, saccharine with a hint of bitterness from the coffee Jisung had a few hours prior.
It’s them, in the privacy of their own dorm transformed into a home, dimmed lights adding to the atmosphere, the clock hung high on the kitchen wall faintly ticking in the background. Minho only registers the sound of Jisung’s giggles as he tickles over his ribs. That’s his favourite sound.
Han Jisung might be both a rapper and a singer, but he sounds best when he’s laughing at a stupid joke Minho invented, when he whines because Minho can’t keep his hands off him, when he’s being his usual talkative self telling Minho a story he’s already heard five times.
“Hyung,” Jisung cries out, prying Minho away. His make up smudged hours ago. There’s black eyeshadow under his eyes. His lips have foundation on them. Minho captures them against his own, licking dutifully, then forces himself to stop.
This is routine. Kissing at the door. Minho getting a handful of Jisung’s ass, whispering against his cheek, “you’ve worked hard today, too,” and highlighting his praise with a light slap on the plush of his butt.
He does just that. Jisung jolts, like every time, then fixes him with a look. Minho simply shrugs his shoulders, a proud cat-like grin etched on his features, then advances further inside.
“Hungry?” he asks, walking in the kitchenette.
“Mhm,” Jisung follows, lazily draping his arms over Minho from behind, both of them looking for leftovers in the fridge. He lets all of his weight be supported by Minho’s body, mouth nearing his ears. “For you.”
“Insatiable.”
Yet, even though Minho mutters it under his breath, he turns around nonetheless, back pushing the fridge’s door closed, and brings Jisung’s body against him with a tight grip on his hips. Jisung smiles, content and satiated, into his mouth.
Chests touch, heartbeats link in harmony, and Minho is exactly where he belongs— in the arms of the man he loves, has loved for years, will continue to love until his breathing ceases.
“Want me to cook something?” he asks wetly against the ghost of Jisung’s choco chip mole. Their noses brush. “Quick?”
“It’s okay,” Jisung shakes his head, gaze teleporting from his eyes to his mouth to his neck.
“Are you sure?” Minho’s palm rubs over his lower belly, feeling the abs flex under his shirt. “I could make a sandwich.”
Jisung just kisses him again. Slow, despite the eagerness behind it. Minho feels desire burning on the surface of his skin, settling under it, seething in his blood. It’s a permanent need.
Their tongues dance, teeth clanking.
He doesn’t know when they started moving, but they’re no longer in the kitchen. He doesn’t even remember why they were there in the first place. Minho’s hazy eyes open for a second— he sees long lashes caressing Jisung’s soft cheeks— and he sighs into his mouth. Neither of them needs to watch where they’re going, because they’ve lived here for long enough that it’s become muscle memory.
“Jisungie,” Minho squeezes at his back. He stops them in the doorframe of his bedroom. Jisung pulls at his shirt, pupils dilated, natural blush sitting so pretty on his face. He draws them to the bed.
“Why’d you stop?” Jisung looks ready to fall backwards on the mattress. There’s tiredness masked by a light cloud of thirst visible on his face.
“Jagiya, no outside clothes on my bed.” Minho holds him by his wrist. “Go wash up. Please?”
“But darling,” his eyes grow big, brows taking a pitiful shape, red lips pouting. “I’m sleepy.”
Butterflies erupt in his stomach, flapping their wings uncontrollably at the nickname. His heart decides to skip a beat.
For a moment, he just stands there, taking in the image of Jisung looking so woeful, with his sulking expression and mussled hair. He clicks his tongue. Not in annoyance; rather in a way to keep his composure and not ruin him instantly.
“Let’s go wash up, baby.” Minho slots his hand in his, intertwining their fingers. Jisung happily complies, following behind him like a lost kitty. He trips over the threshold to the bathroom, and Minho fights a smile as he kisses the frown away.
He takes his clothes off first, throwing each piece on the tiles until he’s left vulnerable. With Jisung, he takes his time, peeling off his shirt with care, beware of the tattoos that have long healed. He squats down, feels the burn in his thighs from today’s relentless choreography, and pinches Jisung’s bare skin when he notices that his eyes have closed.
“Soon, jagi,” he promises, piling Jisung’s clothes on his own. He stands back up and stabilises Jisung with a soft touch to his waist. He turns the water on. Waits for it to warm up. Once he deems it hot enough, he urges Jisung to step inside the shower.
They stand under the spray of water, limbs tangled, eyes locked. Jisung’s hands have worked their way up to circle Minho’s neck, fingertips twirling the damp hair at the back of his head. He makes a show of presenting his throat, free of any marks because they shouldn’t, but it is still Minho’s to kiss.
“You’re so great,” his voice comes soft, hushed, just for Jisung to hear, as it peppers against the skin of his neck, littering pecks all over it. Jisung’s traitorous pulse rabbits under Minho’s greedy mouth. “So good for me.”
“Hyung,” Jisung sighs, head thrown back. He breaks into a laugh when Minho tries to speak and it comes gargled because he chokes on water.
“Shut it,” the tip of his ears turn red, and for the peace of his mind, he blames the steam. Because Jisung won’t shut up on his own accord, Minho makes him by leaning down to worship the tattoo on his waist. He starts from under his ribs, tracing what his lips don’t reach with his fingertips, leaving featherlight scratches on the inked letters.
“Oh,” is his reward, falling from Jisung freely. His hands twitch in his hair. “Hyung, it tickles,”
Minho knows. He’s reached the spot parallel to his navel, where he’s softest and most sensible. He mouths at the skin there, plays with it for a second too long, because he loves making Jisung squirm.
When he reaches his hip, Minho has fully crouched down. His eyes only open for a beat, checking with Jisung to see the furrow of his eyebrows and the plumpness of his bottom lip squeezed between his teeth. He smiles, leaving two more pecks, one directly on his hipbone, the other at the end of his tattoo, on the top of his plush thigh.
He rises back on his feet. Jisung stops him when he tries to reach behind him for the body wash.
“What about this one, hyung?” he pulls a face, pointing to the one on his chest, over his right pectoral. “It deserves love, too,”
Ah. Minho loves him so much.
“Of course, jagi,” he immediately gives it the same treatment— a small sorry hangs in the air—, running his tongue over the compass, lips pressing against each letter. His thumb brushes once over his nipple, and Jisung’s whole body shudders, ripping a pretty gasp from him.
“There you go. Pleased?” Minho retreats his hand, moving it to Jisung’s lower back while he takes the bottle of liquid from the cupboard.
“Yeah,” Jisung hums, staring as Minho lathers his palms with the vanilla-scented soap, then drops to his knees.
“Lean against the wall, Jisungie. I’ll wash you up.”
When he deems his balance good, Minho gently takes one of his legs, running his fingers over his calf, diligently washing his foot, then finally his thigh. He repeats the process with his other leg, watching the suds go down the drain, carrying with them the exhaustion today brought.
“Can I?” Minho asks once he’s reached delicate parts.
“Mhm, ‘s okay,” Jisung slurs, eyes on the ceiling. Minho rushes a bit, his back cold with the air outside the shower hitting it directly. He wants nothing more than to get into bed, cuddle his cute Jisung, and fall into dreamland.
“Hey,” Jisung giggles when Minho digs his pinky into his belly button to clean it, then drops his whole body into Minho’s when it’s time to wash his back.
Minho tries (and fails) to whistle at the sight, chin propped on Jisung’s shoulder. He massages the tense muscles of his back with soap all while keeping his eyes on that perky, inviting butt of his.
What? It’s right there, so round and soft and–-
“Rinse,” Minho tells him, barely convincing his body to part from Jisung’s. He washes himself quickly, feeling Jisung stare on him the whole time. It raises goosebumps on him as if it’s the first time they held hands, back then, when things seemed impossible.
Jisung paws at his soft tummy, the showerhead facing Minho now. His eyes are entranced as he watches the foam trail down Minho’s well-built chest. “You’re so beautiful, darling,” he says, eyes kind, mouth agape. “The prettiest.”
“Thank you, bug.” Minho cups his cheek and steals another kiss. It’s sloppy, saliva and water mixing, but sweet all the same. “I think your butt is the prettiest.”
“Hah,” Jisung half-chuckles half-moans when Minho grabs it as if to prove his point. “Freak.” he accuses, index finger digging into the middle of his chest. Minho smiles pridefully at him.
“That I am,” he rolls his shoulders, turning the faucet off. He steps out first, coldness biting at his wet skin. Minho finds Jisung’s dark grey towel and motions with it to get Jisung to come outside.
“I’m freezing,” his lips turn down again. Minho is there to quickly wrap him up in the cloth, planting a kiss on the top of his head. He looks around for the smaller towel, and when he finds it he throws it at Jisung’s head. Jisung, who has his arms tucked at his sides under the towel, grumbles.
They dry off next to each other, looking into the fogged-up mirror across from them. Minho asks Jisung to take a seat on the closed toilet lid. He grabs the toothpaste and starts brushing Jisung’s teeth, fingers gently holding his jaw. Jisung looks into his eyes the whole time, and Minho sees a future together in them.
Of course he does. Minho knew he belonged here the moment he caught Jisung ogling him with starry eyes on the fifth floor of their company years ago.
“Spit,” he puts his palm under his chin, and Jisung makes a face, instead getting up and spitting in the sink like any normal person would. Minho rolls his eyes and grabs his own toothbrush, cleaning his teeth.
Jisung attaches himself to Minho’s broad back, dotting kisses all over his shoulders and nape. The warmth of his lips makes him delirious. He keens high in his throat, appreciating the display of attention after barely being able to hide it during filming today.
Finally, with a new pair of underwear on, they make it to Minho’s bedroom— it’s more spacious, Jisung’s own has become more of a studio— and fall back on the soft bed, Jisung bouncing on the mattress. He sucks in a breath, crawling towards the headboard.
Minho opens his arms widely, welcoming Jisung to nest on his chest. Their hair is still wet, droplets soaking the sheets.
“Darling,” Jisung mutters, thumb softly fondling the scar on Minho’s belly. His other hand is wrapped around his neck, nails scraping his brachium, feeling his bicep. “I love you.”
His heart leaps in his throat, lodging itself there dramatically. “I love you,” he accentuates the words with a press of his lips to Jisung’s own, then to his cold nose, and lastly to his forehead. Even in pitch darkness, Minho sees the smile he’s sporting. Feels it with his fingertips.
“Goodnight, Minho-hyung. Dream about me.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, jagi.”
Their shared breathing catalyses the birth of a song only they know the lyrics of. A song that, with time, builds into something divine, otherworldly, made of combined stardust and slotted skin. A song they’ll dance to the rhythm of until the choreo is engraved into their muscles.