Archive of Our Own ^beta

If anyone were to ask Minho about his earliest childhood memory, he wouldn’t have an exact answer that he could give; he has too many of them, bumping around together in the back of his mind, to the point where he can’t be quite sure which one is the earliest out of them all.

However, if anyone were to ask Minho about his favorite childhood memory, he’d have his answer on the tip of his tongue before he'd even have to think about it; the summers he spent as a child, visiting his grandparents in Korea, would always hold their own place in his heart; a carefully carved out nook specially dedicated just for them.

If Minho closes his eyes, he can feel the cool air of those distinct summer nights kissing his cheeks through his open window, feel the grass beneath his bare feet as he raced Harabeoji across the fields of their small farm—he lost every time, because Harabeoji would have his tractor, and Minho was determined to try his best and keep up with it every time—until he fell flat on his back with exhaustion; he can taste the sweet-tart juice from the grapes he pilfered from the vineyard as they burst on his tongue, the kimchi-jjigae that Halmeoni always let him help prepare, patting his cheek and thanking him for being such a thoughtful boy once it was ready. 

It’s the same kimchi-jjigae he prepares now, his go-to comfort food; meticulously chopping firm tofu with one shoulder hunched up to hold his phone to his ear as he listens to Felix go over his plans for the upcoming winter break. Minho’s only half-listening to his cousin, letting him ramble while he sets down his knife to grab a spoon and check his seasoning; no matter how carefully he makes it, it never quite tastes the same as Halmeoni’s—which, Minho figures as he checks in on his rice, is to be expected; it’s hard to replicate the special touch that comes from the food made by her hand.

“—and I already told Eomma I’m fine staying here, but you can expect a call from her anyway,” Felix continues.

“Alright, don’t worry, I’ll let her know that it’s no trouble. After all, it was my idea, anyway,” Minho says as he returns to his tofu.

He’d asked Felix to stay back in the city with him for winter break before Felix’s semester had even started, and Felix taking a semester abroad in New York had been Minho’s idea as well. In his defense, he hadn’t seen his cousin in nearly a year, the last time being when they’d seen each other off at the airport, returning to their respective home countries after a visit to their grandparents for Chuseok. And although they’ve agreed on biannual visits, have had them turn into a regular thing for some years now, Felix has always been extra despondent when it’s him leaving the city, rather than when it’s Minho returning home from Sydney.

In all honesty, Minho didn’t even know he had a cousin until the summer before he turned seven; July air sticky and scented with hibiscus from the trees in their grandparents’ backyard, the place where they’d first met, with Felix being introduced to Minho as Yongbok then. The both of them had mumbled their way through polite greetings at the prodding of their parents, awkward under the expectant looks fixed on them. Minho had wondered then—and still does—how and why adults expect two children to be pushed together and automatically form a camaraderie based solely on the fact that they’re children.

It had taken until halfway through that summer for them to finally grow comfortable, and it had happened by accident; after the two of them realized neither of them actually lived in Korea, both assuming that the other one was the native cousin since they would only ever speak in Korean when at their grandparents’ home.

Felix had been the first one to break their unknowingly mutual, unspoken rule, forgetting the translation for a word and defaulting to saying it in heavily accented English instead, to which Minho had asked, in English as well, dumbfounded “You don’t live here?”

Their grandparents’ home was always special, but even more so after that. For the longest time, it was their only meeting ground, since the two of them quite literally lived on opposite ends of the world; the first time Felix had even been able to visit Minho at his own home in Queens was when he was a teenager. Minho has always been close with his family, and the opportunity to finally dote on a cute younger cousin had been a dream come true, especially since it was just him, his cats, and his parents at home.

Which may be what led to a minor protective streak, which is also why he now tunes back into the conversation fully only after the mention of a boyfriend.

“You have a boyfriend?” he asks, wiping his hands on the kitchen towel slung over his shoulder and holding his phone up to his ear properly now.

He can practically see the way Felix rolls his eyes before replying. “I just said that’s what he is! And I wanted to ask, would it be alright if he came over to stay with us too? He doesn’t have any plans for the break, and I told him that my kind, caring, considerate, cool older cousin wouldn’t mind if I brought him over.”

“You’ve been dating for what, three months, and you’re already bringing him to meet the family over the holidays? Isn’t that kind of soon?” Minho’s joking when he says it, even if he may think it’s a little bit of a quick romance, especially considering the fact that Felix is only going to be in the city for just one more semester.

“It’s not that big of a deal, we’d be hanging out together over break anyway if I was staying at the dorms instead. And either way, you don’t count as meeting the family!”

“Ouch.”

“But that means you don’t mind having extra people over, right?” The way he asks makes it seem like he’s about to try to coax Minho into agreeing to something else as well, and Minho finds himself suddenly wary.

“No?”

“Great! Then you don’t mind if Jisung comes over as well?” Jisung—that has to be the boyfriend’s name, Minho presumes, which he must have missed when he was preparing his ingredients.

“I just said that he can come over, didn’t I?”

He hears Felix groan, but doesn’t hear beyond a “Hyung, were you even lis—” before he notices the ttukbaegi on the stove nearly bubble over, hurriedly setting his phone onto the counter as he quickly dials down the heat. He gives it a couple of stirs, drops the tofu in as well before putting a lid on it and letting it simmer.

“—so it’ll be Jisung and Seungmin both, then,” Felix continues when Minho finally grabs his phone again. He frowns.

“Wait, so it’s you, your boyfriend, and who?” Who the hell is Seungmin, Minho thinks.

“You know if you’re busy I can just call back later, hyung. Save me from having to repeat myself a billion times. I said he’s my roommate! And he’s not just my roommate either, okay? He’s a really good friend! You know, I think you’d like him a lot too, actually.”

“If you say so, Lixie. Anyone else I should know about before I have to go make a trip to get an air mattress?”

“Ha ha, very funny. And no, it’s just the two of them. And they both really appreciate it too, so be nice.”

“When aren’t I nice?”

“I’ll get Hyunjin to tell them every single way you used to torture him.”

Minho raises a brow that Felix can’t see. “You’re going to call him up just for that?”

“Didn’t he tell you?” Felix sounds genuinely surprised. “He said he’s going home for the break because, and I quote: ‘It’s not winter without any snow, it’s the entire essence of the season.’”

Minho frowns. “He told you before he told me?”

It’s not that Hyunjin and Felix aren’t close; if anything, they’re too close, a combined pain in Minho’s ass whenever Felix comes to visit. But the fact that they only met a few years ago, while Minho grew up next to Hyunjin, can remember the first time Hyunjin came running up to him after losing a baby tooth, makes the fact that Minho was left in the dark about Hyunjin’s first visit back home after a full year at Berkeley strike him as a bit odd—and suspicious.

“Maybe he forgot? Actually no, wait, it’s Hyunjin. He’d tell you and then expect you to pick him up with a giant flashing sign at the airport.”

Minho can’t argue with that.

Minho gets a call from Hyunjin almost as soon as he finishes talking to Felix, after he doles himself out a nice serving of his kimchi-jjigae, leaving the rest for Changbin, and settles at their small kitchen table to finally eat. He finds there’s little greater joy than digging into a hot meal on a cool December day, and he’d made sure to time his cooking so the food would remain just shy of tongue-burning when Changbin would return.

“Okay, wait, don’t get mad at me! I wanted it to be a surprise, but I forgot to tell Felix not to tell you,” Hyunjin exclaims as soon as Minho picks up the call.

“Did you forget who taught you how to ride a bike? I raise you all by myself, work days and nights so I can feed you and clothe you and this is the thanks I get once you’re off to college?”

Hyunjin groans. “Come on, it was going to be nice! A nice little surprise reunion! The only reason I even told Felix was to make sure he’d be staying over for winter break.”

“Oh, he’s definitely staying. Has a whole guest list too,” Minho says before blowing over a steaming bowl of rice.

“Really? You got enough space for everyone then? Because I’m going to be there like, every day.”

“Yup, Changbin’s going to his parents’ place, and he said I can steal his room.”

While most people refer to a townhouse in New York as a classic, multi-level home—much like the brownstone in Park Slope that they currently share an apartment in—Changbin’s family refers to their townhouse on the Upper East Side as the town house, with town being an adjective, because they have an entire country house in the Hudson Valley. In Minho’s opinion, it's less of a house and borders more on being a manor; the perks of coming from old money, he presumes.

Though, Changbin’s never been the type to flaunt his wealth in anyone’s face. Minho had only found out that his roommate was loaded when he’d invited Minho over for spring break their freshman year, and consequently left Minho speechless at the sight of the house which may as well have come straight from an old golden age Hollywood film.

“Aw, that’s too bad.” Hyunjin tries, and fails, to not sound put out, and Minho scoffs.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be back for New Year’s and you can pretend to care about his weird gym protein poison shakes or whatever then.”

“Hey, I don’t pretend, alright? It’s actually co—” Minho cuts him off before he’s forced to spend another twenty minutes pretending to listen to whatever it is about Changbin that gets Hyunjin acting like a high schooler again.

“Do you want to come over next week? We can go pick up Felix together.”

Hyunjin’s indignant cry at being interrupted dies off immediately. “Yes! Definitely, and I can come over early to help you decorate the place as well while we wait!”

Minho smiles as he listens to Hyunjin, who’s already coming up with possible color schemes. He always enjoys just listening to his friends just talk, and he puts the call on speakerphone to listen more easily before placing it on the table and finally taking a spoonful of his food.

✧

They don’t end up going to pick up Felix. When Minho had called to ask what time they should head over, Felix had insisted that the two of them stay home.

“You’re going to take the train all the way into the city and then pay for what, two cabs back? No way is that happening. Besides, it’s alright, we can make it to your place in one piece,” Felix had said.

That leaves Minho and Hyunjin with more time than what either of them know to do with. Hyunjin had ended up roping Minho into helping him get the apartment more “welcoming and festive.” Which, given the limited decor he owns, meant chucking a couple of throw pillows onto the sofa and stringing up the few lights Minho could find in the back of the linen closet around the living room, occasionally having to lift a cat out of the way since they’d decided that creased cardboard boxes were a better place to loaf than the cat tree Minho spent a ridiculous percent of his paycheck on. Hyunijn didn’t seem to mind the scarce decor, in spite of his eagerness to set the place up.

“Less is more,” he explained as he strung lights along the top of the living room window, too high for Minho to reach. “Besides, you already have a good color scheme here. Don’t let anyone tell you blue and green shouldn’t go together. Those are the same people who think you can’t wear black with brown, or mix gold and silver! Absolutely no taste or knowledge about what works well!”

Minho nods along, because who’s he to disagree with the design student? They finish early, and Minho had already done the food shop that morning, making sure to stock up for at least five people’s worth and they don’t do much else aside from turning a movie on in the background while they finally catch up.

For all that Minho threatens to stick Hyunjin in a blender, he’d missed him over the past year. He’s glad to just be lazing around together now; it reminds him of when they used to come home after school, collapsing onto the living room floor, still in their street clothes, too tired to move or even do more than mumble at each other; drained after having to take the subway home during rush hours.

“When did Felix say they would get here?” Hyunjin eventually asks, once their conversation’s died down and they lay sprawled across the sofa, Minho upside down with his legs slung over the back of it. If he squints, he can make out a stain on the ceiling that mildly resembles a face.

Minho lifts his head up just enough to check the time on his phone.

“He should be here soon,” he says.

“How soon is soon?”

Before Minho gets the chance to answer, the buzzer to the front door goes off, answering for him, and Hyunjin tumbles off the sofa in a tangle of limbs in his haste to reach the intercom.

Minho can’t hear who’s on the other side from where he lays unmoving, but he doesn’t need to guess when firstly, there’s only so many options it could be, and second, Hyunjin lets out an excited laugh that’s almost a cackle as he buzzes them in.

Minho rolls himself off the sofa with an, ‘oof,’ and by the time he’s upright again Hyunjin’s already made it out the door and into the narrow hall. The apartment's on the parlor floor, and he’s got Felix pulled into a tight hug right inside the entryway leading outside by the time Minho peeks his head out of his doorway; lifting Felix off the floor until he’s forced to stand on tiptoes, face smushed into the front of Hyunjin’s sweater so all Minho can see is the back of his head of blond hair.

Minho sticks his head a little further out into the hall; he can see another guy standing just behind Hyunjin and Felix on the stoop. He’s on the taller side, dressed in a navy peacoat, each hand placed awkwardly on the handle of a suitcase.

Hyunjin finally lets go of Felix, enough for them to move further into the hallway while Felix laughs and Hyunjin gushes over just how long it’s been, and the taller guy steps inside fully as well. And behind him, visible now that Minho’s view isn’t obscured by the enthusiastic reunion, is one more person. His face is tipped down as he drags a third suitcase up the stoop behind himself.

Minho just about gets a glimpse at the red puffer jacket and black beanie he wears before he catches sight of the suitcase getting caught on a step; he’s outside in a second, grabbing it before the guy tries to yank it and ends up splitting his skull on the frozen stairs from the momentum.

“Shit, be careful,” Minho huffs, pulling the handle out of the guy’s hand and lifting the suitcase up to the top of the steps himself. He turns back to face him once he has it upright, and by the time he’s finished doing so, the guy’s lifted his head up.

And Minho has never hated himself more than he does in this moment, because the first thought that crosses his mind once his eyes land on the face in front of him is please, please be the roommate, please be the roommate.

The soft blond hair that escapes the confines of his beanie falls across large, bright brown eyes, his rounded cheeks gone rouge from the cold. He’s bundled up tight, a scarf wrapped all the way up over his nose; which, along with the puffer that’s at least two sizes too big, only serves to make him look even smaller than he is. The mantra of please be the roommate running through Minho’s head almost keeps him from hearing what he says.

“Sorry! Shit, sorry I didn’t see that extra step.” He pulls his scarf down under his chin as he glances down at said step, then frowns. “Fuck, you’re not even wearing any shoes, I—sorry!” 

Minho knows he’s not wearing any shoes—it’s hard to ignore when the ice on the steps has left the soles of his feet just shy of numb—and he feels kind of stupid for it now that’s been pointed out by this guy, of all people, that he’s barefoot outside in December. And then another voice cuts in as well.

“Hyung, why aren’t you wearing any shoes? Nasty,” Felix says with a grin from the door as he rolls in the last suitcase himself.

Minho scoffs and heads back inside with quick steps, the last of his guests right behind him. The flood of warmth from the floor against his frozen skin is almost painful, and he grimaces while locking the door behind them. Felix and the taller guy have both shed their coats, boots kicked off; when Minho turns back around he’s immediately pulled into a hug tight enough that he wheezes.

He groans but brings his own arms up to wrap around Felix, squeezing back just as hard until Felix lets go with a grimace, before he’s grinning again.

“God, it’s been forever!” he exclaims.

“We got lunch together like, two weeks ago, Lixie.”

“Which counts as forever when we’re finally living in the same city,” Felix insists. He puts a hand on each of Minho’s shoulders and turns him back around. The taller guy is shaking the melting snow from his hair, and it reminds Minho of a puppy coming in from the rain, while the one from the stairs unwinds the scarf from around his neck properly. He has a mole on his cheek, just above the side of his mouth; Minho swallows.

“That’s Hyunjin,” Felix says, nodding towards him as he quietly insists on taking their coats. “And this,” he continues with a rough shake of Minho’s shoulders, “Is Minho.”

“Thanks a lot for letting us stay here,” the taller of the two says with a smile that’s courteous, yet still seems genuine. “I’m—” not the roommate, not the roommate, Minho pleads silently “—Seungmin. It’s nice to meet you.”

Seungmin. The roommate. Minho smiles anyway, gives him a quick, polite handshake, and then turns back to who can only be his cousin’s boyfriend.

“That makes you Jisung, then?” he asks, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other; he doesn’t think he can feel either of them past the way his skin now burns.

“Yeah, I’m Jisung.” His lips pull up into a sheepish smile, and Minho is devastated—of course his stupid mouth has to be shaped like a perfect heart. “I’m sorry about before,” he says, pointing an awkward finger towards the door. “Outside, I mean.”

It’s not that noticeable, but he has a bit of an accent, and Minho can’t quite place it. It doesn’t really sound Korean, but then again, the name Jisung is undoubtedly Korean. Minho replies quickly before the beat of silence looks too questionable.

“Don’t worry about it,” Minho waves him off. Jisung looks like he wants to say something else, but before he can Felix interrupts.

“Hey, so who gets Changbin’s room?” he asks eagerly.

“What’s wrong with my room?”

“It’s your room, that’s what’s wrong with it. There’s like, cat toys everywhere. And besides, Changbin’s room has the better view.”

Minho scoffs and cuffs him on the shoulder. “Alright, then you can have Changbin’s room but you two,” he waves a hand between Felix and Seungmin, “Are going to share.” 

Is it petty and bordering on parental behavior to not let his adult cousin share a room with his boyfriend? Maybe, but Felix should have thought of that before trying to act cute.

Felix cocks a brow. “Really? I mean, you’re serious?” At Minho’s nod, “Alright, if you’re sure.” He grins almost deviously at Seungmin, and Minho’s not exactly quite sure what to make of that.

Deciding it’s nothing, he leads the three of them down the hall to let them get settled in. Felix already knows his way around, so Minho just ends up directing Jisung to his own room. He’s about to slip out to give him some privacy while he unpacks when Jisung speaks. 

“Um, where are you going to sleep if I’m in here?” he asks.

Minho blinks. “The sofa?” 

Jisung frowns at that. “Are you sure? I don’t mind taking the sofa instead, and it’s your room after all.”

“Yeah but you’re the guest, after all.” Jisung opens his mouth to say something else but Minho cuts him off, continuing with a, “Besides, the sofa’s comfier than it looks.”

He steps back into the hall before Jisung can say something else thoughtful and nice that’ll make Minho nearly trip as he leaves.

✧

Minho’s not expecting anyone else to be awake at six in the morning. The only reason that he’s even up this early on the weekend is so he can get a start on breakfast. He doesn’t expect anyone to be properly awake until at least another couple hours, considering how late they all got in yesterday, and he assumes the creak of the floorboard he hears—too heavy to be any of his cats—is just someone on their way to the bathroom.

He’s already finished proofing the yeast, adds in salt and bread flour, and it’s after he’s pulled the strawberries out of the fridge, that he hears a low, “Fuck,” and a small thump from the direction of the front door.

He frowns, wipes his hands clean, and slowly heads over to the source of the sound. At the sight of Jisung, sitting on the floor while he's trying to shove a foot into a boot, he snorts; Jisung whips around with a hand clutched to his chest, eyes wide.

“Shit, you scared me!”

“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that, considering the fact that it’s you who’s sneaking around?”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” Jisung huffs; Minho ignores the way his cheeks go even rounder with the action. “I just didn’t wanna wake anyone up on my way out.”

“By sneaking.” 

“Not sneaking,” Jisung says, abandoning the boots to stand and cross his arms. If it weren’t for the way corners of his mouth twitched up, Minho might almost have believed he was offended.

“Alright, what were you not sneaking out to do, anyway?”

“Oh, um, I was actually just going for a walk,” he says, bringing one hand up to rub the side of his neck, suddenly bashful. “And maybe, probably, just going to get some breakfast for everyone on the way back. You know, just as a thank you.”

Minho’s not surprised, but he’s not not surprised either to hear that. Felix is one of the most generous people he knows, so it makes sense that he’d be dating someone as equally considerate.

“Good thing I caught you, then. I already got started on breakfast, so you would have wasted a trip." He pauses. "Or I would have wasted my time."

Jisung blinks, tilts his head. “This early? What are you making?” He unzips his jacket, shrugs it off so he’s left in a big grey hoodie, and hangs it by the door.

“Bagels,” Minho says, heading back into the kitchen with Jisung trailing after him. “And some strawberry jam. Honestly, I don’t really bake that often, but I thought it’d be nice to make some for the occasion. Guess we had the same idea there.” He stops at the counter where he’d left his strawberries.

“Anything I can do?” Jisung asks, peeking over his shoulder.

There isn’t really, and Minho should probably just tell him to go back to sleep, but he sounds so excited to help that Minho would honestly feel a little bad if he did.

So instead he says, “Sure, you can start by kneading the dough for me.” 

He says this because he knows that kneading a slab of dough as large as the one that he has starts off fine, but five minutes in it’s a completely different story; his own arms usually end up sore when he’s done with a batch this big.

He’s not trying to be mean, either; he just thinks that if Jisung tires out he’ll excuse himself without Minho feeling like he’s just accidentally stepped on one of his cats’ paws if he had denied his eager offer to help.

Jisung beams at him, washing his hands before he slides across the floor on pink fuzzy socks, over to where Minho’s already roughly combined the bloomed yeast with the flour and salt in a large glass mixing bowl. He plops the choppy mess out onto the wooden board Minho had set out beside it and begins bringing the mix together.

Minho turns back to his strawberries. He'd tossed them in sugar and let them sit overnight to macerate, and all he has to do now is add a few extra ingredients to enhance the flavor before he cooks them. Some vanilla and a couple of sprigs of lemon verbena should do it.

He’s splitting open a vanilla pod, just about to scrape the seeds out when he hears a rustling of fabric. Minho looks up to find Jisung struggling to keep the sleeves of his hoodie from slipping down and getting in the way of his hands, and he’s about to offer to help fold them up for him properly when Jisung, with a small, annoyed huff, grabs the hem of his hoodie and yanks the whole thing over his head instead.

Minho can feel his eyes bulge practically right out of their sockets. What the fuck. What the fuck.

Minho did not wake up on this beautiful Saturday morning anticipating a gun show. Jisung, now in only a white muscle tee, doesn’t seem to feel the weight of Minho’s flummoxed stare, and continues to mould the dough together with a quiet little hum. Minho instantly wishes he would put the hoodie back on. 

It’s too early for him to have to witness the way Jisung’s biceps rhythmically flex and unflex with the repetitive motion of pushing the ball of dough against itself, before they pull taut under golden skin when he pulls the ball back into itself. Minho wonders how still has a tan in the middle of December, and why the fact that he now knows Jisung is relatively, at a bare minimum level, competent in the kitchen makes heat creep down the back of his neck.

And it’s not the surprise of discovering that Jisung is jacked alone, either. It’s the way the sun peeking through the gauzy curtains of the kitchen window illuminates the tiny puffs of flour that hang in the air, looking like stars in the daytime; the perfect backdrop for the gentle silhouette of Jisung’s profile while he continues his task, full bottom lip pulled between his teeth in concentration.

Minho pinches his own thigh, hard, forces himself to look away and pin his eyes back down onto his strawberries. He’s not going to be that guy, shamelessly checking out his own cousin’s boyfriend, no matter how oblivious to said checking out said boyfriend may be.

He’s not stupid enough to let something like momentary, fleeting infatuation at the sight an attractive man get the better of him. The fact that they’ve only spoken for a grand total of ten minutes makes it that much more ridiculous, Minho reminds himself.

So he keeps his eyes set resolutely on his strawberries until he’s finished, setting them in a saucepan over low heat; then he turns back to check on Jisung’s progress. To Minho’s surprise, he’s already done, the dough kneaded into a smooth ball which Jisung’s poking a finger into, smiling softly at the way it slowly bounces back.

“Done?” Minho asks.

Jisung looks up and nods, and Minho takes the two steps over to where he is to set the ball of dough in a greased up bowl to rest, grabbing a clean tea towel to drape across the top of it. He checks in on the strawberries once he’s done, giving them a stir with a wooden spoon before he leans back against the counter, watching Jisung’s back as he rinses off his hands.

“You can go back to bed, you know. Can’t do anything until that rises.” And there really isn’t that much left until the dough is done, by which time his jam will be ready to take off the stove and cool. To Minho’s surprise, Jisung turns around and shakes his head.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he says. “Besides, I don’t really think I can go back to sleep now.”

He rubs a hand over his bare arms before he picks up his hoodie from where he’d left it on the back of one of the mismatched kitchen chairs, slips it back on and takes a seat; Minho does not mourn the loss of the view, because that would be ridiculous.

“If you’re sure,” he says, pulling himself up to sit on the counter beside the stove so he can keep an eye on the jam. 

There’s a minute of awkward silence; Minho lazily stirs his spoon, even though there’s no need to yet, and Jisung lightly drums his fingers across the tabletop. 

“So, Felix mentioned that you grew up here,” Jisung eventually says. “New York, I mean.”

Minho nods. “Yeah, born and raised.”

Jisung breaks out into a wide grin. “Me too!” he says, leaning forward eagerly, and that comes as a surprise to Minho. “I haven’t really met anyone actually from here yet,” Jisung continues. “Felix clearly isn’t, and Seungmin’s from out of state, too. I mean, there are obviously a bunch of people around campus who are still from here, but not any that I really know.”

Minho can feel the way his eyes have gone wide, and he blurts out, “Really? But you don’t sou—” before catching himself; feels his ears burn at how blatant he’d just been. He’s relieved when Jisung’s smile doesn’t falter; if anything, Minho could swear it widens.

“I don’t sound like it? It’s alright, I know I don’t. Actually, my family moved to Malaysia when I was a kid, and I guess I picked up the accent there. Well, I guess it’s more of a mixed accent anyway. I’d say one sentence over there and everyone would know I was from abroad, and same thing here.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Minho says, and he means it; doesn’t just say it for the sake of polite small talk. “Living somewhere that’s not here, but also not Korea, either.”

Jisung props his elbow on the table, rests his chin on his palm. “I guess it is, yeah. It’s a little weird, though. Because of that reason, actually. It’s not the country I’m from, but it’s not my parents’ home either. I used to just say it was my passport country because I never really stopped feeling like an outsider.” He pauses, hums thoughtfully for a moment before he continues.

“The whole culture shock thing wasn’t even that big a deal for me, it was more about making friends there. I mean, I knew we’d be coming back home eventually, so I didn’t really want to make any big commitments? I guess you could say commitments, yeah. But even then, it was always a little hard.” He laughs softly, a little shyly.

“I know what you mean,” Minho says, resting his elbows on his knees and tilting forward slightly so he’s more eye level with Jisung. “Well, not exactly, but it’s kind of the same. I know there’s this whole reputation of it being a some big melting pot of diversity over here, but we still stand out. And most of the other Korean kids I knew would either have just moved here, or if they were born here too, they would sometimes barely seem Korean.”

Jisung raises a brow. “How do you mean?”

Minho hums as he thinks over how to answer. 

“I mean, I get why they did it, but they’d kind of try to have more to do with western culture than anything to do with Korea. And it wasn’t just Korean kids, it was kids from any other different culture too. Which isn’t really their fault, they were just trying to fit in, and it would be impossible to avoid assimilating to the place you’re raised, but I don’t know. I guess I always felt at home in Korea whenever we used to visit, but it still wasn’t my home either.”

Neither of them speak again for a moment, though it’s not as awkward as Minho would have expected it to be.

“You know,” Jisung says after a small while of silence. “I call this my home, but I’m not sure how accurate that is when I spent more time living somewhere else.” He swallows, as if he’s about to admit something he’s not quite sure of; Minho’s about to tell him he doesn’t have to say anything he doesn’t want to, but Jisung continues before he gets the chance.

“Sometimes, it kind of scares me. The idea that maybe ‘home’ here isn’t even what I think it is. That it’s just an idea I built in my head based off of some nostalgic childhood memories. Like I no longer have any claim over it since I left.” He lifts his face from his palm to rub his hand down the side of his neck.

“That’s also kind of the reason I decided to go to a college here. My family actually moved back to the states a while ago, but to a different city. I went to high school there, but I always wanted to come back here, because—well, it’s still home.” His voice is quiet, and by the end of his small confession he’s averted his gaze from Minho’s own, staring down at the grain of the wooden kitchen table instead.

Then he’s looking back up, smiling small and a little awkward. “Sorry, that was kind of a weird thing to say.”

Minho shakes his head immediately, pushing himself back up and catching Jisung’s attention with the movement. 

“It’s not weird at all. I think it would be weird if you didn’t feel that way.” He’s not quite sure about what he plans on saying next, but he continues anyway.

“I kind of feel the same way about Korea. The last time I visited was after a few years, and when we got there, it just felt so different. My grandparents were still the same, and their home was still the same, and there were even the same stores around the neighborhood. But I guess I realized that spending the summer there as a kid didn’t exactly mean I fit in any better over there compared to here.”

He laughs quietly, but it feels a little mirthless. “I guess I also felt like I lost my ‘claim’ over it, and I didn’t even get to feel like I belonged over here completely either as compensation. There's just always this weird limbo between both places. I—” He cuts himself off, but swallows and speaks again after Jisung nods at him to continue. “I guess that’s why, even though I still consider here to be my home, actual home is the people I’m with.” Minho cringes.

“As sappy as it sounds. The only reason I didn’t feel terrible in Korea again was because Felix was with me and he felt the same way about it all, and my grandparents never treated me like I was suddenly different even though that’s how I felt, and over here I always had Hyunjin.”

Jisung drops his elbow off the table, sits up a little straighter as well and smiles at him again.

“It’s not sappy, it’s sweet. It’s nice that your family means that much to you. I never had that many friends growing up, but I guess home for me is my parents’ house. Like, I’ve only been to their new place a couple times, and it’s not as if there’s even the same furniture there anymore. But they’re still there, and they’re not going to change.” Jisung coughs. “I think that was actually sappy.”

“Hey, that’s not sappy either. It’s c—” Minho almost says cute and wants to deck himself. “—cool, you know, that you’re not afraid to admit it.”

Jisung beams at him, and Minho slides off the counter; turns to check on the jam that’s been simmering so he doesn’t have to face that smile again. The heat creeping along his neck is from the stove, and nothing else.

“Think this is almost done,” Minho says, giving the jam a couple stirs. He hears Jisung get up as well, the low creaking sound of the chair moving back as he does before there’s the soft shuffle of his footsteps.

“The dough could use a bit longer,” Jisung says, and when Minho looks over he’s pressing a finger over the now-expanded ball of dough. Minho heads over, and, seeing the way the dough still has a little bit of a bounce back, silently agrees.

He takes the jam off the stove, turns back to Jisung who’s looking at him like he’s waiting for instructions on what to do next.

“Let’s grab some coffee, it should be done by the time we get back,” Minho says. “There’s a place just a couple blocks away we can get those huge boxes from, and it actually stays hot.”

“Alright, but it’ll be my treat,” Jisung says, following Minho to pull their coats on over their pajamas and and step into their shoes.

“You’re not going to get the Minho discount I always get.” He pats his pockets, makes sure he has his keys and wallet.

Jisung tugs his beanie over his sleep-mussed hair and grins. “Guess we’ll just have to get them to give us a Jisung discount instead."

Hyunjin invites himself over that afternoon; helps himself to the leftover bagels and jam in the kitchen, complains about the way the four of them shouldn’t have been able to finish off the gallon of coffee by themselves, and drapes himself over the sofa. 

Minho’s in the middle of cutting up a few pears and passing the slices over to Felix, who’s sat on the floor with his back pressed to Minho’s shins as he takes them, and in turn passes a few to Seungmin. Hyunjin wedges his feet beneath Minho’s thighs as he makes himself comfortable, and it's not long before he, Felix, and Seungmin strike up a surprisingly passionate conversation about—to Minho’s great bemusement—cryptocurrency. 

Jisung sits curled up in one of the armchairs, knees drawn up to his chest and the hem of his hoodie pulled all the way down his legs until he’s left a tiny ball of fabric; not quite half-asleep, but seconds away from beginning to nod off. He grins at Minho in thanks when he leans across to hand him a bowl of pear slices.

Then Hyunjin sits ups to ask Jisung for his opinion on something, and Minho’s almost too amused watching the way the two of them spend the next hour managing to simultaneously be overly friendly and passive aggressive with each other, for reasons Minho can’t begin to fathom; has no idea what could even warrant the petty behavior when they met less than a day ago.

They end up dragging themselves up and heading into the kitchen, and for a moment, Minho wonders if he should have kept the knife block out of sight. There’s a full minute where Minho can’t hear whatever’s going on in there, can only just make out the sight of Jisung leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed. And then: Hyunjin laughing so hard he begins to wheeze, visible now that’s doubled over and falling against the same counter; and Jisung, frantically trying to shush him and slapping his arm to no avail.

Felix tips his head back so he’s looking up at Minho and raises a brow. “Should we go see if he needs an inhaler or something?”

Minho rolls his eyes, directs his next words to Seungmin instead, sitting across from Felix on the opposite side of the small coffee table and munching on a pear slice. “So tell me again, why can't the government just print out more money?”

He only feels a little bit bad about how heated Seungmin actually gets as he spends the next half an hour answering.

Hyunjin and Jisung return a few minutes later, speaking in hushed whispers before nudging each other and rejoining the conversation as if nothing were wrong. They’re practically joined at the hip by that same evening, and Minho has absolutely no idea what any of that had been about.

He asks Hyunjin about it when he goes to walk him the short distance to the bus stop later, after the sun has set and the tree lined roads are lit only by street lamps and the sparkling, multicolor holiday lights and decorations strung up along the fronts of the brownstones and storefronts that they pass on their way. Almost pretty enough to distract from the ugly cold and the grey slush getting the bottoms of their pants wet.

“So, what was that all about? With Jisung. You barely know the guy and went from looking like you were going to pull each other's hair out to looking like there’s a pair of travelling pants that you’re now sharing.” 

Hyunjin grins at him cryptically. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yes, I would like to know, which is why I asked.” Minho rolls his eyes.

“And why do you ask?” Hyunjin turns his head to wiggle his brows at him. “Why so curious about your little guest?”

“He’s not my guest, he’s Felix’s.” Minho can make out the bus stop now, just at the end of the block.

“He’s under your roof, so he’s your guest. Now stop avoiding the question, why are you so interested?”

Minho glares. “You’re the one who’s avoiding my question. Don’t try to get smart with me.” He ignores Hyunjin’s ‘alright, eomma,’ and continues. “And I’m only asking because I don’t want you to end up fighting again and making the rest of us suffer for the rest of our break.”

Hyunjin waves a hand. “Oh, don’t worry about that, we already resolved our little conflict. We’re partners now.”

“Partners?” He snorts. “In what way would you two even be partners?”

“Jealous?” Hyunjin shoots back, and Minho scoffs as they reach the stop.

“Why would I be jealous? Please tell me what possible reason I could have to be jealous over Felix’s b—” He’s cut short when the beam of a headlight nearly blinds him, familiar white and blue city bus turning the corner ahead of them while Minho brings an arm up to cover his eyes, blinking away the spots dancing in front of him. 

He scowls; it should be illegal for the buses to turn the lights up this high, he thinks, then says as much, though in fewer words.

“Fuck the MTA.” Minho scowls.

“God, tell me about it,” Hyunjin groans as the bus pulls over to the curb.

“Text me when you’re home,” Minho says when the doors open, Hyunjin getting on with a nod and a quick wave goodbye. Minho waits until he’s seated, waves at him through the window, and watches the red streak of the tail light disappearing down the street before heading back himself, previous conversation already slipping from his mind as he curls his fists tight in his pockets to ward off the cold.

✧

Minho very soon learns that Seungmin is both a gigantic nerd—the entire Econ 101 course he’d subjected them all to after Minho had made the mistake of questioning the laws of inflation had clued him in on that one quickly enough—and that Felix hadn’t been lying when he said the two are actually close friends, and not just friendly because they’re roommates.

He had walked in on the two quietly huddled together on the sofa one afternoon—he had hoped they weren't too cold, considering the radiator in the living room can be a bit of a hit or miss, though it was warm in the room—and Felix smiled softly while speaking to Seungmin quietly. Minho’s glad; he had worried that Felix might just have been being polite when he'd offered to let Seungmin spend the break together, but he can already tell that they genuinely enjoy each other’s company.

Minho’s in the middle of preparing buchimgae for breakfast, letting his pan heat while he folds a few extra ingredients into the batter, when he learns that Jisung wears glasses. He hears footsteps padding across the floor behind him, turning around with the bowl in hand when he hears a heavy sigh and a, “That looks good,” before he nearly tips the batter onto the floor.

It’s saved only because Jisung manages to grab it in time, his hands gripping the bowl tight over Minho’s. His heart kicks hard in his chest, from both the surprise of nearly dropping the bowl, and from the way that, standing this close, he can smell the spearmint toothpaste on Jisung’s breath. It’s toothpaste; the same kind that Minho uses himself—probably from the exact same tube in the bathroom—and smells every single day; and it’s nothing special, not by any means, because it’s only toothpaste, and doesn’t warrant this sort of reaction.  Minho’s traitorous brain doesn’t seem to understand that.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to creep up on you,” Jisung says with a nervous laugh, and when Minho lifts his head from where he’d been looking at Jisung’s hands, pressing his own against the glass of the bowl beneath his now sweating palms, he’s reminded why he’d almost dropped it in the first place.

Minho swallows around his dry throat. “It’s fine,” he says, eyes locked together with Jisung’s through the lenses of the round frames perched on his nose. “You’re wearing glasses,” he adds dumbly.

Jisung blinks. “Oh, yeah. I don’t usually, but I forgot to bring contact solution, so it’s these for now.” He emphasizes ‘these’ by letting go of one hand from atop Minho’s and pushing the glasses a little further up his nose.

Minho keeps a bottle of contact solution in the bathroom cabinet, but he’s not going to volunteer that information when Jisung hasn’t asked; the fact that he won’t because he doesn’t yet know that Minho also wears contacts is irrelevant.

“Well, you look good in them anyway,” Minho says before he backtracks—what the hell is he even saying? “I mean, they’re nice frames so it’s not like they make you look bad or anything.”

Complimenting a pair of glasses frames has to be one of the lamest things he’s ever done in his entire life, and it’s a struggle to keep himself from physically cringing at the words unfortunately spoken from his own mouth.

Jisung gives him an amused look, one brow raised. “Well I should hope so, considering I picked them out.” He smiles, and the way it has his cheeks bunching up pushes against the bottoms of the frames a little, leaving them slightly skewed as he drops his other hand as well, taking a step back; a rush of Minho’s blood in his ears as his cheeks grow hot and cold sweat dampens the back of his neck in spite of the heat radiating off the stovetop behind him.

“Are you making jeon?” Jisung asks as Minho sets the bowl down, deeming it to be mixed as thoroughly as it can get. He turns back to his pan, lets a drop of batter fall off the spoon and into it to test the heat, satisfied when it sizzles.

“Yeah. You want yours crispy or thick?”

Jisung looks at him, affronted. “What kind of man do you take me for? Crispy, obviously. The only way it should be eaten.”

“Obviously,” Minho teases, even though he’s glad to know that Jisung shares the same objectively correct food opinions as he does. “Extra gochujang too?”

“Oh, no thanks.” Or maybe he doesn’t. “Well, actually, if it’s not the super spicy kind, then yeah.” Minho decides he does.

He gives the skillet a little shake, making sure nothing sticks to the bottom, and Jisung leans over to peer into the bowl of batter.

“Hey, don’t you think this is a lot?” he asks

“Well, we eat a lot.”

Jisung huffs a little laugh through his nose. “Yeah, but this still might be too much for us to finish on our own.” Minho frowns and turns to him at that.

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, I’m starving, and don’t get me wrong, your cooking has absolutely ruined probably any other food for me—” Minho stops himself before he does something like preen at that “—But it might be difficult for even the two of us to finish.”

Minho raises a brow. “It’s not just for us, you know.”

Jisung raises a brow back and nods towards the fridge behind Minho. He turns around, and he wonders how he had missed the note stuck to the door of it with the World’s Best Grandpa magnet Felix had gotten for him. And on it, Felix’s neat, cursive script reads:

went to prospect park for a morning walk with seungmin, we’ll be back in a while!

And then, beneath that: don’t make breakfast for us!!!

Minho clears his throat and turns back around. “I saw that,” he lies. 

And he can tell that Jisung knows he’s lying as well from the way the corners of his mouth twitch, and he probably knows that Minho knows that he knows. Minho crosses his arms and leans to the side against the counter, and Jisung does the same.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Then—just to confirm, we’re eating all this by ourselves?” He manages to keep a straight face in spite of the teasing lilt to his voice.

Minho’s just about to say yes, because he’s not above subjecting himself to a stomachache in order to prove a point, before he stops.

“No,” he scoffs. “Obviously not, it’s way too much,” he says as if the fact hadn’t just been pointed out by Jisung himself.

“What, is Hyunjin coming over or something?”

Minho’s not going to invite Hyunjin over, because he knows the second he walks through the door he’ll tell Jisung exactly why he came, because there’s little more that Hyunjin enjoys more than getting the upper hand on Minho whenever he can. 

He shakes his head. “No, not Hyunjin.” He pushes himself away from the counter, tells Jisung, “Keep an eye on the stove, I’ll be back in a minute,” and quickly slips out of the kitchen.

Then: shoving on a pair of shoes with the backs pushed down, because he’s only going to be in them for a minute, out the front door and up the two flights of stairs until he’s knocking on another door. It opens almost immediately to Jeongin, in a tee shirt and his old middle school gym shorts.

“Is the building on fire?” he asks.

“Come downstairs for breakfast.”

“Is that an invitation or an order?”

“It’s me offering free breakfast if you come to my apartment.”

Jeongin gives him a funny look, but he joins Minho in the hall after stepping into a pair of slippers, phone and keys in his hand a minute later, and follows him back downstairs.

When they make it inside, Jeongin flopping down on the sofa next to a sleeping Sooni and Minho heading back into the kitchen, he’s pleased to find that Jisung’s already managed to finish plating up a small stack of jeon. He lets Minho take over again and watches from the side.

“Who’s that out there?” he asks.

Minho thinks for a split second and replies, “Oh, that’s Bob.”

“Bob?”

Minho nods and wills his mouth to stay in a straight line. “Yeah, Bob.”

Jisung gives him a skeptical look, takes a quick peek around the open entryway of the kitchen into the living room and murmurs, “He doesn’t really look like a Bob.”

Ten minutes later and Jisung’s setting a heaping plate of buchimgae on the table while Minho heads into the living room to get Jeongin.

“Who’s that?” he whispers as he follows Minho. “I didn’t really think you’d be the type for one night stands.”

“What?” Minho splutters. 

“He’s not?” Jeongin looks doubtful, and Minho scoffs.

“No, he’s not!”

They’re at the table before Jeongin can question him further, and Minho pushes him into a chair before gesturing for Jisung to do the same.

“This is Jisung,” he says.

Jisung gives a small smile and an awkward little hand wave. “Hi. Uh, Minho said you’re Bob?”

Jeongin’s eyes widen. “He what?” Minho snorts so hard he coughs, and Jeongin turns to glare at him before facing Jisung again. “I’m not Bob,” he scowls.

“Don’t lie to him, Bob,” Minho scolds. Then, to Jisung, “Don’t listen to him, his name is really Bob.”

Jisung looks—understandably—confused, but his lips twitch, and Minho’s glad when he follows along.

“Do you live in the building, Bob?” he asks innocently.

“You’re going to hell, Minho.”

“Why don't you have some breakfast, and maybe you'll calm down, Bob.” He pushes the plate of buchimgae towards Jeongin, who fills up his own, shoves an entire jeon into his mouth, finishes it in a second, and turns to Jisung again.

“My name’s not actually Bob,” he explains. “Well, it’s my English name, but no one ever uses it except for this demon.”

“Oh, well that makes sense,” Jisung says with a nod. “I also don’t really use my English name that much either—at least not anymore.”

Minho’s head perks up at that. “What is it?” he asks.

Jisung huffs out a sheepish little laugh. “It’s Peter, Peter Han, and you can just imagine the very creative Peter from Queens jokes I used to hear as a kid.”

“Please tell me there’s a picture of baby Jisung in a poorly fitting, extremely terrible little Spiderman Halloween costume out there somewhere.” 

“You know, I’m pretty sure my mom has that exact picture in her wallet,” Jisung says as he uses his chopsticks to cut a piece of jeon, popping it into his mouth.

Minho fumbles his phone out of his pocket and leans across the table to shove it in Jisung’s face. “Call eomeoni right now and ask her to send it, this is imperative.”

Jisung groans and shoves his hand away, and Minho drops back into his seat with a grin. When he tears his eyes away from Jisung’s face and the embarrassed flush on his cheeks, he makes eye contact with Jeongin, who pointedly looks between Minho and Jisung, and then raises his brows. Minho clears his throat, hopes it hadn’t looked like he’d been staring or anything, even though that’s exactly what he had been doing.

“Right, anyway, so Jisung actually came over with Felix.”

Jeongin’s eyebrows manage to raise even higher. “With Felix?”

Jisung speaks up again before Minho gets the chance. “Yeah, when he found out I was just going to stay at the dorms for winter break he invited me over.” He smiles softly. “He really didn’t have to, but—well, I guess he’s just sweet like that.” A stone of guilt drops to the hollow bottom of Minho’s stomach, and he keeps his eyes trained on his plate before Jisung continues. “And so is Minho, for letting us stay here. And making sure we don’t starve.”

Minho’s eyes flick back up to find Jisung already looking at him with that same stupid smile on his face, and he quickly averts his gaze again. “It’s not that big a deal,” he mumbles. “Not like I’d just kick you out.”

“Well you still didn’t have to,” Jisung adds, and when Minho looks to the side again Jeongin has an undecipherable expression on his face; it drops in a second and Minho’s left nervously unsure about how to feel.

"I could still kick you out,” Jeongin says then, pointing his chopsticks rudely at Jisung, who doesn’t seem to mind; he looks amused. 

“You paying the rent for the apartment or something?”

Jeongin devours another jeon in a single bite before he replies, “No, but my parents are the landlords for the building, so I can still kick you out.”

“I’m not sure you understand how the eviction process works,” Jisung says gently.

“Minho’s not even technically allowed to keep his cats here,” Jeongin points out. “My mom only lets him because she thinks he’s a ‘good Korean boy,’ and that like, he’s responsible or something.” He rolls his eyes. “I could always use that as leverage."

“Am I not responsible?” Minho questions. The voice in the back of his mind tells him that no, he’s not, because otherwise there wouldn’t be a painful pounding in his chest whenever Felix’s boyfriend smiles at him.

“You got drunk and cried when your picture wasn’t in my high school yearbook because you were so wasted that you forgot you already graduated,” Jeongin replies dryly. “And this was like, two weeks ago.”

Minho glares and pulls the plate of buchimgae away from him while Jisung fails to hold back a snicker. “Okay, you know what, I think you can go home now.”

✧

It’s past noon when Minho buzzes Felix and Seungmin back into the building; they rush in through the door as soon as it’s unlocked to scramble into the warmth of the apartment. Minho himself is a morning person, but he wonders just what compelled the two of them to torture themselves by going on a walk in the morning in the middle of December, when the sun is as evasive as it is.

Minho grabs them a couple of extra blankets after they’ve changed out of their street clothes and huddle together on the sofa; teeth chattering and noses red. Jisung laughs at them, pausing the honey bee documentary he and Minho had been watching to verbalize what Minho had been thinking about the stupidity of going for a walk in the current weather, until Seungmin silences him with a pillow to the head.

Then Jisung surprises Minho by turning to him as he asks, “Hey, I was thinking of heading into Queens today. Do you want to come with me?”

“What are you going to do in Queens?”

Jisung scratches his cheek lightly. “Kind of want to check out my old neighborhood. I remember there used to be this old bakery that had those Italian butter cookies, and I swear they were the best ones in the entire city. Like, better than the ones the actual Italian places had.”

“Not better than mine though,” Felix calls over from where he’s slung his legs across Seungmin’s lap so he can get both of their blankets around himself.

“Yes,” Jisung replies solemnly. “Better than yours, too.”

“Traitor.”

Jisung grins and turns to Minho again. “So do you want to come?” 

Minho pretends to think for a minute, if only so he doesn’t look too eager by agreeing too quickly. “Sure, I want to check on my neighborhood too.”

Jisung’s eyes widen. “You also grew up in Queens?

“Yeah, Elmhurst,” Minho replies with a nod, and Jisung’s jaw drops.

“Hey, me too!” It’s not that surprising considering the fact that it’s one of the more popular neighborhoods that most Asian immigrant families usually tend to go for, but Minho finds himself smiling anyway at the gleefully shocked expression on Jisung’s face; like he’s just made the most important discovery of his life.

They’re dressed and out the door not twenty minutes later, walking the short distance from the apartment to the Seventh Avenue station, chins tipped down to their chests in an attempt to keep the cold at bay. Minho’s unsurprised to find that their train is delayed when they arrive—he would have been surprised if it actually arrived when it was supposed to.

There’s a small group of buskers playing in the tunnel who’ve already attracted a small audience with their covers of old Christmas hits, and Jisung tugs Minho along until they’re just close enough to listen to them clearly while still avoiding the crowd as they wait. He rocks back and forth on the heels of his boots in time with the music, and Minho doesn’t listen to the music itself so much as he listens to the way Jisung quietly sings along—even though he manages to get half the lyrics to Jingle Bell Rock wrong.

“You’re not half bad,” he teases after the current song comes to an end; Jisung beams at him.

“Well I should hope so.” Then, quickly adds, “I mean, because I make my own music as well so it would be disappointing if I weren’t—not just because.” He pauses for a split second, and then again adds, “But I don’t mean you have to make music to sound good, just. Well I don’t know, but you know what I mean.” He laughs quietly, softly.

“I know,” Minho says, because he does, and Jisung grins at him gratefully.

It’s three more songs before the train arrives, and by then Jisung’s coaxed Minho into softly murmuring along with him. And on the train, pressed shoulder to shoulder while they hold onto the same pole, Jisung hums again; low enough that Minho only hears because of their proximity, and he wishes he could hear him singing properly.

By the time they make it into Queens, transferring lines once they’re there, it’s already rush hour; and the only reason Minho doesn’t lose Jisung on the way back up to the street is because his candy red jacket would be hard to miss even on purpose amongst the crowd—New Yorkers do wear too much black, Minho thinks as he pulls the collar of his own black coat higher up his neck.

Jisung seems to know where he's going, how to get there as well; and, as they easily pass by the familiar storefronts and street vendors and the modest family run supermarkets—where Minho can remember accompanying Eomma on the weekends for fresh produce, because the American stores would never have the sort of ingredients that were a staple in their home—Minho's reminded of the fact that they'd both grown up in this neighborhood. It has him wondering if there had ever been a time where the two may have crossed paths, even if they have no way of knowing if that were ever even the case, and is probably unlikely anyway given the city’s population.

But the fact that these same streets he grew up on, can come back to whenever he’s needed to give his mind a soft reset, comes to on the weekends for his own food shopping for his own home now, streets he could probably draw down from memory, are the same that Jisung holds close to himself and calls his home, despite the years spent away and his own uncertainty about the status of home, sends pressure into his chest; a metric ton of something that’s between a feeling of fondness and excitement. It has him slowing his pace as he walks along the street, trying to tamp down the unexpected sentiment.

Jisung turns around when he notices Minho’s not beside him anymore, stretching his hand out, palm up; waves it rapidly at him until Minho fits his own hand against Jisung’s and allows him to tug them both down the street, past the storefronts and multitude of shops. He knows it's only so they won't get separated, the holiday season making the rush worse than usual, but there's no harm in ignoring that fact as long as he doesn't pretend it means something more; as long as he doesn't let himself think it amounts to anything more, because it doesn’t.

He’s pulled away from his thoughts only when Jisung comes to an abrupt stop and gasps.

“What the hell? I swear it used to be here! I know it used to be here!”

They’re stood right on the corner of the block, facing a storefront with a deep green awning and a window sign boasting various health foods. Jisung whips around to check the street name, turning back with a frown

“This should be it,” he says, perplexed.

“Maybe it was on the other side?” Minho suggests.

Jisung doesn’t reply, but he grips Minho’s hand a little harder as he leads them around the corner and over to the opposite end of the street. This time there’s only a laundromat in front of them.

With a short huff, Jisung pulls the two of them back over to where he’d originally stopped; stands facing the storefront and stares at it hard, like maybe if he does so for long enough, it’ll shift back into the bakery he’d been expecting. He all but glares through the window for a minute more before he drops his eyes and sighs.

“I’m sure it was this one,” he mutters; he doesn’t look dejected as much he does disappointed, and Minho immediately decides that he hates to see it. Jisung sighs again, reluctantly turns on his heel. “Come on,” he says with a light pull on Minho’s hand. “Guess that was a waste of time,” he sighs.

Minho shakes his hand free before Jisung can drag him along further down the street. At the confused look he gives him, says, “Just give me a second,” and slips into the shop, bell above the door giving a little chime as it shuts behind him.

He steps back out ten minutes later and empty-handed, to which Jisung raises a brow.

“Nothing good?” 

“They didn’t have any ginseng.” Minho begins to head back the way they came and Jisung quickly follows.

“Pretty sure you can get ginseng from literally any other place here,” Jisung says, nodding towards the multiple grocers they pass by.

“Yeah, but they only sell the whole root, and I was looking for ginseng tea. The guy there said they have another place in Astoria.”

“So we’re going to Astoria for ginseng tea?” Jisung snorts.

“Yeah. I mean, unless you still wanted to take a look around.” 

“Not really—I already took a trip to see our old place when I first got back. I honestly only wanted to come today to see if that bakery was still open.”

“Alright, then Astoria. I think we can still catch the M if we hurry.”

“What do you even need ginseng tea for anyway? Isn’t that only for like, old people with cholesterol issues?” He huffs a little as he keeps pace, and Minho slows his own steps until they’re in sync.

“It’s good for your immune system,” Minho defends.

At the station, and the train’s on time for once; they pass the thirty minute ride in silence this time. Then: back onto the street, and it’s drizzling, the air colder than before; a sharper, much more painful sting of the wind against their exposed skin. 

“Do you even know where the place is?” Jisung asks with a shiver between the words, hands jammed so far down into his pockets that they push the hem of his puffer low against his frame.

“It should be right here,” Minho promises, quickens his pace and hears the thud of Jisung’s boots as he does the same just behind him. Down the street, a few quick turns—backtracking once—and Minho’s sure it should be just here, eyes flitting quickly along the storefronts, trying to search for the name.

Jisung spots it first; gasps, then groans; then pulls a stiff hand out of his pocket to slap Minho hard between his shoulder blades.

“Fuck you,” he says, but the way his teeth click together with shivers and the way he can barely get the words out without stopping the smile from spreading on his face kills their intended effect. “Ginseng tea,” he says in a poor, high pitched imitation of Minho’s voice—though he’s sure that was intentional—before he scoffs and grabs Minho by the sleeve to drag him into the bakery.

Minho can’t stop his own smile as he follows Jisung inside, the rush of warmth and the sticky-sweet smell of butter pastry nothing compared to the way Jisung’s eyes light up as he nearly presses his nose to the large glass display case beside the unmanned counter. He makes a strangled little sound of excitement before whipping around to face Minho.

“I never even told you the name, how did you even—” he doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t need to.

“Asked the guy at the store if he knew what happened to the bakery that used to be there, and he said they relocated a couple years back. He had the address too, said it was his uncle’s bakery.”

“You just asked?” 

“I mean, yeah? What else?”

Jisung gives him a funny look, but before Minho can say anything about it a man steps in from the backroom, and Jisung already has an order ready and waiting.

They end up getting two boxes of butter cookies, which Jisung insists won’t survive the night. He'd made Minho try one before they left, and he has absolutely no doubts about that claim. It’s dark out when they finally make their way back, but the light rain has stopped. They skip the buses and the cabs and opt for the subway again, but by the time they reach the tunnel, it's already a quarter to seven, and the next train leaves in five minutes.

Minho's trying to fit his metrocard back into his wallet with frozen fingers when Jisung begins running. He doesn't understand he's also supposed to be running until Jisung shouts for him to hurry up; and there are so many people, so many bodies to push past that Minho's afraid he's going to lose him, so he runs as fast as he can, dodging weary travelers and irritated side glances.

He runs until Jisung's just in front of him, and he can faintly smell the cookies in the bag clutched to his chest and hear him gasping softly as the cold air seeps into his lungs and burns him. Then he's turning back to face Minho, hand reaching out so he can pull him forward, thin fingers carding through the empty spaces between Minho’s own. They manage to slip through the open doors just as they begin to close. Panting, sweaty; they laugh quietly together like children sharing a secret.

In spite of the rush in the tunnel, the car they find themselves in is only half full. They end up sitting side by side, thigh to thigh and with their knees knocking together briefly, bag of cookies in Jisung’s lap. It’s because of the cold that they’re wedged together so closely, Minho tells himself. Only the cold. And then he feels it; soft tickle of light fingers on the back of his hand; looks down and finds their fingers still entwined, skin pink and numb from the frigid air they’d just escaped and bleeding into white where their knuckles are locked tightly together.

Jisung flits his fingertips across the back of Minho’s hand once again, runs the pad of his thumb across the knuckle at the base of Minho’s own just once; he shows no signs of letting go, and Minho hopes the rattling of the subway car covers the loud click of this throat when he swallows around his heart.

✧

“You’re not bringing a tree into my home.”

“And why not? It’s literally Christmas!” Hyunjin’s arms flail at the word ‘Christmas,’ and Minho would cross his own over his chest if he didn’t have a lapful of Doongi, purring in his sleep.

“Because none of us have a car and I’m not going to rent one either, because it’s not going to fit through the door, and even if it does I don’t want that thing dropping needles, and I don’t want to water it, and I don’t want it bringing any weird little bugs inside, and I don’t want it catching fire because someone forgot to turn the lights off.”

“Don’t you want somewhere to keep the presents?”

“I’ll keep the presents up your a—”

“Can’t you just get an artificial tree?” Felix asks without looking away from the flatscreen as his Princess Peach laps Seungmin’s Dry Bones.

“And let it take up precious storage space for the rest of the eleven months out of the year? No way, not happening.”

Jisung, sitting sideways in the armchair so he can watch the riveting Mario Kart match, twists around to face Minho. “Just make Hyunjin deal with keeping it when you’re done,” he suggests. Minho sits up a little straighter on the sofa.

“Hey Hyun—”

“I heard,” Hyunjin says, rolling his eyes. “And why should I be the one keeping it if it’s for your place?”

“Did you forget the part where you’re the one who's been insisting on a tree for my place?” Minho scoffs.

“Then just throw it out if you don’t want to keep it!”

“That’s such a waste of money, not to mention terrible for the envio—”

“You could just buy one a week before, and then you’d still have time to return it after you’re done,” Seungmin cuts over them both. “Just check the return policy before you pick one.” He groans when Felix wins the course, setting his controller down and stretching his arms out in front of himself while Peach celebrates on screen.

Minho blinks. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

“Of course it’s not,” Seungmin says matter-of-factly. “Surprised none of you bothered to think of it.”

Minho catches Jisung grinning out of the corner of his eye and watches as he moves one leg away from where it had been bent across the armrest so he can nudge his foot against Seungmin’s side.

“Smartass,” he coos, then giggles when Seungmin squirms to get away. Minho resolutely ignores the warmth creeping into his chest at the way Jisung’s voice drops a tone when he laughs harder at the face Seungmin pulls.

He quickly turns away when Hunjin slaps his hands together with a sound rivalling that of a clap of thunder. “Okay, then it’s settled!” He points an accusatory finger at Minho. “You are going to pick out the prettiest fake tree you can find, and I’ll bestow upon you the honor of my decorating skills, and then you can return it.” He pauses, then quickly adds, “But not until after New Year’s!”

Minho frowns. “Why not until then?”

“Because then Changbin won’t get to see it,” he says, like the answer is obvious.

“It’s not like he’s never seen a Christmas tree before.” Minho scoffs, rolling his eyes.

Hyunjin ignores his very reasonable statement to instead pull what Minho’s come to recognize as his extremely poor attempt at puppy eyes. 

“Hyung,” he starts, drawing out the word, and Minho can’t stop the hideous cackle he lets out at that, loud enough that Doongi wakes with a mrow, Jisung startles halfway out of the chair, and Felix pauses his solo round to look back at him.

“Oh my god, please don’t ever try to act all cutesy like that again,” Minho pleads, joins his palms together and gives them a little rub until Hyunjin scowls.

“Hyung,” he repeats through gritted teeth, and Minho snorts but lets him continue. “Could you pretty please make us some hot chocolate?” He bats his lashes, although it has the opposite of his intended effect.

“You know where the kitchen is, help yourself.”

“Come on, you know it’s not the same! You don’t even tell us what you put in it!” Hyunjin whines.

“That’s too bad then.” Minho pulls his legs up under himself, closing his eyes as he nestles himself deeper into the sofa cushions; ignores Hyunjin’s grumbles before he hears someone else speak.

"What he puts in it?" He recognizes Jisung's voice.

"He uses like, this secret spice blend or something that's just amazing. You have to try it." Minho doesn't like the tone of Hyunjin’s voice; it's almost enough to send a shiver up his spine. "Hey Minho," bony elbow digging into Minho's arm which he chooses to ignore, "Jisung wants to try it."

Minho cracks his eyes open just enough to first glare at Hyunjin, wearing a look of pure evil on his face, and then shift his gaze to Jisung, who looks back at him with what are undoubtedly the type of puppy eyes Hyunjin been aiming for, although Minho's pretty sure he's not even aware that he's making them.

"No, it's okay, you don't have to," he says quickly. "I was just asking."

Hyunjin jabs his elbow into Minho again and he slaps it away with a wince.

"Jisung can have some," he says, then adds, "And Seungmin." Seungmin looks up from where he's hooked his chin over Felix’s shoulder to watch him play at the mention of his name. "Because they've never had it before. But you can make your own."

"Hey, what about me?" Felix pauses his game again. "I shouldn't be punished for Hyunjin’s crimes!"

"And Felix," Minho acquises.

"Now this is just prejudice," Hyunjin complains.

Minho ignores him as he pats Doongi into crawling off his lap, hauling himself off the sofa and padding into the kitchen to begin pulling the necessary ingredients down from the cabinets. He’s getting the milk and a chocolate bar from the fridge when he hears the patter of small footsteps behind him.

He’s not surprised to find Jisung behind him once he turns around, nudging the fridge door closed with his hip.

“Yeah?” Minho asks. “Chocolate’s going to take a while, if that’s what you were coming to see.”

“Well I know that, I just came to check out the process behind this apparently magical hot chocolate.” He looks at the ingredients assembled on the counter and his eyes widen. “You’re using all of that?” he asks, incredulous.

“No, I just like it when they keep me company.”

Jisung scoffs and smacks him on the shoulder lightly before hoisting himself up to sit on the free space at the end of the counter; Minho fills up the saucepan and starts on chopping up the bar of chocolate while he lets the milk simmer.

It’s quiet except for the quick, dull sound of Minho’s knife tapping against the cutting board with each chop; the low sound of conversation and music drifting over from the living room, slow street noises coming in through the kitchen window; a soft thump that Minho’s long ago come to recognize as the sound of a cat jumping onto a surface, and when he turns to check, finds Doongi’s followed him into the kitchen, sniffing at Jisung’s hand.

“Hey, I wanted to ask,” Jisung says softly, as if he’s afraid of disturbing the quiet around them. “You’re really good at all of this—cooking, I mean.” Minho hums to let him know he’s listening. “Do you work at a restaurant or something?”

Minho laughs. “I wouldn’t say I’m that good. I guess the term home chef would be accurate though.” He scrapes up the now-cut chocolate with the flat of his knife and begins adding it to the milk. “Though, I did consider culinary school for a while.” 

“But you didn’t end up going?” When Minho turns back to face him, Jisung’s got his brow furrowed while one hand absentmindedly pets along Doongi’s back.

“No, but I don’t really mind. It’s not as if I want to cook for a living, I just like doing it. I think it’s enough for me to enjoy it, and I don’t really need to know if it passes some sort of standard as long as whoever I’m making it for enjoys it too.” He shakes out a few pods of cardamom from the small glass jar he keeps them in, peeling them open to remove the seeds.

“That makes sense,” Jisung says with a nod. “I feel the same way about my music.”

“Yeah?”

Jisung grins. “Yeah. At first I used to just write songs for myself, and I did really feel like that was enough, because as long as I like them, then there’s nothing else to it, right? But then I started posting some of them, and then some of the comments I got made me realize I kind of wanted to do more. I mean, music helped me through a lot, and if anyone else could find my own music relatable—if it could help someone else out, then I would enjoy it even more myself.” He laughs a little nervously. “It sounds kind of selfish, doing it just to make myself feel good but—well, whatever.”

Minho frowns. “I don’t think you’re being that fair calling it selfish. I mean, you’re still sharing something that you’ve created, right? Even if it’s so you can feel good about it yourself, you feel good about it because it’s helping someone feel listened to—so they feel good too.” Minho goes to grab his mortar and pestle, and he laughs at the way Jisung’s eyes widen once he sees them.

“I thought you were making hot chocolate,” he all but interrogates.

“I am. Didn’t you say you wanted to see the process? This is the process." 

He picks out a single star anise from another glass jar, takes the two steps over to Jisung and Doongi and holds it out to let his cat sniff at it. He’s figured out that the best way to keep the cats out of the way when he cooks is to let them check out his ingredients beforehand to relieve some of their curiosity.

Doongi’s interested in it only for a moment before dropping down from the counter; and then, before he can think, hand moving on its own, Minho brings the tiny dried fruit up to Jisung’s nose. Jisung blinks down at it for a moment before Minho realizes what he’s doing and quickly pulls his hand back. He opens his mouth to apologize for whatever the hell he just did, but Jisung speaks before he can.

“Did—did you just try to do to me what you just did to him?” He nods towards Doongi, who’s now curled up on one of the kitchen chairs, and his face breaks into a smile; Minho doesn’t answer, hopes if he ignores it then Jisung might forget it happened. He spins on his heel, and Jisung grabs his wrist and spins him back before he can get away.

“The chocolate's going to burn,” he lies, knowing that he’d set the heat too low for that to happen any time soon. He doesn’t know why he can’t meet Jisung’s eyes, and both his ears and the skin beneath Jisung’s hand burn when he starts to laugh.

“Oh my god, you really just treated me the same as one of your cats.” He sounds absolutely delighted.

“It was force of habit, okay?” Minho sounds whiney even to his own ears. He pulls his wrist towards himself half-heartedly, and Jisung pulls back until Minho stumbles forward into the space between his knees, burn in his ears immediately racing down his neck.

“If anything, that makes it worse! You gave me the kitty treatment without even realizing you were giving me the kitty treatment.”

Minho scoffs. “That was barely even the kitty treatment. Me doing this—” he lifts his free hand up to scratch Jisung under the chin— ”Would have been the kitty treatment.” He’d moved without thinking again, and his fingers still when he sees Jisung’s eyes go wide, smile faltering.

Minho drops his hand immediately, and he feels dread seep into his veins. What the hell are you doing, he thinks, when Jisung has a boyfriend—a boyfriend who’s not only sitting less than twenty feet away, but who’s also Minho’s cousin. There’s a small voice in the back of his head, reminding him that he hadn’t done anything wrong; reminds him that he’s done the same thing to Hyunjin, and even Felix himself, on more than one occasion. But the way Jisung reacted, suddenly nervous, makes Minho think: what if he knows?

But then Jisung’s smiling again, and it’s more of a smirk this time. “Well, then I guess your cats have it pretty good.” He lets go of Minho’s wrist, leans back on his palms, and doesn't do anything more than just watch him while Minho slowly steps out of his space. Minho rolls his eyes exaggeratedly to cover for the flush he knows is visible on his neck, hopes his hair at least covers his ears, and turns back to face the hot chocolate simmering on the stove.

He tries to ignore Jisung’s eyes on his back while he drops the star anise, along with the cardamom seeds, into the small marble mortar, crushing them down to a fine powder that he deposits into the saucepan; he adds a pinch of both salt and cinnamon, giving the concoction a few stirs and letting it simmer for a minute more before pouring out five brimming mugs of the stuff. 

A soft rustling as Jisung slides back down onto his feet, and he’s reaching out to help carry the drinks out to the others before Minho can ask. Four mugs on the coffee table, and Minho slips back into the kitchen to grab the last one before Hyunjin can complain again. Seungmin takes a sip first, and Minho’s mildly offended by the genuine surprise on his face when pulls the mug away from his lips, looks at it for a second, and then takes in another mouthful.

“Wait, this is actually good,” he deadpans.

“That’s because the cyanide hasn’t kicked in yet,” Minho replies sweetly. Then, turning to Jisung, he stage whispers, “Don’t worry, it’s only in his. Yours is fine.”

“Oh, good.” Jisung presses a palm over his heart in relief, grins at Minho over the top of his mug before taking a drink; and Minho is anything but offended at the way Jisung’s eyes widen, holding the chocolate in his cheeks for a second before he swallows it down hastily. “Shit, this is like, really good.”

“I know, I made it.”

“But I mean, really good.”

Minho repeats slowly, as if explaining something to a very small child, “I know, I made it.”

Jisung scoffs around a smile. “You know what I mean.” 

✧

They very quickly end up developing an unofficial morning routine: Felix and Seungmin head over to the park before anyone else is awake, leaving a note telling Minho whether or not he should make breakfast for them; Jisung ends up as Minho’s sous chef for breakfast—and any other time he prepares a meal—wherein the majority of his sous cheffing consists of sitting either at the table or on the empty counter space and keeping Minho company, although he fulfils the occasional tasks Minho gives him easily enough.

The routine breaks just over a week later, when Minho and Jisung sit at the kitchen table trying to decide whether or not they—or rather, Minho—have enough energy to make something when it’s only going to be the two of them, or if they should just grab coffee from the place where Jisung had managed to successfully earn himself a Jisung discount.

They’re interrupted when the buzzer goes off, and it doesn’t let up until Minho gets up to hit the button at the intercom just a little too hard. He’s sliding the deadbolt open right as Felix and Seungmin make it over.

“Too cold,” Felix answers before Minho can ask. “It started snowing the second we got there, and I mean the second we got there,” and Minho can see where the snow had melted onto the shoulders of their coats and into their hair.

They shiver their way back into their room to change into dry clothes, and when Minho heads into the living room to clear the nest of blankets he’s made his bed off of the sofa while he waits for them so they can decide on what to do for food—he still doesn’t think he has enough energy to cook anything today—he finds Jisung already there. Except, he’s not clearing the mess so much as he’s situated himself in it, with Dori in his lap and pressing small paws against his chest.

Jisung glances up, face lighting up with a smile when he spots Minho, and he waves a hand at him excitedly. “Hey, come look!”

Minho doesn’t see anything unusual when he stops in front of the sofa, and he arches a brow in a silent question.

“Look.” Jisung flits his eyes down to where Dori kneads his paws into the fabric of his hoodie. “He’s making cookies.”

Minho takes the spot next to him, sitting sideways as he reaches a hand out to pet Dori between the ears, directing his words to the cat instead of Jisung. “Good job, I think we’ll have enough dough for a dozen Jisung cookies now.”

Jisung pushes his glasses up his nose and brings a hand to his chin in mock thought. “How long are you supposed to bake those for?”

“Well, normally it would be around ten minutes, but you can’t really tell with Jisung cookies, since they’re so small.”

“Yeah?” Jisung grins, and Minho nods with full seriousness.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t want to burn them, but you shouldn’t make the mistake of taking Jisung cookies out of the oven too early.”

Jisung rests his elbow on the back of the sofa and leans as close as he can without disturbing Dori and looks at him imploringly.

“But wouldn’t that also depend on the temperature of the oven?”

“Well, you didn’t ask about the temperature.” He feels kind of ridiculous for having this argument, or debate, or whatever it is.

“Well, it was implied.”

Jisung leans in a little further, and this close Minho can smell the artificial strawberries from his shampoo—Minho’s own shampoo—drifting over from his hair, and he can see that it’s not just the one mole he has on his cheek, but two smaller ones as well; one just a little higher on his cheekbone and the other closer to the perimeter of his face. Minho has the fleeting thought of taking a pen and connecting them all together.

“Hey,” Jisung says, quiet, voice low. “Did you know you have a little mole right here?” He lifts a hand and taps a finger where it is on his own nose.

Minho blinks before he widens his eyes. “Really? I do? You know, I’ve looked at my own face in the mirror every day for over twenty years and I guess I’ve just never noticed it.”

“God, you’re so mean,” Jisung laughs, and Minho thinks the pretty heart of his smile together with the way his nose cutely scrunches up with mirth is even meaner.

The click of a door opening then, and Minho quickly turns away from Jisung’s face as Felix and Seungmin return.

Seungmin grabs the end of the blanket Minho’s sitting on, yanking on it until Minho’s forced to stand up with a grumble, and takes his place on the sofa. Jisung gets up as well, lifting Dori with him, and waves a hand at Felix until he flops down next to Seungin with a grateful smile; Minho pretends it isn’t guilt that he feels at the sight of it.

He clears his throat. “What do you guys want to eat?” he asks. “I don’t really want to make anything, though,” he adds.

“Then why did you ask?” Seungmin snorts.

“Because it’s called being polite,” Minho shoots back.

“You know what that means?” Seungmin gasps.

“Don’t want to eat anything,” Felix interrupts, maneuvering himself around on the sofa until he’s curled on his side with his head in Seungmin’s lap. “Want to sleep.”

Minho glances over at Jisung at that, subtle flicker of his eyes that almost immediately turns into a not so subtle, dumbstruck stare once he sees Jisung cradling Dori against his chest like he’s a newborn baby, softly scratching beneath the cat’s chin. He can probably feel Minho’s eyes on him because he looks up directly at him.

“I don’t really feel like eating either,” he says, and Minho’s glad he’d mistaken his stare for being inquisitive instead of whatever it had actually been.

“I’ll tell Hyunjin to bring some coffee when he comes over then,” he suggests.

Ten minutes later and he’s slipping his phone back into his pocket after Hyunjin confirms he’ll be there in just over an hour if the MTA behaves, two if not. 

When he heads back into the living room, Felix and Seungmin are both asleep on the sofa, and Jisung’s carefully depositing a sleeping Dori onto the armchair before he turns to Minho.

“Wanna watch a movie?” he asks.

“Yeah, but not in here.” He looks pointedly towards the sofa. “Don’t want to wake them up.”

Jisung nods and follows him down the hall and into his room; Minho doesn’t know why he’s suddenly nervous about Jisung being in his room, considering the fact that he's been staying in there and therefore already knows what it looks like, but he feels a little on edge anyway as Jisung grabs his laptop and begins setting up a movie.

There’s no mess, but he’s already gotten his own things situated around the room. Minho had noticed whenever he went in to grab something, but he hadn’t given it a proper look until now. There’s a couple of hoodies draped across the back of his desk chair, a bottle of cologne that Minho doesn’t recognize as his own atop a chest of drawers.

His suitcase is pushed against the end of the bed, and on the bed itself are a couple of small plushies; Minho doesn’t think he can be blamed for finding it endearing that Jisung thought to bring them along but had forgotten to pack contact solution.

“Sorry for stealing your room,” Jisung says, sitting on the bed with his back against the headboard while he searches for something to watch.

Minho waves him off. “Don’t worry about it.” Then, catching sight of another hoodie hanging behind the door: “You have a lot of hoodies.”

Jisung chuckles, almost timidly. “Yeah, I guess I do. But they’re comfortable. It’s like having a security blanket that I can just wear and take with me anywhere.” He shifts a little closer to the wall and pats the space next to him. “I hope you like Ghibli,” he adds.

“It should be a criminal offense not to,” Minho replies, climbing up next to him. They sit shoulder to shoulder, Jisung balancing the laptop on his legs which he stretches out in front of him. “Which one are we watching?”

Jisung plays the movie in lieu of a response, and Minho immediately recognizes the opening scene to Kiki’s Delivery Service.

“Oh, this one’s my favorite,” he says, pleased.

Jisung turns to him and grins. “Because of the cat?”

“If my favorite Ghibli movie was based solely on whether or not it included cats then, by that logic, wouldn’t it have to be The Cat Returns?”

“No, because Jiji is objectively the best Ghibli cat character,” Jisung says, like it’s obvious; Minho can’t argue with him there.

They watch in a comfortable silence after that, passing only the occasional comment until they reach the scene where Kiki slowly begins to lose her powers as a witch.

“You know,” Jisung says quietly. “This movie isn’t my favorite, but it’s the one that I relate to the most, so it’s always been a little special.”

Minho hums. “Yeah?”

Jisung laughs softly. “Alone and friendless in a new city, feeling like an outsider and losing her magic because of it? Yeah, it used to hit a little too close to home.” For a moment, he doesn’t say anything else, and Minho doesn’t press him in spite of the fact that he can tell that there’s more he wants to say.

“I think that’s maybe why it’s my favorite,” he says instead. “How despite everything, all of her anxiety and worries, she still makes a new home for herself at the end because of the people who helped her. It made me realize I could make a home anywhere as well.”

Jisung turns to face him fully, knee pressed atop Minho’s own, and Minho tips his own head towards him as well. “When I was younger I used to feel like an alien who landed here by mistake or something, just because nowhere really felt like home to me either,” he admits. “It never felt like I belonged anywhere, and I couldn’t tell if it was just from the move, or if there was something wrong with me.”

Minho doesn’t think when he reaches out to curl his fingers over Jisung’s hand where it rests in his lap, gives it a small squeeze; when he feels Jisung’s hand immediately move from beneath his, he feels something cold and thick run in his veins. It’s short lived, because all Jisung does is turn his hand over so he can press his palm to Minho’s and wrap his own fingers around the back of Minho’s hand. 

“Of course, I don’t feel that way now, and I mean—it’s not like I’m perfect, but I’m proud of myself anyway.” He hums in thought, and then, “I think if the me from five years ago met the me from now, then he’d be proud too.”

“Well, that’s what’s most important, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is.” Jisung looks up at him with a smile and a hard press of his fingers against Minho’s hand.

Minho quickly flicks his own eyes back to the screen. His heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his fingertips, and he hopes Jisung doesn’t feel it either as he shifts so he’s facing frontwards again, pulling their joined hands back over to his lap.

The comfortable silence returns as they finish the rest of the movie, and Minho tries to focus on the town of Koriko instead of the pricklings of penitence slowly pushing to the front of his mind.

✧

Minho comes back from a trip to the Saturday greenmarket to the smell of freshly baked sweetness drifting out into the hall before he even gets the apartment door open.

The smell is even stronger once he’s inside, and he can make out a distinctly nutty, toffee-like, aroma, the air pleasantly warmer than usual. He’s just barely managed to kick his boots off and hang up his coat before a hand is pressing a cookie against his mouth, warm enough that a chunk of chocolate melts onto his lip.

“Look what Felix made!” Jisung grins, nudging the cookie against Minho’s mouth until he catches his wrist, stilling his hand so he can take a proper bite out of it. He can feel the mix of chocolate and sweet, softly crumbling cookie immediately melt on his tongue, almost hot enough to burn. 

“Holy shit,” he groans, moving to take another bite and stopping short when he feels Jisung’s fingertips graze his lip. He nearly chokes around a swallow, and he’s glad Jisung doesn’t notice as he pops the remaining piece into his own mouth and licks the melted chocolate from his fingers, and Minho looks away from his mouth to focus on the daisy studs in his ears instead.

“Right? I told him he should patent the recipe,” Jisung says proudly, following Minho as he heads inside properly. He spots Hyunjin and Jeongin on the sofa, plate of cookies on the coffee table in front of them, and stops to grab another before heading into the kitchen to put away the groceries.

There’s a tray of cookies cooling on the stovetop, and Felix and Seungmin are sat at the kitchen table munching from another plate.

“How many batches did you make?” Minho asks as he sets the bag on the counter and begins to pull out his groceries.

“Just two, but I think I might make some more since the first one’s already gone,” Felix replies around a mouthful.

Minho hums, balancing the assortment of fruits and vegetables in his arms as he puts them away in the fridge. It’s when he’s about to shut the door after finishing up that he pauses.

“Hey Felix?”

“Yeah?”

“How did you make cookies without any butter?”

Felix frowns. “What do you mean? Of course I used butter! Only godless men would make cookies with oil instead of butter.”

Minho takes the stick of butter from the fridge door and holds it up for Felix to see, raising one brow quizzically.

“Oh, I needed unsalted butter so I could control how much I put in, so I used the one from the freezer. The wrapping said it was unsalted.”

Minho’s blood runs cold. 

“You what?”

“Sorry, were you saving that?” Felix smiles apologetically, and Minho quickly shuts the fridge and takes the two steps over to the table.

“Felix,” he says quietly. “How much—how many have you guys had?”

“Around a dozen between all of us? Why, had it gone bad or something?” He looks worried, and Minho’s not sure if he would be more or less so if he told him that he’d inadvertently made the best edibles that Minho has ever had in his life.

Minho doesn’t end up having to tell him, because Seungmin’s eyes widen with realization before he can come to a decision.

“Don’t tell me that was weed butter or something.” At Minho’s silence: “Shit, I knew it looked weird. Felix, I told you it looked weird!” 

“And I told you I thought it was just like, some fancy organic butter or something!” Felix’s voice quickly rises with panic.

“There wasn’t that much in it,” Minho tries to reassure him. “But if you each ate at least two then—wait, fuck, how many did Jeongin have?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before running back into the living room, making it just in time to slap Hyunjin’s hand away from taking another cookie, and grabs the plate off the table.

“What the hell? There’s more in the kitchen, get your own.” Hyunjin reaches for the plate and Minho pulls it back.

Jeongin looks at him quizzically. “You good?” 

“Felix made edibles by mistake,” MInho blurts out. He hears a cut-off choking sound from behind him and turns to see Jisung who’s stopped with a cookie halfway to his mouth.

“He what?”

“How do you make edibles by mistake?” Hyunjin cries.

“Why don’t I feel anything then? These are kinda shit edibles,” Jeongin complains, and Minho turns back around to look at him.

“You’ll feel something, and you’re staying here while it lasts so your parents don’t evict me for getting their child high.”

Minho doesn’t feel a thing in the first hour, to the point where he almost believes that maybe he had been mistaken and Felix used regular butter—even though he knows he hadn’t.

It’s during the second hour, when he’s watching Jisung sit on the floor, back against the sofa with Hyunjin between his knees as he twists his hair up into twin ponytails, that Minho feels it. He feels it kick in from his stomach first, before a dull warmth slowly envelops his entire body, and his eyes become heavy—not his eyelids, but his eyes themselves. He lets them droop shut for just a moment, and when he opens them again, he’s seeing the world through film.

It’s as if his vision is a collection of pictures that have been spaced apart by a fraction of a second—nearly imperceptible, but enough for him to notice the difference. Jisung’s hands seem to be moving just a little oddly as he begins to tie the hair that’s left at the back of Hyunjin’s head into a third ponytail, and when he turns to the side, Minho catches a glimpse of his eyes: completely bloodshot.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, and that makes both Jisung and Hyunjin turn to him. 

Hyunjin’s equally bloodshot eyes widen. “Holy shit. You look like—like shit.”

"You look like shit," Minho replies eloquently. He turns to Jisung. “You look like shit, too.”

“No, like. You look like shit,”  Hyunjin stresses, leaning forward.

“We’re high,” Minho explains.

“Oh.” He shuffles forward until he’s in the middle of the room, then drops himself down on his back, starfished across the rug.

Minho turns to his side. Jeongin’s knocked out cold, which he’s eternally grateful for, and he can see Felix and Seungmin still in the kitchen, hunched over the table and whispering conspiratorially, occasionally glancing over into the room before continuing.

Jisung hasn’t said anything since he convinced Hyunjin to let him put up his hair, and he hasn’t moved yet either. Minho frowns.

“Hey, Jisung. You good?”

Jisung turns to him and blinks slowly. “Hungry.”

“Wanna order a pizza?”

Jisung shakes his head. “Let’s order two pizzas.” He says it as if it’s something he’s finally come to a decision about after a full week of thinking it through.

Minho scoots forward until he slips off the sofa and onto the floor, leaning closer. “Wait. How about three?”

Jisung’s eyes widen and he nods quickly while Minho fumbles his phone out of his pocket, and Jisung leans his ear as close as he can against the back of the phone while Minho calls up the one place he knows always delivers, considering the light snowfall that’s begun.

“Hi, can I please get—” he turns to Jisung.

“Cheese.”

“—three cheese pizzas?” He looks to Jisung again.

“Extra large.”

“Extra large,” Minho repeats. He confirms the address and the total for all three pies, leaning back on his palm as he hangs up. 

The buzzer goes off a second later and Minho immediately sits back up, whipping around to face Jisung and finds him already looking back.

“What the fuck?” Jisung whispers, but Minho’s just as confused. Jisung stumbles to his feet, and he gets to the door before Minho can process just what exactly is happening. He hears the front door click open, a murmur of voices, and then Jisung shouts, “Minho, fuck, get over here!”  Minho grabs the closest thing he can—one of Seungmin’s textbooks, because he’s insane enough to actually be studying in advance for the next semester—and rushes to the door.

There’s no mass murderer wielding a cleaver, only a guy holding a stack of pizza boxes and looking mildly confused. Jisung waves his hand at Minho, ushering him closer, and then turns back to the guy at the door.

“Say it again,” he urges, and guy furrows his brow.

“Hello?”

Jisung turns to Minho so quickly he nearly slips. “It’s another Felix,” he whispers, even though he’s loud enough that he may as well have spoken in his regular voice. “I mean, who even talks like that?”

Minho turns back to the guy with the pizza. The little tag on his shirt reads 'Chris,' and he looks both confused and mildly offended.

Minho decides he hates this guy.

He pulls a couple of notes from his wallet, hands them over, takes the pizza from his hands and says, “I don’t like you,” before shutting the door in his face.

✧

Felix is appalled to learn that Minho doesn’t own a bicycle.

“But you said you like cycling!” he accuses.

“I do, I just don’t have a bike. You think a bike would fit in this place?”

Felix sighs and drops down onto the sofa, letting his neck loll over the back of it. “Seungmin and I were going to go cycling today,” he complains.

“They have bike rentals at the park.”

“I know, but it would have been better if we just borrowed your hypothetical, non-existent one instead,” Felix bemoans.

“Wouldn’t you still need two?”

“Nah, we can just take turns on the handlebars.” Minho thinks that’s a little strange, but doesn’t comment.

“I could help you steal Jeongin’s,” he offers, and Felix perks up instantly, pulling himself up to sit straight.

“I’m listening.” He leans in conspiratorially even though they’re the only ones in the room.

“He keeps it on the fire escape, so you’ll probably need two people to get it through the window.”

Felix nods, giving Minho his full attention. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“You’ll have to get it down the stairs quietly, too,” Minho points out; Felix waves him off.

“Jisung can carry it down, that’s not a problem. But how are we going to keep Jeongin out of his own apartment?” 

The newfound knowledge that Jisung can easily lift and carry a bicycle should not be stealing Minho’s ability to respond, and he tells himself that the only reason he stops before he answers is so he can think.

“Hyunjin and I can take care of that, don’t worry. Just make sure you guys are ready to take the bike outside right away since he’ll be at my place.”

Felix gives him a thumbs up and a grin. "Alright, let's make sure we do a good job stealing that kid's bike."

Hyunjin shows up at Minho’s door only an hour after he informs him that he’d picked up an artificial tree and a box of ornaments to go with it, and he easily bribes Jeongin into coming over with the promise of homemade kkul-tteok in exchange for sticking around under the guise of helping decorate.

Hyunjin carries in a cardboard box that he sets down gently on the coffee table. “I told you I’d decorate,” he explains as he opens the box and begins pulling out a tangle of fairy lights and garlands and an assortment of different ornaments. “And sorry, but I knew whatever you got wouldn’t cut it.”

Minho rolls his eyes and watches as Hyunjin begins to lay out the decorations while Jeongin starts on assembling the tree. Soon the floor is littered with tinsel and shining ornaments and wreaths and fake tree parts. Minho’s reaching for a bundle of lights to begin separating the cords when Jeongin stops him with a plastic branch batting his hand away.

“I was promised delicious diabetes-inducing goodness.”

Minho scoffs. “And that’s how you’re asking for it?”

Jeongin shrugs. “I can just go home and let you finish all this by yourselves.” He pauses and glances around. “Why’s it only you two? Did everyone leave already?”

“No, they just went out for the day.”

“Even Jisung?”

Minho narrows his eyes. “Yeah, even Jisung. Why does that matter?”

Jeongin blinks  and holds his hands up placatingly, a display of innocence that would have been convincing if Minho didn’t know any better. “Just asking. I’m surprised you’re not with them if Jisung went as well.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Minho grumbles.

“I was curious about that too,” Hyunjin joins in, and Minho turns to glare at him—he knows why Jisung is absent from the apartment. “It’s kind of weird considering how close you got so quickly.”

“We didn’t,” Minho huffs. “I barely even know the guy,” he mutters as he pushes himself off the floor, heading into the kitchen to get started on the kkul-tteok before Jeongin threatens to leave again.

And it’s something he’s been telling himself for days now, that he doesn’t know the first thing about Jisung. He reminds himself of the fact as he pulls out chapssalgaru and caster sugar.

The fact that he’d immediately gotten comfortable around Jisung doesn’t mean a thing. The fact that Jisung exerts absolutely zero caution whatsoever around him doesn’t mean a thing either. The fact that, sometimes, Minho feels like they’ve known each other much longer than they have, from the way Jisung easily runs with his jokes and keeps up with his bickering to how he visibly relaxes by Minho’s side doesn’t mean a thing. The way he’ll more often than not catch Jisung watching him, even in a room crowded with other people, doesn’t mean anything. The inexplicable pull he feels towards him means nothing. Neither of it all means a single thing, because Jisung has a boyfriend, and his boyfriend is Minho’s cousin.

He nearly adds too much food coloring to the mixture (Eomma would scold him for using the artificial stuff instead of natural ingredients), and he kneads his dough harder than he should, spending longer than necessary on smoothening it out.

The front door opens with a distant click as Minho sets the dough in the fridge, quickly zesting a lemon before adding the rind and juice to a small saucepan along with sugar and honey. He’s pouring in water before he begins bringing the combination to a boil when he hears a low scrape as one of the kitchen chairs is pulled back, creaking softly under the weight of someone dropping down into it.

“I assume the mission was a success,” Minho says, gently stirring the mixture on the stove.

“Yup,” Jisung chirps, and when Minho glances to the side he sees him peeling a clementine from a bowl of fruit set out in the middle of the table.

“Pass me one too?” Minho nods towards the bowl, and Jisung grabs an extra before he pads over to Minho. 

He doesn’t hand him a clementine, instead setting them on the counter to Minho’s side before he pulls himself up to sit next to him, pushing back the sleeves of his hoodie as he picks the fruit back up and resumes peeling. Minho reaches for one, struggles to break the skin with one hand when the other is occupied with continuously stirring the lemon honey, before he sets it back down with huff—though he'd hardly even tried to make an effort.

Jisung laughs, not unkindly, as he frees a slice of the clementine in his hands and holds it up in front of Minho’s mouth. He’s frozen for a second, unsure if Jisung expects him to eat from his hand or take it with his own, before Jisung answers his silent question by giving it a single, insistent tap against Minho’s lips until he parts them and allows Jisung to push the piece between his teeth. 

And when Minho dares to flit his eyes to Jisung’s, he finds them focused on the fruit in Minho’s mouth as he nudges it forward until it’s on Minho’s tongue. The pad of his thumb skims across Minho’s upper lip as he pulls his hand back, and his eyes meet Minho’s as he pulls apart another piece of clementine and slips into his own mouth. Minho quickly turns back to the honey before remembering to actually chew, focusing on the soft flesh of the fruit and its sweetly-sour juice on his palate instead of the way he can feel the touch of Jisung’s finger lingering on his lip.

Jisung wordlessly offers another little segment of the clementine, and Minho catches it with his teeth and pulls it free from Jisung’s hand this time. He gives Minho an amused look as he helps himself to another piece.

“So what are you making?” Jisung asks after they’ve finished the first clementine and he begins peeling the second.

“Kkul-tteok. The price for keeping Jeongin away from his own home while you went and stole that poor child’s bike.”

Jisung lowers his voice to a whisper. “Hey, the bike stealing was your idea. And anyway, he’s a big boy. He’ll get over it.” Minho lets him silently feed him another slice of fruit.

“Well it’s not like he’s going to know it was gone in the first place. It isn’t as if we’re keeping it.” He takes the saucepan off the heat, setting it aside to let the lemon honey cool, and sets a skillet atop the flame, letting it heat up while he rummages around for a jar of sesame seeds and adds a handful to the skillet to toast.

“Wait, so I have to carry the bike all the way back up again?” Jisung groans, and Minho laughs at him as he gives the skillet a soft shake.

“What else did you expect?” He dials down the heat, then separates half of the honey into a bowl, adds an ample amount of brown sugar and a pinch of salt. “Mix that,” he tells Jisung, who slides down onto his feet, popping the last of the clementine into his mouth before grabbing a spoon.

“Honestly, I kind of forgot that we’d have to put it back,” he admits, and Minho snorts as he searches in one of the cabinets until he finds his steamer basket, setting it aside and returning to the stove. He gives the sesame seeds another quick toss before sliding them carefully into the bowl of sweet filling that Jisung mixes.

“I’ll take it back up if you can keep Jeongin occupied,” he offers, pulling the dough out from the fridge and, after deeming it chilled enough, gives Jisung a tap on the shoulder before heading to the table to begin shaping the tteok. 

“Deal,” Jisung agrees immediately as he takes the seat opposite Minho, directing his gaze towards the dough in Minho’s hands as he begins carefully forming the tteok. “Anything else I can do?”

Minho thinks for a second. “Can you put the rest of the honey in the fridge? You can just leave it in the saucepan.”

Jisung nods and does so easily, and when he returns to the table a minute later, he comes to stand just behind Minho instead of taking a seat, leaning over his shoulder to watch how he carefully shapes a small piece of soft dough into a ball, pressing a small hollow into the center that he fills with the mixture of brown sugar and honey, folding the edges closed so they form a pretty little shape.

He continues filling and shaping the tteok, and he doesn’t realize how close Jisung has gotten until he leans down further, hooking his chin on Minho’s shoulder. The silk of Jisung’s hair is ticklish against his ear, and Minho wonders how it stays so soft and healthy when it’s been colored blond; he hopes that Jisung doesn’t hear the way his breath catches in his throat when he presses closer.

“You’re really good at this,” Jisung says, and Minho can feel the rumble of his voice in his chest against his own back.

“I used to make these with my halmeoni when I was a kid, so there’s my practice.” 

He can hear the smile in Jisung’s voice when he replies. “That’s kind of stupid cute.”

“Honestly, I'm pretty sure that she was just taking advantage of having a pair of small hands around to make me do all the work,” Minho admits.

“Your hands are still small,” Jisung points out, stretching his arm out so his left hand hovers beside Minho’s, where he’s paused in filling a piece of tteok. He taps the back of Minho's right hand, and he puts down the dough to let Jisung press their hands together, palm to palm with their fingers splayed apart. 

“They’re the same size.” Minho’s swallows thickly around his heart, caught in his throat and doing its best to choke him.

“No they’re not! Mine’s bigger,” Jisung insists, pressing their hands more firmly together until the back of Minho’s meets the surface of the table; Jisung brings his other hand up to brace against the edge of the table to balance himself, crowding closer to Minho as he does.

“They’re the same size,” Minho repeats weakly. 

Jisung scoffs, shifts his hand so he can curl his fingers down through the spaces between Minho’s own. He grips Minho’s hand tight and gives it a playful shake. “Still smaller,” he says smugly.

“Tell yourself whatever you need to,” Minho sighs in faux pity, and Jisung laughs before letting him go, resting both hands on the table on either side of Minho. His own hands hover aimlessly for a second, his mind trying desperately to process anything aside from the width of Jisung’s chest against his back and the soft sound of his breathing beside Minho’s ear.

He picks up the ball of dough he’d set down and finishes sealing up its ends, and makes quick work of finishing the rest before clearing his throat. “I kind of have to get up,” he says.

“Yeah? Wha—oh.” Jisung at least sounds embarrassed when he lets go of the table and stands back up properly. He doesn’t step further back, and when Minho turns around, he finds himself nearly nose to nose with Jisung—or rather, nose to mouth. He quickly slips out from around Jisung before he does something stupid like lean forward and try kiss his cousin’s boyfriend on the pretty bridge of his nose.

Minho lines the steamer basket with a wet cloth and has Jisung arrange the dough on top while he brings a pan of water to a simmer. Ten minutes later and he’s drizzling the cooled honey over the glossy kkul-tteok and slapping Jisung’s hand away from the plate he arranges to bring out to Jeongin and Hyunjin, who he can hear arguing the merits of different holiday movies.

Jeongin immediately shoves a whole piece of kkul-tteok in his mouth, swallowing so quickly that Minho wonders if he’d even chewed. Somehow, he ends up in a competition with Jisung to see who can eat the quickest, and Minho is on the edge of his seat as Jeongin inhales each of his pieces while Jisung easily keeps two in his mouth at a time, not unlike a chipmunk.

“Do you want to bet?” Hyunjin asks from where he’s begun to wind the lights around the tree.

“How much?”

“Twenty if Jeongin wins, thirty if it’s your guy.”

Minho ignores the implication of the words. “Alright, deal.”

He gets up to move aside a lamp so Hyunjin can plug the lights in, illuminating the room even more than it had previously been.

Hyunjin brings a hand to his chin as he examines his work. “I think we need more.”

“Is the Rockefeller tree too subtle for you, Hyunie?”

“Don’t be a dick and help me get the lights down from the windows,” Hyunin replies, and Minho rolls his eyes but lends him a hand anyway.

When he turns back to the tteok eating contest, he finds both Jisung and Jeongin slumped over the coffee table, groaning, and neither he nor Hyunjin end up with the extra cash.

✧

“Seungmin and I are going to head into the city today, do you guys want to come with us?” 

“Depends.”

“On?”

“What are you going into the city for?” Minho gives the pan of kimchi fried rice he’s put together a quick toss over the heat.

“We’re going to go check out that photography museum—the one on the Lower East Side, I forgot the name.”

Minho looks back at Felix. “Since when were you interested enough in photography to go to a museum for it?”

“Hey, I like photography! And besides, it’s Seungmin who wants to check it out, but we’re going to see if we can catch an off-Broadway show afterwards, too.”

“Might skip the show, but I don’t mind going to the museum,” Minho says, turning off the stove.

“Me neither,” Jisung chirps from his place at the table as Minho debates transferring the rice onto a plate before he decides to leave it in the pan.

There’s a trivet under Jisung’s hand, and Minho’s about to ask him to move, only to have the words die on his tongue and his throat tighten abruptly once he sees his appearance.

Jisung has two day old stubble across his jaw, lips chapped and red to the point where it’s painful to look at while he absentmindedly picks at the skin there; face puffy and eyes half shut with sleep behind the glasses that sit crooked on his face, and Minho’s heart is still punching painfully in his chest at the sight of him.

Minho wonders, with great remorse, which sin he’d committed in his past life to deserve being punished like this.

Jisung at least seems to notice what he means to do and quickly pushes the trivet towards the center of the table, pilfering a pinchful of steaming rice once the pan is down and tipping his head back to drop it into his mouth before he burns his fingertips.

“Alright, I’ll let Seungmin know you guys are coming with us,” Felix says before he all but bounds away, and Minho debates burning his own fingers as recompense for the way it had taken him less than a minute to forget that he was still there.

They leave right before rush hour, take the F off of Seventh Avenue, and surprisingly manage to make it into the city before the winter sun gets a chance to set.

They’ve puttered around in the museum for all of ten minutes before Jisung lightly nudges his elbow into Minho’s side.

“Hey, do you actually want to look around?”

Minho glances around the museum, which is closer to a gallery; crisp, sleek, minimalist design, with various displays of contemporary photography hung up on immaculately clean walls. Minho is only vaguely interested in the exhibits themselves, and he can already tell that the bright fluorescence together with the stark white of the interiors is going to leave him with a headache.

“Not really,” he admits.

Jisung grins. “Me neither. Besides, I’m pretty sure they were just being nice when they asked if we wanted to come.” He glances at Felix and Seungmin, standing together with their faces tipped down as they read the description for one of the displays, before he tilts his own head towards the exit and begins making his way over.

“Then why’d you agree?” Minho asks as he follows, weaving through the small crowd of museum visitors.

“I thought it would be nice to come to the city anyway. I mean, to actually walk around properly instead of just around campus.” He stops in front of the heavy glass doors for only a second before pushing them open.

Outside again and it's snowing: storefronts laced with frost, the concrete of the sidewalk and the asphalt of the roads reflecting the soft, prismatic glow of the streetlamps, of the light displays in every single window, resulting in a kaleidoscope against the black ice on the roads.

And Jisung, standing to the side of the street and out of the way of foot traffic, with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket and hood pulled up over his beanie, cranes his neck almost all the way back to tip his face up towards the sky, where its grey blanket of cloud blots out the pale light of the winter sun; making the streets seem dark and cold and lonely in spite of the mass of bodies in every possible direction.

But there's something about the way he stands, taking a moment to watch the sky with a smile in place. Minho can't see the signature heart of his smile when Jisung's pulled his scarf back up to his nose, but he can see the way his cheeks push up, rounded over the edge of the fabric and pressing against the frame of his glasses; the way his eyes slip nearly shut to form gentle half-moons. Then Jisung turns his head to look at Minho, and he forces himself not to look away guiltily.

“Anywhere in particular you had in mind?” Minho asks.

“Nah, not really. I just wanted to walk around.” Looking mildly abashed, Jisung is quick to add, “But you don’t have to come if you don’t want to, I didn’t mean to drag you out or anything.”

“You asked, and I said yes. Don’t worry about it.” 

Jisung almost visibly perks up, and then they’re down the street and heading towards where Minho knows the murals begin. It’s hardly that far, considering the way graffiti covers nearly every inch of exposed wall throughout the area.

Minho’s always appreciated the city’s street art; the medley of political pieces, memorials, walls done up purely for aesthetic. It would feel wrong to walk through the city and be met with plain bricks and clean storefront gates. And, with all of the artwork being as ephemeral as it is, each walk feels like taking a mental snapshot.

They don’t say much as they continue down the avenue, aside from an occasional comment on one of the murals they stop to take a closer look at.

“That could be you,” Jisung says at one point, awkwardly using his elbow to gesture towards the artwork so he can keep his hands shoved down in his pockets.

Minho furrows his brow as he looks at it; if he had to guess, he’d say it’s some sort of abstract piece, blotches of color that he can’t make out to be any specific image no matter how hard he tries.

“What am I looking at?”

“You don’t see it?”

“See what?” Minho frowns.

“It’s you!” Jisung insists.

Minho steps back, thinks maybe he’ll see something he missed if he gets a clearer view of the whole picture; it doesn’t help.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he finally says, and Jisung makes a show of rolling his eyes and shaking his head before they continue on.

They pass by a brick wall that’s been painted bright vermillion and left at that, and Minho stops to bring Jisung’s attention to it.

“That could be you,” he says.

“It could be my jacket,” Jisung incorrectly corrects.

“No, I mean it’s you. That—” he frees one of his own hands from his pocket to sweep in front of the wall “—is you.”

Jisung frowns. “I don’t see it.”

“Well I can’t make you see it, then.” Minho sighs out a loud exhale. “Philistine.”

He laughs as he ducks to avoid Jisung’s hand, finally coaxed out of his pockets if only for the cause of chasing Minho down the street to slap his arm until he can feel the hits through the thick wool of his coat.

They continue down until they reach a small side street lined with shops and restaurants, before it opens to a wider road with paper lanterns strung up between street poles and signs written in hanzi. Jisung turns to Minho with a silent, imploring look.

“Yes?” he asks, amused.

“Do you want to get dim sum or something?”

“You hungry?”

“Starving.”

So they forgo a proper meal and instead buy food from each of the vendors and family owned restaurants they come across that catch their eye; crispy gyoza and hand-pulled la mian and dumplings filled with soup that runs down Jisung’s chin before he wipes it away with a finger and a sheepish smile that Minho wishes he wouldn’t aim right at him.

They finish with bao that’s pillow-soft and steaming, hot enough to leave Minho’s fingertips tingling as he tears them in half to share with Jisung; creamy red bean paste that oozes onto their tongues and leaves their mouths pleasantly sweet.

“Alright,” Jisung says, blowing air into his cupped hands. “I know where we’re going next.”

His lips pull up into a coy grin, and there in his eyes, Minho can see it: a glimmer that’s nothing short of mischievous.

How Minho had been convinced to put on a pair of ice skates is beyond him—though, not entirely, not when he knows that he would stupidly do anything now if Jisung fixed him with that same look again—but the delight on Jisung’s face after Minho had told him it would actually be his first time skating makes him think that maybe it wasn't the worst decision he’s ever made. 

Minho stands on the ice no differently than he would stand on the ground normally, and he must be doing something wrong because Jisung stares at him in incredulous outrage.

“What the hell? This isn't what was supposed to happen!” he protests.

“What was supposed to happen?”

“You were supposed to take one step on the ice and fall on your ass!” Jisung exclaims, even though he’s the one who looks closer to falling on his ass, with his knees together and his fingers curled tight over the half-wall of the rink.

Minho tucks his hands behind his back and glides towards Jisung easily, who playfully scowls at him, but reluctantly steps back against the wall and marvels at the way Minho maintains himself on the ice, while simultaneously trying his best to keep the adulation on Jisung’s face from going to his head.

“This is so stupid,” Jisung whines, lips pushed forward in an inadverdent pout. “You're not even trying! Were you lying before?”

“I’ve really never skated before,” Minho says truthfully. “But I dance, so there's that,” he adds helpfully. 

Jisung scoffs. “God, I was supposed to be the one having a good time watching you look dumb for once!”

Jisung ends up with his hands on the waist high wall, walking himself across the rink while Minho literally skates circles around him, and he only feels a little bad about it. He stops to poise his hands just out of Jisung’s reach, tips of his fingers less than a centimeter away, as if teasing him into moving; and it works, to Jisung’s obvious chagrin.

Hands white knuckling the wall, he glares at Minho without any real conviction before he hesitantly lets go. He takes small, careful baby steps, trying to walk in skates that could behead him if he fell on them wrong when his hands are clenched tightly and his back is tensed and his arms keep lurching out.

“You’re doing good,” Minho encourages, and a small smile brightens Jisung’s face, so devastatingly handsome that Minho thinks he's going to end up with a broken nose bleeding on the ice, and it's not going to be because of the skates. “Just try not to be so stiff.”

Jisung continues with his body only marginally less stiff than before, keeps his step so small that he’s barely shuffling across, until Minho eventually takes pity, and stops long enough for Jisung to actually reach him; and once he stops on unsteady feet, holds him gently by the elbows to lead him across the ice, skating backwards easily.

Jisung stops trying to move on his own and allows himself to be pulled, body rigid, and Minho’s suddenly reminded of the way his cats will cling to the edge of the bath when they know that they'll ultimately have to get wet, can’t avoid it, but still dread it. Two laps around the ring before Minho lets go, and he finds he’s managed to break a sweat in spite of the cold.

“You’re kind of hopeless at this,” Minho admits.

“What happened to, ‘you’re doing good,’ then?” Jisung asks with a sulky imitation of Minho’s voice.

“Honestly, I thought I could verbally placebo you or something, but you’re just terrible at this.” He laughs and skates out of reach when Jisung lifts up a fist. “You’re also not as intimidating as you think you are,” he teases. 

“I’m leaving.”

Minho crosses his arms over his chest and raises a brow. “Go ahead.”

And it’s then that Jisung seems to notice just where he is: stranded in the middle of the rink, the wall a good twenty feet behind him. He more than likely knows that if he tries to take a step he’ll land flat on his ass, and Minho knows as well; knows that Jisung knows he knows. He watches Jisung with his lips pursed as he tries to keep them in a firm line.

“I didn’t say I’m leaving now,” Jisung replies cooly.

“You said ‘leaving,’ as in present tense. As in, leaving now.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He jerks one knee up, almost lifting his foot as if he's about to stomp out of petulance, before stopping when he seems to realize what a terrible idea it is to do so on ice and keeps both feet beneath himself; then, begrudgingly looks at Minho until he glides over.

Jisung takes one of Minho’s arms and places it across the back of his shoulders, hooks his own arm around Minho’s waist. Minho guides them forward with a gentle sway of his body as if not wanting to disturb the air around them. And there, with Jisung so close, all but tucked against his side—too close—and his fingers twisted in Minho’s jacket, with the threat of yanking him down, Minho's afraid he's going to fall. He's afraid he's going to fall, and that when he does, he'll be selfish and have Jisung fall with him.

The sun has already begun to set once they’re off the ice, and the little snow that’s managed to stick to the sidewalks crunches softly beneath their boots as Minho pulls his phone free from his pocket. He finds a text from Felix already waiting for him, telling him not to wait up in the city for him and Seungmin because, ‘I’m pretty sure we’ll be there later than you guys, just make sure you’re up to unlock the door.’

They skip the subway and settle for the bus instead, sit side by side towards the back, and Minho doesn’t stop him when Jisung rests his chin on his shoulder to get a look out the window. Outside: the black backdrop of the sky with the cityscape bright against it, beautiful in a way that Minho's always been aware of, but has never deliberately acknowledged until now. And when Jisung eventually lifts his chin only to rest his temple where it had been, Minho doesn’t stop him from keeping it there until they reach their stop.

✧

Christmas morning is an inconsequential affair. Minho wakes up only slightly earlier than usual to make nokdujeon for the occasion, and he doesn’t bother to turn around when he’s unable to recognize the soft footsteps behind him as he sets the pan over the heat. It’s only after he’s finishing up, going to set a heaping plate on the table that he sees Seungmin there, chin resting in his palm and looking towards the window before he turns to face him.

For a minute, he doesn’t say anything, and he silently watches Minho as he pulls plates down from the cupboards and grabs utensils from the drawers. 

Then: “You’re not that religious.” It’s less of an observation and more of a statement, and Minho’s taken by mild surprise at the fact that he's managed to notice.

“Not really, I guess.” He shrugs. “You’re not either,” he points out.

Seungmin taps his fingers idly on the worn surface of the table. “You know the feeling when your mom tells you not to go outside, but you still go out in the snow anyway, and when you come back home shivering your ass off she's waiting for you with a hot drink and a blanket? That's what religion should be.”

“I’ll call the pope and let him know.”

Seungmin reaches forward to grab a piece of nokdujeon with his fingers. “You should.”

Hyunjin comes bearing presents just after noon, in one of the ugliest, gaudiest Christmas sweaters that Minho has ever seen in his life; the full works with lights and a tinny, mechanical rendition of Let It Snow playing from it, and the fact that Hyunjin manages to pull it off, looking like a model off duty, makes it that much worse.

He ends up gifting them all matching ugly sweaters, and Jisung is the only one who immediately puts his on with a howl of laughter, while Felix smiles and Seungmin looks Hyunjin dead in the eyes before they simultaneously say, ‘No.’ Minho manages to avoid wearing his by pointing out that he’s already wearing a sweater, ignoring Hyunjin insisting that he just change.

Somewhere between the noise and the mild chaos they exchange the rest of their presents. Minho had gotten Hyunjin a set of watercolors, and he squirms out of the hug he manages to trap him in. For Felix he’d gotten a digital kitchen scale, and receives a cookbook in return. Seungmin throws a pair of fuzzy socks at him, and in return Minho chucks over a hoodie that reads Bitcoin Investor Group across the back that he’d picked up on a whim from Canal Street.

Something prods his arm, and Minho turns to be met with Jisung, who nudges him again with a small rectangular box.

“What’s this?” he asks, even though he already knows it’s for him.

“Open it and see.”

“You know, you didn’t have to get me anything,” Minho says.

“I know I didn’t, but I wanted to. Besides, you got me something too, so we’re even.” He nods towards the single, meticulously wrapped box that remains on Minho’s other side, between him and the arm of the sofa.

“Who says that’s for you?” Minho scoffs.

Jisung raises a brow. “Who’s it for then?” he challenges.

“Shut up,” Minho grumbles, ignoring the smug look on Jisung’s face as he drops the box in Minho’s lap.

For a single, horrifying moment as he unwraps it, the shape has Minho scared that it might be jewelry, even though it isn’t near narrow enough. But after opening it, he wishes that that’s what it were, because jewelry would be better than the knife he’s looking at; sharp enough that the edge of it gleams where it gently curves from the point down to its maple handle. He recognizes it immediately.

“Jisung, this is a Ryusen.”

“I know.”

“These are crazy expensive.”

“It was on sale,” Jisung lies right to his face. Then, before Minho can respond: “Well take it out already.”

Minho eyes him in disbelief before lifting the knife out of the box, its weight perfect in his hand. He picks up a discarded piece of glossy wrapping paper, folds it up, and presses it to the edge of the blade. It glides down through it as if he’d cut through water.

“Jisung, I—”

He doesn’t know what to say. His mind is running a mile a minute, because this isn’t just an acquaintances gift, or a buttering up to his boyfriend’s family gift, and it’s not even a friends gift. He doesn’t know what it is.

Minho glances up at the present Jisung had gotten for Felix, a mechanical keyboard with custom switches, and doesn’t know what to think. The only thing that stops Minho’s mind before it can careen off its tracks is Jisung and the pleased smile on his face that he tries and fails to tamp down at Minho’s dumbfounded expression, before he reaches across Minho’s lap to grab his own gift.

The soft, 'Oh' that Jisung breathes out makes his heart thrum in his neck, all his nerves wound up tight as Jisung pulls the sweater out of the box; plush cashmere, dark charcoal with a single daisy embroidered to the left just below the collar, and a size too big.

Jisung looks at him quizzically, running his fingers over the softness, tracing the flower.

“I thought maybe you could use an upgrade for your security blankets,” Minho says lamely. “If you can’t wear a hoodie somewhere, then at least you’ll have the next best thing.”

Jisung doesn’t respond, and Minho’s glad he’s not the only one at a loss for words. Jisung reaches a hand back around to the neck of the sweater he wears before he stops; looks torn between wanting to wear his new one and wanting to keep the travesty of lights and reindeer that he already has on. He ends up dropping his hand, placing the cashmere sweater back in the box, and looks at Minho expectantly.

Minho doesn’t know what to do, and Jisung seems to realize because he smiles again, but it looks more forced this time, and Minho can't quite meet Jisung's eyes, no matter how hard he tries.

Minho can hear the sounds of 'Die Hard' playing from the television as he stands in the kitchen, considering whether or not he should keep the meat—marinated in advance—in a cooler, or if it can survive the subway ride in just a bag, when he hears a muted shuffle of footsteps behind him. He doesn’t have to turn around to know that it’s Jisung.

“What’s that for?” he asks once he’s close enough to peer over Minho’s shoulder,

“I’m going over to my parents' place. Today's actually their anniversary,” Minho explains as he turns around, leaning against the counter, “And I like to make them dinner for it. It’s kind of a tradition at this point.”

Jisung blinks. “That’s really sweet.”

Minho hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on in the kitchen, instead allowing it to be lit by the luminance of the multicolored fairy lights twisted around the tree that drifts in from the living room. They cast a warm, rosy glow on Jisung's skin, making his cheeks look peachy-gold, and leaving Minho momentarily distracted before he replies.

“The filial piety is strong when you’re an only child.” Minho decides not to take any risks and reaches for the cooler he had brought out, pushing himself up and setting about on filling it with ice.

“I guess so, but it’s still sweet of you to do. Filial duties aside, I mean.” He holds the freezer door open for Minho silently while gets out as much ice as he can.

“It’s only sweet now that I can actually cook. I feel bad for all the test dishes they had to eat and pretend were good when I was starting out.”

“I can’t imagine anyone having to pretend that anything you’ve made is good.” And when Minho looks up, Jisung’s face is so sincere that Minho believes he’s not even trying to flatter him.

“Go ask Hyunjin to tell you about the beef wellington, and then you’ll be able to imagine it.”

Minho gets to his parents’ house late in the evening, just before nighttime sets in. Eomma opens the door and immediately pulls him into her firm embrace before asking when he had last gotten his hair cut.

Into the kitchen, and he pulls his bangs off of his forehead and out of his face in a small ponytail that sticks up at the top of his head, pushes his sleeves back, and begins setting his ingredients out on the counter. It’s not the home he grew up in, and as many times as he’s been over he’s still not quite familiar with where everything goes; Appa lets him know where the onions are before Minho ushers him into the living room to relax for the remainder of his night.

The process of searing the steak, continuously basting it with garlic-rosemary infused butter as it forms a crust, is almost therapeutic in a way; focusing on the easy repetition of the practiced motions has him dropping shoulders that he hadn’t even realized were tensed. He burns his wrist when the scorching butter sputters onto him after he adds extra garlic, but the kiss on his forehead from Eomma and the soft smile from Appa when he presents the carefully plated dishes help him forget the low ache better than any balm could.

Afterward, he begins on brewing sujeonggwa; skinning and slicing ginger before adding it to a pot of water with cinnamon that he brings to a boil. Minho adds a few pieces of dried persimmons to it as he lets the blend cool, and then fights Appa into letting him do the dishes on his own before he brings out the tea; and once he does, Eomma insists that he stay for longer, just as she always does each time that he comes to visit.

So he seats himself on the floor by the sofa and rests his cheek on her knee while she peels and cuts a handful of apples; lets her feed him slices of fruit with hands that are now smaller than his own, but make him feel like he’s still a child when they touch his cheek and brush his hair back from his face; so he allows his eyes to slide shut and pretends that that’s what he is, a tall child, as he lets himself sleep in her house for the night.

Minho leaves for the apartment at the peak of blue hour, when the haze of dawn has yet to make itself known and the air has a certain briskness to it that clears his lungs and makes him feel the cold deep down in his marrow. He carries with him a canvas bag full of tupperware containing a giant batch of kimchi and banchan forced into his hand at the door.

He unlocks the apartment door to find a pair of boots wet from the snow and a suitcase lined up against the wall, before he hears the sound of low voices drifting over from the kitchen. He finds Hyunjin at the kitchen table, back to Minho and in the clothes he had lent him to sleep in before he’d headed out last night; and across from him, cradling a mug of coffee, sits Changbin.

The two of them are engrossed in their conversation, murmuring to each other, and Minho leaves them to it as he puts the food away in the fridge—shuffling a few things around to make space—before grabbing himself a glass of water. Changbin spots him anyway, because it would be hard not to with the space being as small as it is and with all of the movement, and his eyes light up.

Minho waves, both in greeting and to let him know he can keep his conversation going, before heading back into the living room. Jisung’s curled up asleep on the sofa, Dori at his feet, and Minho wonders if he had insisted on taking it or if Hyunjin had commandeered the bed first.

It’s still early, and Minho has no plans for the day, so he lays down across the window seat, lets Sooni jump up onto his chest, and goes to sleep himself.

Minho wakes up to the smell of smoke and the shrill, grating beeps of the smoke detector. He wonders what it means that his first reaction is to turn over and pull a throw pillow over his head, though the pillow does little to block out the sound.

“Shit shit fuck,” he hears a voice coming from the kitchen, and it takes him a second to recognize it as Felix.

“Open the window,” someone else urges; Seungmin, Minho’s mind supplies after a moment.

“It’s snowing!” Felix whisper-shouts.

“It’s okay,” a third voice cuts in then. “Just for a second so we can get this air out.” Minho places Jisung’s voice easily.

“I told you we should have just stuck to cereal,” Seungmin complains, and Minho can hear the sound of the window rattling open.

“Alright, excuse me for trying to do something nice,” Jisung grumbles.

“Jisung,” Felix says gently, “He likes cereal. Like, it’s kind of weird how he keeps the entire cereal aisle from the supermarket in the cupboards.” And Minho realizes, a little bit indignantly, that they’re talking about him.

“Well, yeah, but it’s not the same as making something.”

“I guess that’s true.”

The window closes, and then he hears Seungmin again. “So what do we do now?”

A sigh, and then Jisung: “I guess we can grab something from that cafe again.”

Minho rolls over and goes back to sleep.

He wakes up properly to the sun shining directly on his face through the window and groans, pulling himself up and walking past Hyunjin and Changbin on the sofa to go wash the sleep from his eyes. 

It’s well over noon, and there’s the low bustle of activity in the apartment from the five other people moving around. When he emerges after washing his face and brushing his teeth, Hyunjin and Changbin are still in the living room, and Jisung’s in the armchair now.

“Good morning.” Hyunjin spots him and beams a wicked grin. “I think this is the first time since high school that you’ve been asleep past nine.”

“Am I not allowed to sleep during my vacation?” Minho grumbles, dropping himself down on the opposite end of the sofa.

“Hey, I think it’s great that you’re not getting up at the crack of dawn,” Changbin chimes in. “But it’s kind of weird,” he admits. “You good?”

Minho shrugs. “Guess I was just tired.” He looks around. “Where’re Felix and Seungmin?”

“They went out,” Jisung answers. "Left literally a second ago." Then he's pushing himself up and heading out of the living room; he returns a few minutes later with a cup of scalding hot coffee that he silently hands over to Minho before taking a seat beside him; Minho murmurs a small thanks and takes a sip. Then he looks at Jisung again.

“You’re not wearing your glasses,” he says.

Jisung lifts a hand up to his face automatically, taps his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “Oh, yeah. Seungmin got me contact solution with my present,” he says with a laugh. “Thanks to him for that, I guess.”

Minho is going to dismember Seungmin the second he walks through the front door.

He takes another sip of coffee as he silently mourns the loss of Jisung in his nerd glasses. Changbin’s eyeing him when he lowers his mug; at the questioning look Minho sends him, all he does is raise his eyebrows and dart his eyes over to Jisung. Minho gives him an almost imperceptible shake of his head, and Changbin’s eyes widen.

“So how was your break over at Chateau Seo?” Minho asks before he can say anything. Changbin gives him the look that Minho’s come to recognize as his ‘what the fuck, Minho’ look, but he lets the subject go nonetheless and recounts his own winter break spent upstate.

With Changbin back there’s even less space than before, and Minho ends up sharing the living room with Jisung for the night. Minho takes the window seat again, both because there’s surprisingly ample room there that makes it genuinely comfortable, and because it’s marginally less warm than the sofa, and Jisung is almost always cold. It doesn’t mean anything, Minho thinks as curls up on his side. It’s for practicality. He tells himself that until he falls asleep to the low sounds of Jisung’s breathing, and he ignores the looks that Jisung gives him in the morning.

✧

Changbin had apparently been absolutely deprived of kimchi-jjigae while he was gone, to the point where he’s now watching Minho’s every move from the kitchen table as he prepares it for lunch.

“You honestly didn’t have any?” Minho asks as he slices extra green onions.

“Well I did,” Changbin admits, then pitches his voice up in a way that’s more ridiculous than cute and says, “But it wasn’t the same,” drawing out the last syllable. 

Minho makes a face. “Please behave.” He grabs a spoon and tastes the jjigae, and, deciding it needs more sesame oil, turns to grab the bottle.

He continues in comfortable silence as Changbin fiddles around on his phone, until he eventually gets bored and wanders closer to where Minho works. He’s just begun to slice the tofu when Changbin lets out a low whistle. 

“Damn, where did that come from?” And at Minho’s puzzled look, he gestures at the knife in his hand. 

It’s nice enough that anyone would be able to tell its worth just by glancing at it, and Changbin has also been victim to Minho showing him different chef’s knives and lamenting over them on various occasions, so he’s more than familiar with the blade in his hand.

“It was a gift.” For some not entirely inexplicable reason, he feels self-conscious over using Jisung’s present.

“That’s some gift,” Changbin says. “Who’s it from?”

Minho debates the pros and cons of lying before deciding it would be no use; Changbin could just ask Hyunjin or Felix.

“Jisung,” he says shortly. 

Changbin’s brows shoot up. “Really?” Minho doesn’t know how to respond to that so he doesn't, and he’s grateful when Changbin doesn't pry about the knife any further. Instead he nods towards the second pot on the stove.

“What are you making there?”

“Kongnamul-guk.” He lifts the lid and gives it a quick check, picking a bean sprout out with his fingers to taste.

“You barely ever make that.” Changbin reaches over to grab a sprout himself.

Minho turns back to this tofu and absentmindedly says, “Jisung doesn’t really like spicy food.”

There’s a beat of pause before Changbin replies. “So he gets a special dish?”

“You’re getting a special dish too,” Minho points out. “The only reason I’m even making kimchi-jjigae today is because you asked.”

“Yeah, but I’m not the only one who’s eating it. Everyone else is having it too, except for Jisung.”  Minho’s not sure what to make of the intonation of his voice and frowns, setting down the knife and facing him properly.

“Because he doesn’t like spicy food,” he repeats nonchalantly.

“Neither does Hyunjin,” Changbin shoots back easily.

“So he can eat kongnamul-guk instead, too. What about it?”

Changbin silently eyes him long enough that Minho has to force himself not to fidget.

Finally, he sighs. “Nothing, nothing about it.”

✧

Hyunjin arrives on New Year’s Eve just after ten with two bottles of champagne. He doesn’t insist on watching the ball drop live, but he insists on party crackers that Minho already knows are going to be a pain to clean up after.

And then he ditches them to tag along with Changbin to some pretentious party on the Upper West Side, and Minho is left feeling like a fourth wheel while Felix and Jisung huddle together on the sofa to watch a video on Jisung’s phone, and Seungmin lays with his back on the floor, flipping through a trashy tabloid magazine.

So Minho takes the armchair and drags all three of his cats onto his lap to keep him company while he sips champagne from the bottle and does his best to ignore the ugly little creature rearing its ugly little head in his chest. 

A little more than thirty minutes before midnight and he pushes himself out of his seat—a little woozy on legs that can't support him well—heads to the front door, steps into his shoes, and slips outside to sit on the stoop. He doesn’t trust himself not to do anything stupid if he has to be witness to a potential midnight kiss. It’s below freezing outside, and each breath he takes leaves in a small cloud of condensation. The cold sobers him up considerably. 

He’s been outside for all of fifteen minutes when the door creaks open behind him; something drops over his head a second later, and he immediately pulls it off, heavy down jacket in his hands. He pulls it across his shoulders, over his sweater, as Jisung takes a seat beside him on the steps; Minho frowns.

“Is it already midnight?” he asks.

Jisung shakes his head, and he doesn’t say anything for a minute. And then: “Why are you outside?”

Minho shrugs. “Wanted the fresh air.”

“You’ll catch a cold.”

“Ginger.”

“Ginger?” He sounds amused.

“Ginger.”

“I don’t think ginger can save you from frostbite.”

“Yes it can.” He’s being deliberately stubborn, but Minho can’t find it in himself to care in this moment.

Jisung turns to face him then. “Are you drunk? That why you don’t feel it?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know,” Minho admits, and Jisung laughs, soft and not unkind.

They don’t say anything then, and Minho can’t tell how much time has passed until the faint, distant sound of firecrackers and the low sounds of people cheering from their rooftops and fire escapes reach him.

“I might just be guessing, but I think it’s midnight,” Jisung says.

“I'd guess that you’re right, then.” He sees Jisung shift in his peripheral and does the same, turning to face him directly. 

The light of the streetlamps oversaturates him in orange, casts harsh shadows over his face, but Minho doesn’t mind—he’s stunning regardless. Jisung doesn’t say anything, propping an elbow on his knee and cradling his cheek in his palm, and Minho mimics his posture, watches him in return.

I want to kiss you, Minho thinks, but I won't, because I can't, because you have a boyfriend.

They stay outside as the murmur of celebrations die off and the time between each distant bang stretches until Minho stops keeping count of the seconds. Then, with his knees cracking loudly, Minho stands and presses the side of his fist against the buzzer for the door until it clicks open, unlocked. Jisung looks confused, and perhaps a little disoriented, but he rises to his feet and follows Minho back inside.

✧

Minho catches a cold. 

Jisung doesn’t say ‘I told you so,’ but the look on his face as he watches Minho pull in a wet, rattling breath after nearly coughing out a lung does.

“Are you dumb?” Seungmin asks him, arms crossed as he stands at the foot of the bed, raising his brows as if he’s genuinely expecting an answer. “No, really. Are you dumb?

“Hey, come on,” Jisung says from his perch on the edge of the mattress. “It’s not his fault.” He grins at Minho, wry. “Clearly he was dropped on the head as a baby.” He catches Minho’s knee easily when he attempts to jab it into his back from beneath the duvet that weighs heavy on his chest.

Jisung doesn’t let go of his knee, and Minho can feel each point where his fingertips make contact with his leg through the blanket. He feels as though his skull had been opened up, his brain taken out and replaced with wet cotton, stuffed all the way up to the top with it, before being closed back up again, and the hand now absentmindedly rubbing over his shinbone does nothing to help the feeling of simultaneous heavy and light-headedness.

Minho’s saved from any further potential verbal assault on his character when the door creaks open and Felix slips in, carefully carrying a mug of steaming hot something which he sets down on the side table; Minho can immediately smell the ginger once it’s beside him. Felix takes the little free space left on the bed beside Jisung and fixes Minho with a look stern enough that he has to fight the urge not to sit up straight.

“Are you dumb?” he asks.

Minho makes a sound like a scoff that gets stuck halfway out. “It’s not my fault, I was dropped as a child.” He pointedly looks past the grin on Jisung’s face and keeps his eyes on Felix.

“At least he admits it,” Seungmin says, as if the ‘he’ in question isn’t right there.

Felix points at the mug. “You’re gonna drink all of that that. The honey’s finished, so you’re going to have to drink it nasty. ”

“Consider it your punishment,” Jisung adds.

Minho coughs pathetically into the crook of his elbow. “Isn’t this punishment enough?” Then, frowning, “There isn’t even any sugar?”

“There’s sugar, but you don’t deserve it,” Jisung answers.

“Okay, wow.”

Felix smiles at him. “There’s no sugar either, or I would have put some in instead. But you still have to finish that.”

Minho would have finished it even without being told, but he nods and sits up a little anyway, curls his fingers around the handle of the mug and takes a small sip to assess the taste. He grimaces at the tartness of it.

“Finish it,” Felix says again as he gets up to stand beside Seungmin, and Jisung quickly follows. Minho feels like one of the butterflies pinned to a display exhibit at the natural history museum under all three of their gazes, like he’s being scrutinized by school children on a fieldtrip, before they file out the door and he's left alone with his mug of bitter ginger tea.

Minho doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up cold in spite of the heavy duvet and the low hiss of the radiator. The curtains are drawn, and he can’t tell if it’s night out, or how much time has passed, and he doesn’t bother checking; doesn’t want to turn the lights on to do so and be dragged away from the butter-melt edge of sleep that he's on.

He remembers dropping his sweater on the end of the bed before he’d climbed in, hating the way blankets feel over thicker clothing but now craving its warmth. Minho sits up, sticks his arm out and fumbles blindly until his hand makes contact with something soft and big and tugs it on.

He curls back over onto his side, drags the duvet up over his head, and pulls the collar all the way up over his chin; tips his face down, inhales lavender and something redolent; something that he recognizes but can’t quite place. He’s asleep again before he can try.

Minho wakes up because he’s too warm now, and someone’s turned on the small lamp at his side table, but before he can tug the sweater off and over his head the door creaks open and Jisung slips in.

He silently seats himself on the edge of the bed as he had done before, and, after Minho scoots over a little, pulls his feet up beneath himself so he can sit cross legged to Minho’s side.

“Here.” He holds out a plate of something, pushes it a bit closer until Minho takes it. “My mom always says to eat eggs when you’re sick, and you haven’t eaten all day, so...” Jisung trails off, and when Minho looks down at the plate in his hands he sees Jisung’s brought him gyeran-mari. The sides are browned just slightly, and the edges of a couple of pieces are choppier than the rest, as if the roll had been cut right off the heat before the rest of it was allowed to cool down enough for a smoother slice.

Minho picks up a piece with his fingers and pops it into his mouth. He’s pleasantly surprised by the taste, and it must show on his face because Jisung lets out a jocular little huff.

“You don’t have to look so astonished by it,” he says, nudging Minho with his knee.

Minho takes another bite. “I can’t be glad that you’re not going to give me salmonella?" His voice sounds diaphanous even to his own ears, as if he’s speaking through silk.

Jisung presses a hand to his chest in a way that’s almost Shakespearean. “I would never,” he promises.

Minho exhales a small laugh through his nose and finishes the rest of the gyeran-mari. Jisung takes the plate from him before he can put it aside and hauls himself off the bed to presumably take it back to the kitchen. Minho uses the moment he leaves to wipe at the sleep he can feel crusting his eyes with his sleeve.

He lifts his arm, and then stops once he sees it’s not his sweater he’s wearing—it’s still there at the end of the bed when he glances over, and Minho realizes, with something like mortification but not quite there, that he’d taken one of Jisung’s hoodies.

Jisung hadn’t said anything about it, and he doesn’t say anything about it now, either, as he slips back into the room with a plate of pears, settling over the blanket beside Minho—and slapping his hand away when he complains that Jisung’s taking too long to cut them up and tries to do it himself—as he regales him by going over the absolutely riveting events that had taken place within the walls of the apartment while Minho was asleep.

✧

Minho eyes the black backpack that Hyunjin holds tightly to his chest warily.

“What’s in there?” he asks in lieu of a greeting, stepping aside to let Hyunjin unlace his boots.

Hyunjin doesn’t get a chance to answer before Felix materializes beside them. “Did you get them?” he asks eagerly, and Hyunjin offers him the backpack in answer.

Minho frowns. “Get what?”

Felix unzips the bag and Minho’s eyes widen at the sight of the skyrockets.

“You’re blowing those up outside,” he says immediately.

“Well obviously.” Felix rolls his eyes. “We’re going to go to Coney Island actually,” he adds with a grin. “Since we missed the summer fireworks, and because you’re feeling better now, too.”

And Minho remembers how, when his visits to the city would land in the summer, Felix would insist on going down to the boardwalk every night, absolutely enchanted with the fireworks displays each and every time.

“You know,” Minho says, pulling a single rocket out of the bag and inspecting it, “They had New Year’s fireworks down at the boardwalk, we could have gone if you asked.”

“No way,” Hyunjin cuts in. “Too many tourists then.” He pretends to retch and Minho snorts.

“Fair point,” he agrees. “But I doubt you’ll be able to carry these on the train.” He holds up the skyrocket in his hand.

“We’re not taking the train,” Hyunjin explains. “Changbin said he’d drive us.”

“How come Changbin got to know about this plan before me?”

“Do you have a car?” Felix quips.

“You’re literally living under my roof.”

“It’s Changbin’s roof too,” Hyunjin chimes in, and Minho knows that no amount of arguing is going to get him anywhere on this one. 

Changbin is the type of rich where he genuinely enjoys living in their modest apartment with Minho as his curmudgeonly roommate, lies about the rent so he can cover the majority of it—and lies terribly, because Minho slips the proper checks to Jeongin’s mother every month—gets breakfast from the bodega on the corner instead of from one of the hundreds of overpriced, gentrified cafes that have taken over Brooklyn, and yet he also pays upwards of five hundred dollars a month for a parking spot where he keeps the Mercedes that he drives twice a year.

Minho had teased him for it only once. Changbin had made him sit in the driver’s seat of the car immediately afterwards, and that was all it had taken to convince Minho to let him continue to pay the parking fee.

Felix and Jisung whoop when Changbin pulls up to the curb, Seungmin looks begrudgingly impressed, and Hyunjin, who’s ridden in the car as many times as Minho has, mutters a soft, “Shit,” when Changbin rolls the window down, tilting his head and sliding a pair of black aviators down his nose.

“Why are you driving with sunglasses on at night?” Minho asks. “I don’t think I feel safe with you operating the vehicle.”

Changbin scoffs and takes the glasses off, hooking them on the collar of his shirt under his coat. “It’s called making an impression.”

“An impression that you’re a reckless driver?”

“You can use my metrocard, there should be enough on it for the way there and back.”

Minho claps his hands together and looks back at the others. “Alright, so who wants shotgun?”

He barely gets the words out before Hyunjin’s got the passenger side door open and a foot inside the car. “I need the leg room,” is all he says as he gets in.

And as spacious as the backseat is, it still wasn’t designed to fit four grown men comfortably. Minho gets in first, presses himself against the door as Jisung crawls in after him, followed by Felix, and Seungmin is stuck with one leg out the other door.

“Make room,” he says.

Minho leans forward as best as he can with his shoulder stuck between the seat and the window. “Hey Changbin, pop the trunk open.”

“I’ll kick the tail lights out. Felix, scoot over.”

Felix turns to Jisung. “Hey, scoot over.”

Jisung turns to Minho with a grin, and the collar of Minho’s shirt is suddenly far too tight and his jacket far too heavy and the car’s heating is turned up far too high; he turns back to Felix and Minho feels his shoulders drop with relief.

“I don’t think we have enough space.”

Hyunjin groans from the front seat, twisting around to look back at them. “One of you,” he says, waving a hand between Felix and Jisung, “Just sit in someone’s lap.” 

Seungmin scoffs. “And get us arrested?”

“We’re already fitting an extra person in the car anyway, what difference does it make?” Hyunjin retorts.

“Fine, but I’m not going to be the one who has to sit through that.”

Minho immediately turns to look at him. “And I am?”

Seungmin narrows his eyes. “Yes, you should have spoken sooner if you had any objections. Too bad now.”

“Can you guys hurry up?” Changbin interjects with a groan. “I don’t think idling the car for this long can be any good for it.”

Minho swallows, avoids Jisung’s eyes as he tilts forward until he can see Felix. “Yongbokie, come here,” he coos, patting his knee.

“Okay, just for that no.” Felix wrinkles his nose. “Jisung, your throne awaits,” he says.

Jisung glances at Minho before he quickly turns away again. “You can just sit with me,” he tells Felix meekly. 

“Jisung, I love you—” Minho turns his head back towards the window sharply, in a way that he knows is petty and immature but can’t stop himself from doing “—but my ass is going to go numb after a minute with no cushion.”

Jisung sucks in a quick breath through his teeth, clutching a hand to his chest. “Ouch.”

“Can someone move their ass already?” Seungmin scowls, and Jisung gives Minho an apologetic look as he’s shoved back until he’s forced to pull himself up onto Minho’s knees so they don’t dig into his spine. 

There’s a minute of awkward shuffling around, and they manage to finally get the door shut after Jisung hooks his legs over the console; Changbin doesn’t even complain about his boots getting the leather dirty when he finally pulls onto the road.

Minho tries to keep himself from tensing every muscle in his body, because he’s sure that Jisung would be able to feel it beneath him. Minho himself can feel the warmth radiating off of Jisung even through the layers he wears, the rush of his own blood in his ears as his cheeks grow hot and a knot of nerves tangles itself in his stomach. Jisung shifts slightly, rests his forearm against the rear dash behind Minho, the action pulling his jacket aside. And from the fleeting flashes of light from the streetlamps, Minho catches a glimpse of the sweater he wears: the one that he’d given him not two weeks ago.

Changbin turns the radio on, and Minho focuses on the gentle jazz slowly crooned out through the speakers of the Mercedes before Hyunjin changes it to a station playing 80’s synth-pop hits; and somehow, it’s enough for Minho to let his mind turn to static and relax himself properly even as he feels his legs slowly begin to go numb.

The boardwalk is cold and empty once they all pile out of the car and stagger across it, the attractions and rides from the amusement park closed for the night, leaving only their looming silhouettes behind. A soft snow flurry had also begun the moment Changbin put the car into park, which is just their luck.

The beach itself is saved from complete darkness by the light of the moonglade, its luminance reflecting off of waves that crash high against the shore. Winter leaves the coast narrower than usual, and it’s only until they’re a stone's throw away from the frigid water that the snow beneath their boots gives way to wet sand.

And the air: the kind of razor-raw that borders on painful to breathe. Though the faint sea salt that Minho pulls into his lungs remains as pleasant as it would be when he used to come down to the beach during the mid-summer, off from school and ready to spend his days at the game booths and talking his way into a free box of snaps that he and Hyunjin—and Felix, during the times he came to visit during the season—would use to wreak small havoc on tourists and beachgoers.

Minho watches as Hyunjin gets the fireworks set up, fixing the sticks of the skyrockets firmly into the sand in small groups to maximize their effects, until they have a line of them running down the beach. Changbin pulls a gas lighter out of his jacket that Minho recognizes as the one from their kitchen and passes it over to Hyunjin.

Hyunjin flails his arm a little to usher them closer, then thinks better of it and waves them away from the explosives. 

He ignites the first of the fuses, and the fireworks begin to bloom in succession: bursts of dazzling flame that leave the night sky lit up chromatic; streams of rainbow starlight that illuminate the beach. Minho tips his head back to watch them for only a second before turning his gaze to everyone around him.

Jisung: stood beside him, with his mouth dropped open and breath held as he watches, completely captivated by the iridescence bouncing crimsons and golds and cobalts onto his face, and Minho forces himself to look away.

Further down the shore, closer to the waves, Hyunjin nearly bounces with excitement; he’d pulled his hands up to cover his ears immediately after igniting the skyrockets, and he lowers them slowly, taking a step back and nearly bumping into Changbin, watching the display with a similarly awestruck expression.

And a little closer, Minho watches as Felix beams, laughs in delight with his arm looped through Seungmin’s before he tugs him closer, until he tips his face down so Felix can kiss him. 

For a moment, Minho doesn't quite register what he’s seeing. He thinks maybe it’s a trick of the light, because the beach is still dark in spite of the firecrackers exploding overhead. And then he hears Jisung.

“Are you fucking kidding?” he growls, and when Minho looks, he’s glaring at the back of Felix’s head with his arms crossed tight over his chest. “Right in front of me?”

Confusion and shock and heavy bitterness immediately write themselves over Minho’s mind as Jisung continues.

“Again?” he cries in outrage, and Minho’s heart drops. "It’s bad enough when I walk in on you two in my own room—” Minho feels sick, mind struggling to process the newfound information that Felix is a serial cheater “—but now you’re subjecting me to this in public?”

Jisung exhales sharply, brows knit together and his mouth set in a hard line, and Minho has never felt as much sympathy as he does in this moment, because while Felix and Seungmin have broken apart, they have the audacity to not even look ashamed; Seungmin rolls his eyes and Felix grins slyly, and Minho’s stomping over before he can even think.

“Felix,” he says sharply, “What the fuck? What in the actual fuck are you doing?”

“Come on, you couldn’t have expected me not to,” Felix whines, and Minho just about seethes. 

“I shouldn’t have to have expected better, it should be a fucking given,” he snaps, and his fingers curl tight against his palms, his nails biting into his skin. “For fuck’s sake.” He scowls, and now Felix looks confused, but Minho can’t even stand to look at him; he turns to Jisung, and to Minho’s surprise, he looks just as nonplussed.

“I mean, it’s not that bad, just some kissing. Trust me, I’ve seen them do worse,” he huffs, and the sympathy turns to pity and increases tenfold. Minho wonders just how much worse the situation is, how much has to have happened before now for Jisung to be tolerating this, acting as if it’s fine. 

“Jisung,” he says softly, “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“What?” Jisung frowns. “Why the hell are you apologizing?”

“Hey, what the hell is going on?” Hyunjin calls, standing up from where he’d crouched to light the next set of fireworks and making his way over quickly, Changbin just behind him. He turns to Minho with his arms akimbo. “What are you yelling about now?”

Minho forces himself not to glare as he stares pointedly at Felix and Seungmin, wearing matching expressions of confusion—playing innocent—before he looks back at Hyunjin.

“They just kissed,” he grits out.

Hyunjin doesn’t look the least bit concerned. “Okay, and? So what? You know, you’re kind of taking the overprotective big cousin thing a little far,” he says with an eye roll, and Minho can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“‘So what?’ Do you—am I the only one who sees a problem with this?” he cries.

A hand on his shoulder, and when he turns to his side, Jisung is looking at him a little worriedly. 

“I mean, they’re gross, but it’s not as if it’s a crime.” Minho disagrees—cheating should be a federal offense. “I don’t really think Felix kissing his dumb boyfriend is that bad,” Jisung continues with a light laugh. 

What. What?

“His what?” Minho chokes out. He whips around to look at Felix, arm still looped through Seungmin’s, and both of them watching him carefully. 

“My boyfriend?” Felix chuckles nervously. “Minho, you sound like a conservative,” he admonishes, then looks to Jisung over Minho’s shoulder. “He’s not,” he reassures him, as if he needs to clarify that Minho isn’t some sort of homophobe, but Minho can barely even hear him because his mind is reeling and the firecrackers are still exploding above them and it doesn’t make any sense.

“Your—” he points at Felix “—boyfriend.” He points at Seungmin.

Felix nods slowly, and then: comprehension slowly begins to dawn on his face, and he bursts out cackling. He laughs so hard he doubles over, claps so loudly that Minho can hear it over the booms of the fireworks.

“Did—did you think—” he doesn’t finish before he begins to laugh again, so hard now that he hiccups, and Minho has never wanted the ground to open up and swallow him more than he does right now.

“Oh my god.” Seungmin groans and looks at Minho with an expression that’s a cross between disbelief and amusement. “You’re so fucking dumb,” he marvels, rubbing a hand down Felix’s back as he collects himself.

“Wait,” Jisung says, and Minho tries to turn away, both to hide the embarrassed flush he can feel warming his face, and because he doesn’t think he can bear to look at him now after his enormous display of pure idiocy; but Jisung grabs him by the bicep and forces him back around. He attempts to meet Minho’s gaze, who very determinedly looks anywhere other than Jisung.

“Let me go,” he whispers, even though he knows Jisung won’t hear over the wind and the fireworks, because he also knows that if he speaks any louder, his voice is going to come out as a whine.

“Wait,” Jisung repeats, and although Minho can hear the laughter in his voice, he can tell he’s doing his best to hold it back. “You thought—this entire time, you thought that I was dating Felix. And that Seungmin was his roommate.” It isn’t a question, but Minho swallows thickly and nods anyway.

He hears a choked-off giggle, and when he finally looks at Jisung’s face his lip is bitten between his teeth hard enough that it blanches, and his eyes are glimmering with mirth.

Minho scowls and wrenches himself out of Jisung’s grip. “Okay, I get it.” But either nobody hears him or they choose to ignore him.

Hyunjin gawks at him. “Hold on, that’s seriously what you thought?” Minho doesn’t reply.

“No, wait,” Changbin cuts in. “No one even told me, but I could still tell the second we met that they were together. How did you get it mixed up? ” He looks both gleeful and genuinely curious, as if Minho’s stupidity should be studied further.

“I—Felix told me that—”

“Felix told you what?” Felix himself interrupts. “I want to hear this, go on. What did Felix tell you?”

“Nothing, forget it. Just—forget it.”

He’s surprised that it’s Hyunjin who finally takes pity on him. “Okay, let’s finish the rest of these fireworks first so we can bully Minho where there’s heating.” He doesn’t wait before he bounds back towards the rest of the skyrockets stuck in the sand.

Seungmin gives him one last incredulous look, shaking his head as he laces his fingers with Felix’s and leads them down the shore; Changbin makes no attempt to hide his amusement, thoroughly entertained as he literally points and laughs at Minho as he runs down to follow them.

Minho doesn’t make any moves to join them, and neither does Jisung, who waits until everyone is far enough that the wind carries their voices away before he turns to Minho with an impish grin.

“Don’t,” Minho warns immediately.

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“You were going to.”

Jisung laughs loudly. “Yeah I was, and you know what, I’m still going to.”

Minho groans, but he doesn’t try to fight the inevitable, tugging the collar of his jacket further up his neck and crossing his arms, though that’s more to keep his fingers from freezing off.

“I just have one question,” Jisung says. “Did you think I was flirting with you this entire time as someone who already had a boyfriend?”

Minho’s knees feel weak, because it isn’t as if he hadn’t known that Jisung was flirting, but he’d shoved the thought all the way in the back of mind and then hadn’t even considered entertaining it for longer than a second—hadn’t let himself entertain it.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I kind of wished you weren’t.”

“Oh.” Jisung sounds winded. “Alright, well then—I’m sorry for that.” He averts his gaze, and Minho quickly grabs his arm.

“No, I don’t mean because I didn’t want you to, I—I just knew I wouldn’t stand a chance if I believed you were.” He mumbles the last part, but he knows Jisung heard, because in an instant the smile is back, and Minho hates himself for being the reason it left for even a single moment.

“Oh,” Jisung says again, pleased as he rocks back on the heels of boots. “Okay, then—wait, one more question, actually.”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you know you talk in your sleep?”

“Yeah?” He’s gotten an earful about it more than once from Changbin.

“It’s kind of scary,” Jisung continues. “You were having a full conversation the first time I heard it.”

Minho doesn’t think he likes where this is headed. “Was I?”

“Yeah.” Jisung’s grin is smug; wry.

Minho’s chest feels too tight around his lungs. “What did I say?”

Jisung leans in close, until Minho feels his breath warm against the shell of his ear.

“You were making a shopping list,” he murmurs softly, voice low. “And you were very interested in the post Christmas sales on roombas.”

He pulls back, looking entirely too pleased with himself, and Minho knows that he’s not just messing with him either, because he had been looking at the sales. He’s torn between wanting to shove Jisung away and pulling his beanie down over his face.

And then Jisung flits his eyes down to Minho’s mouth, for less than a split second, before he takes a single step closer, enough to bridge the little space between them, toe of his boot nudging against Minho’s.

Minho takes a moment to just look at him, to allow himself look at him properly now; wide eyes like clear glass, open and emotional, meeting his own and with his gaze bearing into Minho like the strong wind of the ocean that whips overhead: crashing right into him, and billowing everywhere around him, all at once. This close, Minho could count every single one of the thick, dark lashes fluttering demurely down towards the tops of his cheeks. There’s a snowflake caught in one of them, a single crystal hovering just in front of his pupil where it catches the lights of the firecrackers.

Jisung leans forward, reaching out to slide his hand beneath Minho’s jaw. He flits the pad of his thumb down across the line of it, before lifting his hand to trace across his cheekbones, his chin; strokes his hand down along Minho’s neck, curling his cold fingers over cold skin that burns beneath his touch, sends a flood of heat across Minho’s face and into the tips of his ears.

A tickle at the back of his throat from a near hysterical laugh that Minho swallows down before it can escape; and with one hand now cupping Jisung’s cheek, the other slipping beneath his jacket to press firmly against the width of his back, he pulls him in, pulls him close between his hands and his chest. Jisung leans into his touch, unbothered by the ice of Minho’s palm, his gaze unwavering. And, unsure if it's from shyness, or embarrassment, or weakness, Minho shuts his own eyes tight as he presses his mouth to Jisung's.

Delicate lips, delicate hands cradling his neck while Minho’s body becomes numb from nothing but his own heart beating bruises against the cage of his ribs. Kissing Jisung sends liquid lightning searing straight down into Minho’s chest, and he feels Jisung sink in his arms; pliant and light against him. His mouth is gentle under Minho’s, his lips soft and plush, and his fingers seek out the hair at the nape of Minho’s neck to twist themselves into.

It's easy. It’s so easy for Minho to hold him close and allow Jisung to monopolize every thought that attempts to cross his mind; to forget the cold that bites at his skin and the crack of each firework that’s set off to instead focus on Jisung; the brush of his silken lashes against Minho’s thumb as he strokes it along the swell of his cheek, on the warm puffs of air that he sighs contentedly against Minho’s mouth.

Jisung’s lips are slow and careful but eager under Minho’s own, and one hand tugs lightly at the roots of his hair while the other moves down to grip him tight by the collar of his coat, drawing Minho closer to himself, as if not wanting the world to touch him. He swipes his tongue across the seam of Minho’s mouth, makes a soft sound at the back of his throat that Minho decides he loves the instant he hears it as he parts his lips for him. Jisung kisses him, hard and deep and urgent, until his kisses turn Minho's bones to water, melting him down and leaving him with his blood pounding in his temples.

Minho doesn’t want to pull away, but when he eventually does and sees Jisung’s whole face lighting up like the break of dawn, smiling so hard it makes his nose scrunch up and his lips pull into a valentine, smiling so brightly at him—because of him—he can’t find it in himself to regret it for longer than a second.

✧

There’s a box of doughnuts on the kitchen table when Minho makes his way over, and Felix and Seungmin seated at it, across from each other as they quietly enjoy their breakfast. They haven't noticed Minho yet, and he doesn’t intend to be a creep and spy on them, but he pauses in the entryway for a moment to look at them.

He wonders now just how he had managed to remain so oblivious to them for the past few weeks. How he had missed the way Seungmin is more relaxed than he's ever seen him before when he has Felix gently holding onto his arm, and how he doesn't seem the least bit bothered by how he now nudges his ankle against Seungmin’s; how Felix’s usual sunny smile seems just a bit warmer when it's directed at Seungmin; how they barely exchange a word but the quiet intimacy between them vividly colors each of their actions, not speaking for itself as much as it shouts.

Minho’s pulled from his thoughts when something bumps his arm; looks and finds Jisung pulling his shoulder back before he grins. "Now aren't those two just some great friends?" He brings a hand up to stroke his chin in mock thought. "But wait, that can't be right." The look of puzzlement he shifts his face into is almost convincing. "No, I think, just maybe—" he leans closer, stands on tiptoes so he can whisper right into Minho’s ear "—they might even be best friends."

Minho gets in exactly one pinch to his side before Jisung darts into the kitchen, returning the smile Felix directs at him in greeting and ignoring the flat stare Seungmin levels him with to flip open the box and begin deciding which doughnut to pick. Minho rolls his eyes and steps into the kitchen himself, giving a quiet little wave in greeting as he braces his hands against the edge of the table and does his own assessing of the box.

He reaches for a cream filled doughnut at the same time Jisung does and draws his hand back at the same time as well.

"Go ahead," he says.

Jisung tilts the box towards Minho. "You reached for it first."

"I don't want it, too sweet."

"You're such a bad liar," Jisung scoffs in disbelief.

"And?" He tilts the box back.

"One of you just take it," Seungmin interjects, looking somewhere between weary and repulsed. Then he turns back to Felix. "Please don't tell me those genes are going to awaken in you, too."

Minho chooses to pretend he doesn’t hear him; and, when Jisung doesn’t move, plucks the doughnut out of the box and smushes it against the corner of Jisung’s mouth, ignoring his spluttering "Hey!"

“It touched your mouth so now you have to eat it,” Minho says as Jisung catches his wrist and tugs his hand away.

“Are we five?” He wipes a finger through the custard filling on his cheek—looks at it for a second before licking it off.

“Yeah, we’re five,” Minho replies without missing a beat. The sound of a chair scraping as it moves back makes him look up then. Seungmin pushes himself out of his seat, rolling his eyes hard enough that Minho worries they’ll get stuck in the back of his head.

“Okay, as an act of kindness I’m going to go finish packing and pretend I never saw any of whatever the hell this is,” he huffs as he steps around them and heads out of the kitchen. Felix gives them a funny look before he also gets up, squeezing Minho’s shoulder as he passes by.

Jisung pulls apart the slightly squished doughnut in his hand, careful not to let any of the cream spill out, and passes a half to Minho. 

“Don’t you need to pack too?” he asks after rinsing the sticky remnants of powdered sugar off his hands.

Jisung waves him off. “I’ll do it in the morning.”

“It’s morning now,” Minho points out.

“Tomorrow morning,” Jisung amends. “And you know that’s what I meant.”

Minho doesn't get the chance to respond before there's the sound of swift but heavy footsteps behind them, followed by a firm smack between his shoulder blades.

“Morning," Changbin greets, voice scratchy with sleep; grabs a doughnut, turns to Jisung and adds, "You have custard on your chin.”

The roof is higher up than Minho remembers it being. There’s a small makeshift deck up there, and Minho had ignored the creaky old chairs to instead sit directly on the rooftop below him, needing to feel the cold, solid concrete beneath him and the weight of the door against his back if he’s going to be up there. He sits with his knees drawn up to his chest, jacket pulled tight around himself, and Jisung dozing off on his shoulder.

And the sky: a pale grey slowly bleeding into blue, crowded with a thick sheet of cloud-like fog that seems to reach down and touch the skyline. Minho tilts his head to the side until his cheek rests on Jisung’s crown, feels feather-soft hair tickling his skin and the brush of warm breath against his neck; his heart leaps and settles.

Jisung shifts subtly against his side for a moment before he lifts his head drowsily, and Minho allows himself to be moved along with the action. A beat of pause resounds then as Jisung blinks the sleep from his eyes, before a slow smile spreads across his face, so brilliant that facing the full force of it feels like he’s been caught beneath the July sun.

Minho thinks, if it were possible, that he misses him already.