Archive of Our Own ^beta

If Minho had to count how many times over the years he’s heard his mother say, “my friend has a son your age,” or “it would be nice if you talked to the family that moved in down the street, they’ve got a boy that you would like,” he would need a brand-new, very high number invented specifically for this purpose.

That’s why, by now he’s not only fed up, but also immune; when his mom calls him one December afternoon, his break in between dance classes about to end, and begins telling him about grandma’s friend’s grandson that has just come back from abroad and how Minho could meet him when he comes home for Christmas, because he’s such a nice and polite and educated boy, Minho stops listening.

His mom (and his grandma) has played matchmaker way too many times; in the beginning, Minho gave in, but soon enough he realized that all the people they’d set him up with didn’t even spark joy. He wouldn’t force himself to date someone he didn’t enjoy spending time with—not even to make his mom happy. 

But, ever so stubborn, she’s still insistent on finding the love of his life, this time invoking the Christmas magic that would definitely work in his favor. Neither of them is even Christian to begin with. 

“I’m getting older,” she exaggerates, just like she always does, trying to play on his emotions just so that he sways and gives in. “I want to know you’re happy with someone before I—”

“Mom!” he snaps, voice taking on a sharper edge, echoing too loudly off of the walls of the empty practice room. Minho rubs the side of his face with a tired sigh. He’s had a migraine for the entirety of the day, and his mom trying to shove him into another blind date isn’t helping. “Have you just stopped to think that maybe I already have someone?” 

Frankly, Minho doesn’t know what part of his exhausted brain prompted him to say that, because it definitely isn’t true, but the words are already out in the open when his mom gasps softly on the other side of the line.

Great, Minho thinks to himself bitterly, looking up at the reflection of his grimace in the mirror. The crease between his brows has come back, adding sharpness to his expression, and the dark circles beneath his eyes haven’t gone away still, despite the under-eye patches Seungmin keeps giving him every weekend. 

“You finally got together with Jisung?” 

Minho blinks in confusion, frustration dying out at the mention of his best friend’s name. “Eh?” he lets out mindlessly, drawing his eyebrows together and hoping for elaboration that doesn’t come.

All his mom says is: “I’m expecting you two over for Christmas,” and even though the questions are on the tip of Minho’s tongue, the door of the practice room swings open, the first students shyly coming in, and Minho rushes out an ‘I need to go’ and hangs up.

He pushes those thoughts away in favor of greeting his new dancers, a small group of high-schoolers that Soonyoung assigned him to last week. Minho forgets about everything else when he puts on the music so they can stretch. 

He finishes work at seven in the evening, takes a quick shower, and chats a bit with Minghao on his way to the bus stop. Then, he gets on the bus the moment it arrives, and heads to the furthest seat in the back, earphones in and head slumped against the window. 

The idea of listening to anything after hours and hours of loud music booming through his throbbing head already has his face stuck in a permanent grimace, but quiet songs are better than the chatter of some teenagers on the bus that’s threatening to split his skull in two. 

Once he steps through the threshold of his apartment, Minho forgets about the conversation cut short, waddling over to the kitchen to get some painkillers and grunting out a greeting to Seungmin doing his assignments on the floor, before heading to his bedroom and passing out as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

He only remembers what his mom said when he sees Jisung the following day. 

Not knowing what to think, Minho doesn’t try to bring it up the second Jisung steps into the apartment, but it somehow spills out of his mouth while they’re watching a movie in the living room and Jisung’s fingers are carding through his hair while Minho’s head is in his lap.

Minho has never been good at keeping things away from Jisung. Especially if it’s something so… silly. It surely feels so when he tells Jisung that his mom thinks they’re dating for some reason and now she wants him to come over to Gimpo for holidays. Minho feels ridiculous with the warmth building on his neck. 

Jisung scoffs, an amused grin curling up the corner of his mouth. “Why would she even assume we’re dating?” 

Minho shrugs, lifting his hand to feed him a single kernel of caramel popcorn and then throwing a few into his own mouth. After munching—after giving Jisung more popcorn because of how he’s pouting like a child—he says, “I don’t know. It’s ridiculous.”

Seungmin—Minho’s flatmate—comes to a stop in front of the television on his way from the kitchen and stands there for a second, regarding them with raised eyebrows while ignoring their loud protests that he’s covering the screen.

“Yeah,” he agrees with clear amusement that Minho doesn’t understand, snorting when both Minho and Jisung exchange confused looks. “Ridiculous.”

Minho props himself up on his elbow, digging it into Jisung’s bony thigh, and tosses a caramel popcorn at Seungmin, watching it bounce off his arm and roll on the floor. 

“You’re cleaning that up,” Seungmin announces, and then he resumes the walk to his bedroom, obnoxiously slurping his juice. 

Minho almost stands up and runs after him with visions of murder flashing before his eyes, not really knowing who among the two of them would be the dead one. Almost, because Jisung laughs and holds him back like he knows Minho’s intentions, pulling him back against his lap and grabbing the bag of popcorn before it can spill out onto the floor and the couch. 

Minho watches him shove the remnants of his favorite caramel popcorn from the convenience store down the street into his mouth and briefly considers either making Jisung go and buy another bag, or prying the kernels from between his lips; but Jisung breaks into a satisfied, happy smile as he munches on the snack and Minho doesn’t have the heart to wipe it off his face.

“And?” Jisung asks then, catching him staring as he crumples the empty bag and puts it aside to throw out later. “What did you tell your mom?”

Caught off-guard by the situation returning like a boomerang, Minho blinks up at him repeatedly, for a moment not quite registering what Jisung actually wants him to say. “I didn’t deny, but I didn’t say she was right, either,” he says. “My classes were starting then, so I just hung up the phone, but I’ll just text her and tell her—”

“Tell her it’s me.”

Minho sits up, palm pressed into the couch next to Jisung’s legs, eyebrows knitted together. “What?” he asks dumbly, even though he clearly heard what Jisung had just said. 

His reaction makes him falter a bit, though, and the sheepish, barely-there smile Minho receives throws his mind off the tracks. 

“She already thinks we’re a thing, and if that’ll make her stop trying to set you up with people you don’t like, then it’s good,” Jisung reasons, shrugging indifferently. “I mean, we’re already close, right? How hard can pretending be?”

Minho opens his lips to speak, but gets stuck in the search for words. Eventually, he settles on asking honestly, “Won’t that be weird to you?”

“No,” Jisung says; he makes it sound like it should be obvious. There’s something about the furrow of his brows that Minho can’t decipher. “Why would it be? I’m comfortable with you.”

The sincerity of his words and the way he smiles softly while reaching out to take the stray kernel of popcorn that somehow got stuck to Minho’s hair unbalances Minho.

He has to draw Jisung’s attention away from the embarrassing flush that hits Minho’s neck at the notion of how easily Jisung is able to not only say those things, but also how quickly he would jump into pretending that they’re dating just to save Minho from his stubborn mother’s shenanigans. 

“Don’t you want to go home for Christmas, though?” he asks, lower lips catching between his teeth as he watches his friend’s face. Jisung averts his eyes, hand flying to his neck to rub it sheepishly, and that’s when Minho knows something isn’t right.

It’s not wrong per se, but it’s just not right, when Jisung says, “My parents are flying to Canada to see Younghyun, so—” He shrugs, smiling sheepishly; it looks more like a grimace. “I’d stay here, anyway.”

Minho’s voice takes on a worried edge. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Jisung exhales, stretching his legs in front of himself until his joints crack, a more prominent grimace taking over his features. Reaching out to rub his knees, Minho scolds him with a stare, promising himself that he’ll start dragging Jisung on his daily evening walks. 

“Didn’t want you to worry, ‘cause I know you would,” he says. “And it’s not that big of a deal. I’m an adult, I can handle spending Christmas alone.” 

Minho knows this—Jisung would be perfectly content with getting something sweet from his favorite café, watching a cozy movie, and catching up on the sleep he’s been losing over his graduation project. But just the notion of Jisung doing that alone while Minho is getting festive with his own family just a city away makes his mouth feel funny. 

He doesn’t like it.

“Well, now it’s resolved, because you’re going with me, dating or not.”

For once, Jisung doesn’t argue. He doesn’t insist that he’ll be fine on his own or that he doesn’t want to impose. He just whispers, “Okay,” and they go back to watching the movie, though they’ve missed a majority of it talking and it hardly makes sense now.

✦

Minho almost chokes on air when they step into Felix’s apartment a few days later and they’re not even half-way through taking their shoes off when Seungmin points at him and Jisung and says, “They’re dating now.” 

A wave of surprised noises comes from inside of the apartment, and soon enough Jeongin is shouting something that sounds awfully a lot like “Fucking finally!” and Minho has to watch Felix’s face almost split in two with how widely he’s smiling as he helps them out of their coats. 

He and Jisung step into the living room, finding the rest of their friends seated either on the couch or the floor, Seungmin already with a drink in hand, and everyone is grinning at them like they know something Minho doesn’t. 

He almost feels bad to wipe those smiles off their faces, because they’re clearly happy that two of their friends are supposedly in a relationship, but he quickly clears up, “It’s just for Christmas.” 

Chan raises an eyebrow. “Like, a trial, or something?” 

Jisung chuckles, plopping down on the couch beside him. “No, Minho needs his mom to stop setting him up on dates, and for some reason when he’d said he was dating someone, which he isn’t, obviously, just look at him—” Minho glares at him, to which Jisung only grins, because he knows he can get away with anything when it comes to Minho, “—so we’re pretending.” 

Jeongin exchanges undecipherable looks with Seungmin and sets his glass down on the coffee table, turning towards Jisung. “And what are you getting out of it?” he asks. “I hope you’re not sentencing yourself to Minho’s romantic side for free.” 

As Jisung hums, rubbing his chin and pretending to be thinking, Minho lets out a scandalized, “And what is my ‘romantic side’ supposed to mean?” which promptly gets ignored when Jeongin and Jisung begin brainstorming about the things Jisung could get from Minho. 

Jeongin insists he could get anything, because he’s Jisung and Minho has an obvious and ‘disgusting’ soft spot for him; Minho turns a deaf ear and spins on his heel, making a beeline for the kitchen with the intention of raiding Felix’s wine cabinet, leaving all this nonsense behind.

The nonsense trails right behind him.

While he’s rummaging through the drawer in search of the corkscrew, Seungmin appears in the archway, leaning his shoulder against the wall. Minho tries to pay him no mind, mostly because Seungmin blurted out his business on purpose to their friends, but then he states matter-of-factly, “You’re seriously doing this.”

Minho plays dumb. “Is opening a bottle of wine a crime now?” 

“You know what I mean,” Seungmin says then, going over to one of the cabinets to take out a bowl—his excuse to come here instead of Felix, probably. “I thought you were just kidding about the whole fake-dating thing.” 

Minho forgoes the glass in favor of taking a swig straight out of the bottle first; Seungmin looks at him like he’s crazy, but he doesn’t care. “It’s literally just for four days. I think we can handle some acting in front of my parents.” 

We both took theatre in college, Minho wants to say stupidly, but he holds himself back at the last moment, instead pressing his lips into a thin line to stop the smile from appearing on his face.

“Does your genius plan also include a way to make it believable enough for your mom to actually let the dating thing go?” When Minho remains quiet, tongue poking the inner side of his cheek before he takes another sip out of the bottle, Seungmin raises an eyebrow. “Or are you afraid you’ll make it too obvious and he’ll find out about your little crush?”

Minho splutters, choking on his wine, pressing a hand against his chest as he coughs weakly. His ears turn hot and red in the blink of an eye, and when he straightens up, Seungmin is regarding him with satisfaction, a winning smile curled around his mouth. 

The worst thing is, Minho doesn’t even get to defend himself; the front door opens and slams shut, and another pair of voices rings through the apartment as Felix lets two of the last guests inside. 

Changbin is fashionably late as always, black hair disheveled in a way it could be mistaken for the doing of the wind raging outside, but then a sheepish Hyunjin tails closely behind him, an explanatory flush high on his cheeks as he waves to Minho and Seungmin on his way to the living room, and everything is clear.

The conversation—like many lately, Minho notes—is cut short when Seungmin walks out, leaving Minho in the empty kitchen with nothing but the quiet buzzing of the fridge keeping his thoughts company.

✦

“I’ve been thinking.”

Minho hums to show he’s listening, but he thinks it might get drowned out in the sound of the snow creaking beneath their shoes as they make their way to his apartment through the parking lot.

Usually, maybe he would crack a joke, say something unfunny like, ‘Wow, thinking! That’s new!’ But tonight, he’s a little buzzed with all the wine he’s had and Jisung’s body radiates a pleasant kind of warmth when their elbows bump against one another, even through the layers of clothes he’s wearing.

Jisung doesn’t say anything until they’re standing on the steps of the gray apartment building, and Minho almost manages to ask if he wants to come over since Seungmin is staying at Felix’s, but Jisung eventually beats him to it. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he repeats, looking almost shy in the golden light overhead; he lifts his hand like he wants to rub his neck or his face, but ends up deciding against it and pulls his white beanie further down over his head. “That maybe… we need some practice. Just in case.” 

Minho draws his brows together. “Practice?” 

“Uh—” Jisung lets out a breathy chuckle. “You know.” 

Minho is tired, he has just had half a bottle of some expensive wine and ate way too many baked snacks that left him feeling heavy and sleepy, so… no. He doesn’t really know. But the look on Jisung’s face makes him nod, anyway, and a part of Minho hopes that this way he’ll persuade Jisung into coming upstairs to fulfill his role as Minho’s personal body pillow.

“Erm… close your eyes!” 

“What?”

“Just do it!” Jisung says hurriedly, and Minho’s lips curve into a smile as he shakes his head, finally letting his eyes flutter shut as per request. 

They fly open in surprise again less than a second later when Jisung kisses him.

It’s nothing more than a tentative brush of lips, but a spark of electricity runs under Minho’s skin, successfully sobering him up. Still, instead of taking a step back, he tilts his head a little to the side. His hands travel up to Jisung’s shoulders, where they bunch up in the fabric of his padded jacket; until the movement makes a squeaking sound and Jisung jumps away. 

“Oh my—” he whispers, eyes widening. “I’m sorr—”

“Why are you apologizing?” Minho interrupts, even though his head is spinning and he feels like he should be apologizing for dragging Jisung into this entire mess that got them practicing in the first place. Then, more quietly, he says, “I kissed you back.” 

“Yeah,” Jisung whispers, visibly swallowing. He clears his throat, a small smile making its way to his lips, and Minho can’t help but think that he looks pretty like this, eyes glimmering in the light casted over their heads and expression soft, face a little flushed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” 

Minho’s lips are still tingling with warmth when he says, “I’ll pick you up at nine,” and he’s unable to hold back the foolish smile that curves at his mouth as he watches Jisung take the steps down to the path leading to the parking lot. 

Despite the cold pricking at his cheeks, Minho steps inside the building only when he makes sure that Jisung has safely made it out into the street. That’s when he lifts his hand, pressing the pads of his fingers against his lips, his mind not really catching up to what has just happened.

His traitorous body allows the warmth Jisung has left behind to settle in, his skin burning with a furious blush at the mere thought that he actually kissed Jisung. It’s not even anything that special—Minho has kissed a lot of his friends before and it meant nothing—but for some reason he still feels the press of Jisung’s lips against his own even when he lies down in his bed that night, long after Jisung drives away.

Tipsy Minho is prone to unwanted reflections; thoughts and visions flood his mind, utterly confusing as they lace with things that have been said to him for the past few days, all the reactions and words twirling around one another until they make a mess he wouldn’t be able to decipher even if he was sober. 

✦

Minho pulls up to the parking lot and doesn’t even get the time to type out a message to tell Jisung he’s there before Jisung is running out of the apartment building, one hand pressed to his head to keep his hat from flying away in the raging wind and snow.

He yanks the door of Minho’s jeep open with too much force, and on another day Minho would glare at him, but Jisung is flushed and wheezing when he finally slips into the passenger seat, clutching his duffel bag to his chest. 

The last thing Minho wants is for Jisung to get sick. Holding back the nagging, because it’s not Jisung’s fault that the weather is kicking their ass, he turns up the heating and wishes he’d taken hot tea in a thermos.

“Seatbelts,” he reminds him before starting the car, and shakes his head when Jisung takes at least three tries to fasten the seatbelts with his frozen fingers.

Not really knowing what to do to draw Jisung’s attention from the cold as he warms up, Minho forbids him from putting on Christmas songs and threatens to kick him out of the car on the highway if he tries to play something that resembles holiday-themed tracks, even just a little.

Jisung laughs, then, and puts toffee to Minho’s mouth to shut him up. He ends up plugging his phone into the aux cord and playing one of the slower playlists; he sings quietly, looking over at the landscape they’re passing during the drive.

Minho repeatedly catches himself letting his eyes stray over to the side, just to glance at him. He listens to Jisung’s voice and finds that he doesn’t mind any song that much if the lyrics echo in his honey voice.

The ride to Gimpo is short, just around twenty minutes long, and soon enough Minho is pulling the car up by his home, heart thrumming in his chest with the realization that… this is it. 

His mom opens the front door the second they step out of the car, a bright smile on her face; Minho narrows his eyes, quietly scolding her for stepping out into the cold without a jacket. 

She waves a dismissive hand and greets them both with bone-crushing hugs, which clearly surprises Jisung, if the widening of his eyes is anything to go by; she knows him because of the countless times he was over at Minho’s apartment already when she or his dad were visiting, bursting inside after his classes ended, or in the background of a video call. 

Minho is glad she likes him—Jisung is inarguably one of the most important people in his life—but it doesn’t come off as a surprise that she actually adores him, either; he’s charming and kind-hearted and fun to be around—but it’s still a relief that she… accepts him.

Minho’s dad is less fond of hugs, but he welcomes them warmly, immediately starting with a thousand questions about anything and everything, mostly about the life in the city and Jisung’s school, and he seems pleased to hear that Jisung replies to each one, even if it’s just out of politeness. 

They don’t make a big deal out of Jisung being Minho’s boyfriend—they don’t even mention it, frankly—but Minho can see their eyes, more watchful than usual, picking apart every gesture and word the two of them exchange. They’re simply looking out for him, he knows that, but their scrutinizing eyes make him feel a little bit too aware of his surroundings—especially the glances and smiles Jisung offers him from the other side of the table as they talk to Minho’s parents.

His mom only makes her curiosity obvious when they finish their mugs of tea and decide to move their bags to the bedroom so they don’t hinder the passage. After they haul them up the stairs—trying not to step on the cats weaving around their ankles—she jokes, “Should I even let you sleep in the same room?” 

Her eyes crinkle in the corners, laughter echoing in the house. Jisung snorts a laugh, too, but Minho—frankly—only feels embarrassed.

“We’re not fifteen, mom,” he says, rolling his eyes fondly, and ushers Jisung away from his parents and their unfunny jokes, towards the end of the hallway.

Minho’s old room serves as a storage room while he’s gone, but for the sake of Jisung coming over, his mom had cleaned up the stuff that could hamper them so that it’s liveable again.

His bed is big enough for both of them to sleep comfortably without having to be completely squished together, but there’s a mat in the closet and Minho wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor if Jisung wanted the bed for himself, since it’s better for his sore back.

When he tells Jisung as much, Jisung says, “Don’t be ridiculous. We usually share the bed when I’m over at your place and now, when we’re boyfriends, you want to sleep on the floor?” and Minho ducks his head without an answer.

✦

Minho wonders if it really is that easy for Jisung to switch the boyfriend mode on.

It’s not that he’s doing anything special or particularly romantic—because he isn’t doing anything more than how he usually acts around Minho. Still, to Minho it’s clear that—for some reason—he’s slipped into his newfound role of Minho’s partner with ease. He’s touchy, allowing his hands to linger on Minho’s body seemingly without purpose, leans into his space like he belongs there, speaks in a soft voice just to take jabs at Minho a second later, and throughout the day, Minho often catches him staring—when he does, Jisung just winks at him and moves on.

But that’s normal—he doesn’t do anything that could come off as more boyfriend-ish, and yet it feels like that when Minho glances away from the wildlife documentary displayed on the screen of his phone and finds his mom looking at them fondly from where she’s hanging the laundry.

It leaves Minho tingling with warmth.

He finds it a little bit more difficult to pretend, choking on his own words when he almost calls Jisung baby when he asks if Jisung wants coffee, awkwardly pretending he hasn’t just done that and dying of embarrassment when his mom says, “You don’t have to stop yourself from being sweet just because we’re around!” 

In the end, he decides to stop thinking about it as some kind of test. He has come home to enjoy Christmas with his family and his best friend, and the last thing he needs is to make it weird; his mom doesn’t seem to care—she’s probably just happy to have another soul around.

The best thing about it all (and simultaneously the strangest) is how Jisung fits in the picture of Minho’s family perfectly; he gets along with his dad even though their hobbies don’t quite match, chattering about seemingly everything they can think of; he charms Minho’s mom with his pretty smile and politeness and buys her heart by eating up all the food she makes for him.

And, most importantly, the cats fucking love him. Dori clearly loves him more than he loves Minho, finding home in Jisung’s arms and digging his claws into the fabric of his hoodie, not wanting to be let go onto the floor. Doongie is usually loud, but Minho thinks he might need his vocal cords checked out after the insanely loud meows he keeps letting out, demanding the entirety of Jisung’s attention. Admittedly, Soonie isn’t easy to win over, since he’s older and ‘a bad bitch’ as Jeongin would call him, but not running away and nuzzling into Jisung’s hand when he tries to pet him is proof enough that Soonie accepts him.  

At the sight of Jisung scratching Dori behind ear, all the tension drains from Minho’s shoulders, and instead warmth fills his chest. It doesn’t feel like Jisung is trying to find a place for himself in this house as Minho’s boyfriend.

He’s just Minho’s Jisung. 

✦

Later that night, after washing up and brushing their teeth, Minho slides into his usual spot by the wall that Jisung has left for him, and without a trace of actual venom in it, he teases, “I’ll kick you off the bed at night.”

But, based on their history, he knows that his weird, unexplainable senses will have him pulling Jisung close if he feels him slipping too close to the edge of the mattress, tingling like they usually do, and he’ll wake up with Jisung pressed against his side, their legs tangled together, and arms losing blood flow with how tightly they’re holding one another.

Jisung scoffs, turning onto his back to stare at the white ceiling of Minho’s room. “I’ll just drag you down to the floor and use your body as a mattress,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid that speaking any louder would disturb either the small bubble of comfort they’re in, or Minho’s parents.

Minho smiles to himself, throwing an arm over his face lest Jisung notices it in the dark, but he doesn’t try falling asleep. He enjoys the quiet buzz of the street outside and even his dad’s snoring that can be heard from down the hallway. The serenity that comes with having Jisung in the same, comfortably snug space with him beats everything else, though; it’s not often that they get to simply enjoy the silence of the night without the looming responsibilities keeping them up. 

He’s always felt the most comfortable with just Jisung, no matter where they are and what they’re doing; even this—late night silence—wouldn’t feel the same with anyone else. But the same late night silence is what prompts his mind to stray into the awfully mushy and soft territory, and Minho isn’t in the mood for another session of overthinking, so he holds the thoughts back.

“How was it?” he asks into the darkness, instead, knowing well that Jisung isn’t asleep yet. “The first day.” 

Jisung hums, rolling onto his side and resting his cheek against his palm; when Minho turns his head to look at him properly, Jisung’s eyes are sparkling in the moonlight pouring into the room through the blinds that aren’t closed properly. 

He seems somewhat sheepish when he finally whispers, “I think they like me.” Then—a chuckle. “I don’t know. But your parents are always nice to me, so I feel good here.”

Of course they’re nice to Jisung—not only is he a kind-hearted soul, but also Minho’s best friend for years and years; just the knowledge that he has managed to keep Minho by his side for so long tells them about the kind of person that he is.

Minho grins. “I think my mom was holding back a little,” he says, watching as Jisung’s eyebrow quirks up quizzically. “It’s surprising she didn’t jump us with tons of questions about… you know. Us being together. I think she was just trying to give us space.”

Jisung hums, eyes fluttering shut as a small smile forms on his lips. “That’s nice,” he whispers into the night, his hot, toothpaste-scented breath fanning over Minho’s cheek. “It means you’re free of blind dates and sets up, then, right?” 

✦

Minho wakes up to fur tickling his cheek and slim fingers carding through his hair. He can smell Soonie by the distinctive scent of his kitty feet, and figures that the cat must’ve jumped onto the bed in the middle of the night, curling up in between the two of them in search of warmth.

Not wanting the hand to disappear from his hair for many foolish and selfish reasons, Minho keeps his eyes closed for another moment, not even opposed to the idea of staying in bed longer than usual.

When Soonie stirs in his sleep, stretching out his paws and kicking Minho as a result, Jisung quickly whispers, “Shh, don’t move, you’ll wake Minho,” a smile almost audible in his voice. 

Soonie purrs happily then, and Minho knows that Jisung has already won this little beast over, definitely with some belly rubs and definitely not without battle scars on his pretty hands.

“Minho is already awake,” Minho says quietly without opening his eyes, trying to keep his voice as monotone as possible, even though it’s hoarse with sleep. 

Jisung chuckles. For a moment his hand stills in Minho’s hair, just sort of lies there, and the sudden lack of movement has the words ‘don’t stop’ on the tip of Minho’s tongue. He doesn’t have to embarrass himself like that—though a part of him knows Jisung is the last person to judge him, more so for loving the way his fingers feel tangled up in his hair—because Jisung starts scratching Minho behind his ear as if he were a cat, continuously pushing his hair back from his forehead and carding his fingers through the strands.

The mattress blanket dips under the weight that Minho recognizes as another cat; without opening his eyes, he’s getting a feeling that it’s Dori, for the youngest always gravitates towards Soonie.

When he finally lets his eyes flutter open and adjust to the daylight streaming into the bedroom, the first thing he sees is Jisung’s face, lower lip jutted out in a childish pout, eyes focused on the cats that invited themselves into the bed.

Minho loses himself in the rush of soft emotions swirling in his chest as he stares at Jisung, dumbfounded. It’s always nice to wake up to Jisung—even though most of the time he drools all over himself and the pillows—but there’s something different about seeing him in this light, endeared by the cuteness of the cats, on the morning just days before Christmas, in Minho’s own family home.

Minho swallows thickly.

He doesn’t know what’s going on with his mind these days.

“How do you do this?” Jisung whines, thankfully yanking him out of his thoughts, his palm spread out so he can pet both Soonie and Dori at the same time. “I need more hands.” 

He doesn’t move his fingers from Minho’s hair, though, even going as far as scratching the back of his head, his smile brightening when their eyes lock. Minho quickly averts his gaze, moving it to Soonie and Dori instead, curled up together like they always are, and lifts his hand to pet them.

They fall silent then, just fondling the cats and exchanging smiles when the purrs grow louder. It’s nothing short of a perfect morning—or noon, because Minho can’t actually tell what time it is, and he can only base his assumptions on the knowledge that Jisung hardly ever wakes up early in the morning. 

He doesn’t want to ask, though—he doesn’t want the spell to break; he wants to keep this morning the way it is just for a moment longer. They’re allowed to laze around—they’re in the middle of holidays, after all. 

Jisung speaks when their hands brush while they keep petting the cats lying between them. “What are the plans for today?” he asks—without jerking away like Minho almost expected him to.

Why would he even do that? Minho doesn’t know—he doesn’t know why he expected that in the first place. 

He clears his throat, blinking excessively, and rolls onto his back. “No plans. Let’s just do nothing.” 

Shortly, it turns out that it’s just impossible to do nothing, especially when it comes to Minho. As lazy as he gets sometimes, he needs movement, something to occupy his mind with, and if he can drag Jisung along, that’s even better.

It’s how they end up offering to do groceries for the day, and it’s less offering and more of Minho telling Jisung to move his ass and Jisung whining that he wants to stay where it’s warm and cozy. 

Minho notices that something has changed in the passage of the foyer when he looks up after tying his shoes. Namely, there’s a mistletoe hanging in the doorway that definitely hasn’t been there before; Minho has watched enough movies to know what happens next, and he isn’t surprised when his mom comes out of the kitchen to observe them under the pretense of carrying Doongie out into the living room. 

He hates everything about the tradition of mistletoe that doesn’t even belong to them and doesn’t even know where his mom has gotten it from, but he’s sure it’s specifically because of Minho’s boyfriend. Definitely not for herself.

“Did you make dad hang it up on purpose?” he asks, trying to make his voice sound indifferent. Jisung follows his gaze, then, and barks out a laugh when he notices the—fake—plant.

“Don’t bring me into this, Minho!” his dad calls from the living room. “I have nothing to do with her plans!” 

Minho scoffs, but underneath the weird tingling sensation in his fingertips, he’s quite amused. “I’m not going to make out with my boyfriend in front of you, mom,” he says. “It’s indecent and wrong and you shouldn’t encourage this.”

“Oh, come on,” Jisung teases, trouble in his eyes as he nudges Minho while getting his jacket. “Don’t you wanna kiss me?”

A sound between a chuckle and a cough falls out of Minho’s mouth. He swallows, just to fix his expression and let his lips lift mischievously. 

“Put on some chapstick first,” he says, rolling his eyes as he puts on his coat.

Jisung chuckles, shoving his hand into the pocket of his jacket to ceremoniously fish out a cherry-flavored chapstick with an ‘aha!’ and quickly applying it to his lips, puckering them up obnoxiously. 

Minho freezes for a split second when Jisung grins at him, taking that one step closer. He hooks an arm around Minho’s waist, pulling him closer, and despite the banter, there’s a silent question in his eyes— is this okay?

Minho doesn’t know if it is, but he knows he wouldn’t be able to stop himself even if he tried. Jisung has always been the best at reading him—he leans in after getting his permission, and Minho allows Jisung to kiss him softly with a dash of butterflies taking flight in his stomach.

His lips are gone before Minho can even taste the artificial cherry flavor off them, but the burning feeling lingers even after Minho calls out an “that’s enough!” and drags a laughing Jisung out of the house.

It’s been snowing almost non-stop since the previous evening, and the city is covered with a thick blanket of white fluff. As nice as having snow for holidays is, combined with the sharp wind, it makes the weather even colder, and Minho has to hide his face in his scarf to protect himself from freezing. 

Jisung would probably curse him out if he was willing to stick his nose out of the scarf he tightens around his neck and face, but he settles only on glaring at Minho for pulling him out of the warm house in this weather. 

“Oh, come on,” Minho tries, words getting muffled by the fabric shielding his face. “The store is just around the corner. We’ll be back in no time and I’ll make you the best tea in the entire world.”

Jisung shakes his head, drawing Minho’s attention to the snowflakes stuck to his blond hair; he pushes aside the idea of reaching out and shaking them off, completely forgetting about it when Jisung grabs his wrist to pull him down the sidewalk.

“Quickly, or I’m turning back around,” he mumbles. Despite his efforts to appear threatening, Minho can only see him as a grumpy cat. Cute.  

“You know, it’s harmful of you to assume that as a gay man I am stereotypically capable of walking fast,” Minho says matter-of-factly, his mock-seriousness making Jisung snort, even though he’s clearly trying to stay offended.  

As they round the corner, and Jisung mumbles a “be quiet already,” the hand on his wrist slides down and their palms press together, fingers interlocking. In his head, Minho reasons that it’s because it’s freezing and neither of them thought to bring gloves. He doesn’t know how to explain the rush of warmth to his neck that the touch of Jisung’s cold hand brings, though. 

The heating inside of the store allows them to take a break from the cold pricking at their red cheeks, but for some reason neither of them let go of one another’s hand. Minho doesn’t think about it much, focusing on finding everything they need that Jisung reads off the list on his phone. 

While he’s choosing which brand of meat is best from those available—Jisung has gone to the sweets aisle to find something to brighten up his mood—a familiar voice calls Minho’s name. He turns around, eyes searching through the aisle of the shop, and breaks into a surprised smile once his eyes land on his high-school friend, Sana. 

“Long time no see,” he says, although he’s technically seen her online. It’s been long enough since their last meeting in person, though, that he doesn’t know how to properly greet her—she doesn’t seem to mind the hesitation and mirrors his smile instead. 

They don’t chat for long—she’s just stopping by to get some energy drinks on her way to her friend’s place—but it’s still nice to catch up, especially considering that Minho hardly ever talks to his high-school acquaintances anymore. 

Just as Sana says that she needs to get going, a soft hand slips into Minho’s, lacing their fingers together; knowing well that it’s Jisung, Minho doesn’t even startle at the sudden touch. 

His eyes flit back from Sana to Jisung and, after an awkward pause when they regard one another with clear curiosity, Minho realizes they don’t actually know each other. 

“Oh,” slips past his lips, barely audible. Gesturing towards Sana with his left hand, which is still interlaced with Jisung’s, he smiles sheepishly and introduces, “Uh, this is Sana, my friend from high-school, and this is Jisung, my—” he pauses—Jisung squeezes his hand, probably meaning that Minho doesn’t have to keep up their act. Still, Minho ends up saying, “My boyfriend.” 

Sana raises her eyebrows, but strangely enough, she seems to light up when she greets Jisung, smile bright and eyes brighter. Her phone starts ringing before she can forget about her friends, staying here to talk to them some more, but just when she’s walking away with a promise of catching Minho some other time soon, she calls out, “I’d been hoping I’d hear some good news from you!” and winks obnoxiously, just the way she did when she was setting Minho up with his crushes back in school.

He rolls his eyes then, rubbing at the warmth rising to his neck. In the end, he grabs whichever meat lands in his hands first and pulls Jisung down the aisle by their joined hands.

Jisung clears his throat. “You said—You said that instead of just being your friend, I was your boyfriend, so… now, after Christmas, she’ll keep thinking we…”

“Oh.”

Minho blinks at him, caught off-guard in the middle of the drinks section of the store; it’s not something he needs to think about, but it still comes off as a bit of a surprise when he finds that he doesn’t mind Sana—or anyone else, for that matter—thinking he’s dating Jisung. At all. 

For a short moment he let the thought slip away—that they’re just pretending—because of how he stammered over what to refer to Jisung as when it felt right to call him his boyfriend. He didn’t have to keep the act up in front of Sana, but for some reason, his mind told him to.

Tingling with a strange sense of shyness, Minho cracks a grin and says, “That’s okay with me.” 

Jisung’s lips part like he wants to say something, but he ends up sending Minho a smile and lets the conversation go. 

When they get home, aside from eating late lunch, they don’t do anything special; and yet, it feels nice—comfortable. Some holiday rom-com is playing in the background as they play card games in the living room; Doongie is in Minho’s lap, Soonie is curled up on the sofa, and Dori is nowhere to be seen, probably hiding somewhere in Minho’s room; Jisung is laughing in that carefree way as he tries to trick Minho by cheating, Minho’s mom sits in the armchair peeling tangerines for them to munch on, and it’s nothing short of perfect. 

When Minho’s dad comes back from work, his mom stands up to make dinner; Doonie runs to the kitchen after her, and Jisung takes over the fruit to feed them to Minho as their attention flies to the not-so-particularly-interesting movie playing on the screen for they get tired of playing cards. 

A moment later, they move to sit against the sofa, but they don’t have enough energy to properly haul themselves up onto the couch, staying on the floor instead.

Head heavy with the laziness of the day, Minho shifts so he can lie in Jisung’s lap. He doesn’t contribute much to their quiet conversation in lieu of letting Jisung talk, because the sound of his mellow voice and touch of his fingers in Minho’s hair lull him to sleep.

When his eyes linger closed for a moment too long, Jisung chuckles, moving his hand to rest it against the side of Minho’s face. 

“You’ll cut off my blood circulation if you fall asleep like this,” he says, thumb rubbing the  apple of his cheek. “Let’s at least move to the bed, hm?” 

Minho only groans in response, rolling onto his side and pressing his face into Jisung’s thigh, hand bunching up in the fabric of Jisung’s hoodie so that he doesn’t shrug Minho off.

“You’re a baby,” Jisung nags, with undeniable fondness in his tone. 

Before he can even think twice, Minho mumbles, “ Your baby.”

For a split second, he thinks that maybe the fabric of Jisung’s sweatpants has muffled his words making them incomprehensible, but Jisung barks out a laugh.

“That’s right,” he says with a hum, pushing at Minho’s shoulder to make him roll onto his back again, and leans in, a dangerous kind of a smile playing on his lips. “My sleepy baby.”

Okay. 

Minho might be half-way to being fifty years old, but his pea of a brain will still shut down when he’s being called a sweet term of endearment that stupidly doesn’t sound out of place and awkward when it’s falling off Jisung’s lips. It’s embarrassing, and the reddening tips of his ears are proof of that. 

In this proximity, his eyes stray down towards Jisung’s mouth and he’s inevitably reminded of the chaste kisses they’ve shared, the rush of warmth he’d felt every time Jisung pressed their lips together coming back with just one look. 

It takes every ounce of Minho’s self-control not to push himself up on his elbows and kiss him. He doesn’t know where exactly that thought comes from, but he recognizes it briefly as an idea from the dark part of his mind, one that sits quietly in the corner, inconspicuous and therefore ten times more dangerous.

Minho looks away. 

How is that Jisung is minding his own business, always on the right side of teasing, never pulling a string no matter how many times he tries to get a rise out of Minho, and all Minho’s pea-brain can think of is stupidly giving into Jisung’s jokes by kissing him? 

He’s still having a hard time figuring that out, but the day he surrenders hasn’t come yet.

✦

Minho has been cooking lunch for approximately twenty minutes when the delicious smell hanging in the air has a certain someone emerging from the bedroom and a pair of arms sneaking around his waist without a warning, face burying itself in his neck. 

His parents are out—and god knows where they went—and Jisung had been napping when Minho rolled out of bed after getting bored with the book he’d been reading. Usually, if it were just him, he would order something in, but with Jisung asleep, he needed something to busy himself with. 

Not for too long.

“That is my hoodie,” Jisung mumbles into his neck, his voice still raspy with sleep, and Minho will bet that his eyes are still closed as he nuzzles his nose into Minho’s shoulder. 

And he’s right.

Minho didn’t even think twice when he’d grabbed Jisung’s sweatshirt off the back of the chair this morning. Feeling especially lazy after waking up, he simply didn’t feel like rummaging through his things and the hoodie was the only piece of clothing he could reach without having to get out of his warm bed.

Still, he refuses to let Jisung win.

“Do I have to remind you that this is my house?”

Jisung laughs, slipping his cold hand under the fabric of Minho’s sweatshirt to let it roam over his stomach, raising goosebumps all over his body in the wake and making him shiver. Minho can’t tell if it’s in retaliation for the theft, or Jisung simply wants to wander across the expanse of Minho’s skin. 

Either way, he sighs, pressing his cheek against Minho’s shoulder, and mumbles, “I’m cold.” 

Minho puts the wooden spatula away, trying to untangle himself from Jisung’s comfortable embrace, but to no avail; Jisung only holds him tighter. “You loser, just let me turn up the heating—”

“No,” Jisung interrupts, hooking his chin over Minho’s shoulder to nuzzle against his cheek like a cat. “I’m just gonna steal your warmth.”

Minho chuckles, but he feels weirdly breathless at the proximity. He doesn’t try to fight Jisung anymore and leaves the heating for later, easing into his hold, even though it restricts his moves by the stove. 

The meat and vegetables are almost ready, the rice will take another moment to cook since it’s just for the two of them, and it’s somewhat nice to stand close to the heat and the smell of delicious food emanating from the frying pan. 

“You’ll become a steamed bun,” Minho points out when Jisung leans too close to the stove.

He lifts a hand to dig a finger into Jisung’s cheek, not at all surprised at how Jisung quickly whips to the side to bite it. Although Minho tries to hold it back by dragging his lower lip between his teeth, he ends up breaking into a smile, anyway.

It’s not his fault that Jisung is just… cute. 

Minho shakes himself out of it and goes back to stirring all the ingredients on the frying pan with Jisung clinging to him without leaving as much as a centimeter of space between their bodies. 

“You’re spoiling me,” he murmurs a moment later, voice ringing loud in Minho’s ears despite how quiet it actually is. 

“I’m not,” he argues, lying through his teeth; in reality, Minho has just lifted a slice of grilled pork to Jisung’s mouth over his shoulder. “Who told you any of this was for you?”

Jisung pulls away to look at Minho with raised eyebrows. “Your lies don’t work on me anymore, Lee Minho. I know just how much you—Oh.” 

Dori appears from around the counter, weaving around their feet and curling his tail around Jisung’s calf, successfully cutting him off. A smile curves on his mouth, and Jisung pulls away from the embrace completely, now-warm hands slipping from beneath Minho’s sweatshirt, and crouches to pick Dori up.

Minho can’t believe how downright miserable he feels at the loss of touch. He manages to catch himself before he can actually glare at his beloved cat, but he’s close enough that it makes him pause.

He looks at Jisung—his smile as he cradles Dori in his arms and scratches him under his furry chin, the happy glimmer in his eyes, and how utterly at ease he’s been looking those past few days—and can’t believe just how lucky he is to have him in his life, especially that his role consists of being… everything.

✦

Felix posts a picture of his home-made cookies on Instagram. Jisung says he can’t believe he’s missing out on them. Minho decides to make his own goddamn chocolate chip cookies.

Just because he himself wants to eat them, obviously.

He runs to the store through the snow—almost losing his beanie and breaking an arm—mentally envying Jisung who whined that he didn’t feel like moving at all today. Minho let him stay instead of dragging him along just for company, mostly because Jisung has had a runny nose and he’s been sleeping a bit more than usual; the last thing Minho wants is to get him sick by making him go out in this weather. 

Jisung is asleep on the couch under a purple, fuzzy blanket, face squished against the cushion and Dori lying by his side; he’s starting to think Jisung has become the cat’s favorite human. 

Minho pauses in the doorway when he sees him, mouth parting wordlessly at the sight, and—embarrassingly enough—it’s his mom that shakes him out of it by saying, “Stop staring so intensely. You’ll wake him.”

The mischievous curve of her mouth makes it difficult to hold back the urge to roll his eyes, but Minho manages to fight it and settles on mumbling a whatever. He heads to the kitchen with the shopping bag and sets it down on the counter, stopping to pet Doongie as the cat wanders around the place in search of company.

His mom comes to show him where the baking trays are, and then she leaves to meet her neighbor-friend, letting the sound of the door slamming shut behind her bring him back to his senses completely.

Minho is in the middle of spreading the balls of choco-chip dough in even spaces over the tray when Jisung awakes from his nap and waddles over to the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes and blinking excessively—he reminds Minho of a kitten, or rather an old cat that would only sleep throughout the day and look like it doesn’t know what’s going on after it wakes up. 

Cute, Minho thinks to himself again, watching as Jisung curiously peers at the baking tray as it’s being carried to the oven. Obviously, he doesn’t voice that out, but he’s close to doing just that when Jisung hops onto the empty space on the counter. 

“Dori almost killed me and you didn’t even notice,” he says, rolling his shoulders; Minho stands up from the crouch by the oven, raising an eyebrow. The corner of Jisung’s mouth twitches. “Almost got asphyxiated when that cute little demon decided to move and sleep on my face.”

Minho pouts exaggeratedly. “Is this why you’re not napping?” 

“Oh, fuck you!” Jisung calls out, but he’s bursting into cheerful laughter a moment later, leaning back with his palms against the countertop as he watches Minho try to hide his own smile while cleaning the space up. “Need help?” 

Minho shakes his head, and Jisung doesn’t fight him over the bowls in the sink, probably preferring to scrutinize him with his watchful eyes instead. Definitely. 

Usually, Minho doesn’t even hate doing the dishes, but somehow the chore feels at least ten thousand times better when Jisung starts humming the Christmas songs that are playing quietly on the radio. It’s quite strange that Minho doesn’t mind the cheesy holiday-themed love songs that much when it’s Jisung who’s singing.

While Minho is gathering the remaining things off the counter to store them in the fridge for later use, Jisung’s fingers curl around his arm, making him pause and look up to meet his eyes. 

“You’ve got flour here,” he says gently, using his thumb to wipe the tip of Minho’s nose. It’s a ghost of a touch, fleeting and over when Minho blinks, because Jisung moves away, shoving his hands under his thighs as he rocks his legs back and forth, knocking them against the bottom row of the kitchen cabinets.

The next ten minutes or so pass by in relative silence, with Jisung singing quietly and cooing when he realizes that he can peek into the living room and look at Dori if he leans back more. Minho busies himself with his phone, pretending he isn’t sneaking glances at his friend. 

When the timer beeps, he grabs a cloth off the counter and walks over to the oven to take out the tray, turning his face away so that the steam doesn’t hit him. Careful, Minho sets the cookies on top of the stove and lets them chill for a moment before moving each of them over to the cooling rack he prepared in advance.

He turns around and starts spreading the second batch of dough on the baking paper when Jisung shrieks. Whipping around in alarm, Minho finds Jisung by the stove, fanning at his mouth, one of the choco-chip cookies crumbled on the floor. 

“I burnt my tongue,” he explains, smiling sheepishly, and crouches down to pick up the crumbles lying around. 

Minho rolls his eyes for good measure, but he doesn’t really care about the cookies. “Maybe if you didn’t try to steal,” he nags, anyway, sliding the second batch into the oven. “Karma.”

Jisung blows at the salvageable piece of the cookie, but instead of shoving it into his mouth, he sets it aside on the counter. A dangerous glint shines in his eyes before he can even open his mouth to speak; Minho’s fingertips tingle in anticipation, but the fire spreads through his entire body when Jisung puckers his lips up. 

“Kiss it better?” he asks, eyelashes fluttering obnoxiously.

Something burns beneath Minho’s skin. Without thinking, he closes the distance between them in three steps, hooks an arm around Jisung’s waist, and lets his eyelids fall shut as he pulls him into a soft kiss.

He doesn’t know why he’s doing this—his parents aren’t there, there’s no one to pretend for—but when Jisung melts into his embrace, it simply makes sense.

With his heart in his throat, Minho still makes the effort to appear nonchalant when he pulls away, swiping his tongue over his lower lip. “Better?” he asks, watching intently as Jisung eventually opens his eyes.

He swallows visibly. “Better.” 

Minho’s arm slips from around his waist, and something akin to tension hangs in the air along with the chocolate aroma of the cookies, but then Jisung looks into his eyes again and they both burst out laughing, and everything is forgotten. 

✦

Christmas Day goes well by Minho’s personal standards. 

Overwhelmed with an unusual wave of laziness, he allows himself to sleep until noon despite waking a few times when the daylight shines through the blinds. When that happens, he presses his face in between Jisung’s shoulder blades and takes a deep breath; within seconds, he’s out for another journey to the dreamland. 

Minho eventually comes to his senses when he feels the warmth of another body slipping away as the bed dips. He cracks his eyes open, rubs at them with his fingers, and blinks repeatedly to see Jisung bundling himself up in a gray, zip-up hoodie. 

“Come back here,” Minho whines, rolling onto his side and pulling the duvet up to his chin.

Jisung shoots him an amused look—maybe a bit fond, Minho can’t tell this soon after waking up—and says, “Just let me wash up.”

Minho groans in objection, but Jisung only laughs and then he’s out the door. With nothing better to do, Minho unplugs his phone from the charger and pointedly ignores all the notifications, tapping away at the screen to open Candy Crush instead.

He manages to pass three levels of the game before Jisung opens the door and comes back inside, slipping under the duvet with a happy sigh when Minho holds it up for him. Eyes following Minho’s moves across the screen of his phone, Jisung rests his cheek on Minho’s shoulder. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Minho can see him smiling; when he asks what he’s so happy about, Jisung explains, “I ran into your dad in the hallway and he told me to stay inside the bedroom and not even think about going to the kitchen.” 

“Sounds like mom has started cooking.”

Jisung chuckles. “So we’re basically locked in here?” 

“At least until grandma arrives.”

Minho messes up the game on purpose and sets his phone aside, letting it get lost in the bedsheets. Jisung slips his arm beneath the duvet, slinging it across Minho’s waist. His fingers ghost over the exposed skin of his hip where his t-shirt rode up, seemingly absentmindedly. 

“I thought you’d be running around the kitchen, too,” he says, a smile playing on his lips.

“Christmas is my mom’s territory, since, you know, it’s her and dad’s anniversary, so she takes over dinner for the night.” 

Jisung props himself up on his elbow. “I didn’t know that. It’s cute that it falls on Christmas.”

“Maybe,” Minho shrugs with a smile. “At least they can celebrate together since dad doesn’t have to go to work on a holiday.”

“And you?” Jisung asks, hand traveling up Minho’s side to his ribs, where he starts tracing shapes and patterns into the fabric of his t-shirt. “What do you do on Christmas, then?”

Minho thinks, but comes up with nothing. That’s what he tells Jisung. 

“That’s nice. I like doing nothing,” he says, as if Minho doesn’t already know that. Nuzzling into his neck, Jisung lets out a sigh and mumbles, “Let’s do nothing together.”

It’s adorable, in a way, and Minho is weak, so he wraps both arms around Jisung and lets himself be lulled to the dreamland by his steady breathing, although he usually wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink at this time of the day.

Minho knows that his sleeping schedule will get even more messed up than before, but he allows himself this one time of self-indulgence, for Jisung’s influence proves to be able to work its magic with Minho again. 

He wakes up at an ungodly hour because of how hot he feels; his tossing and turning awakes Jisung, and they decide to give up on sleeping and watch a movie. 

“But not a rom-com,” Minho warns, although he knows well that both of them would choose something animated over romantic movies anytime.

They play rock, paper, scissors to get either of them to stand up and get the laptop from the desk; Minho ends up winning, but all it takes is one look into Jisung’s doe eyes and he’s hauling himself off the bed, scoffing that he would have to get up to brush his teeth and fetch his glasses either way.

Minho sneaks into the kitchen then, using his mama’s boy charms to steal snacks so that Jisung doesn’t whine throughout the movie, and watches his face light up with a bright grin when he tosses them onto the bed and swings his leg over Jisung’s lap to fall against the mattress in his designated space by the wall. 

They don’t even make it through the second movie before the sound of the front door being slammed shut reverberates through the house and Minho’s mom calls them over. Jisung pauses the movie and blinks. 

“It’s your grandma, right?” he asks, seemingly shy; Minho nods. “Should we, like, change?” 

Minho sizes him up, definitely doesn’t let his eyes linger too long on Jisung’s lean legs, then glances at himself. “Uh, let’s just—let’s put on some pants and we’re alright,” he says with a light chuckle. 

As they leave the bedroom, now decent, Minho obviously notices the way Jisung is fiddling with his fingers. Silently, he reaches out and takes his hand into his own, smiling to himself as Jisung ducks his head, allowing Minho to pull him towards the living room.

Grandma is sitting on the couch, Soonie already in her lap, and she beams at both of them when they enter the room. The greeting is just a formality, and Minho knows there’s nothing to be nervous about, but he still keeps his hand in the small of Jisung’s back to reassure him. 

“Miyeong already told me you’d be bringing home a boy, but she didn’t say that he’s such a handsome gentleman,” Minho’s grandma stage-whispers, exchanging smiles with Minho as Jisung scrunches his nose in embarrassment.

Tender to the bone, Minho rubs his thumb over Jisung’s knee where his hand lies. “Right, right. You don’t have to worry,” he says, directing his words at his grandma, although his eyes are fixed on Jisung; he can barely hold back a smile. “Jisungie treats me well.” 

“I surely hope so!” she replies. “You never mentioned anyone, let alone that you never even thought of bringing someone home before, no matter how many times your mother asked you to.” 

Minho lets out a choked laugh. “Yeah, that’s because—”

“But you always talked about Jisung,” she interrupts nonchalantly, oblivious to the way Minho freezes at her words. “This and that… Everyone had been waiting for you to finally admit you were dating. I thought your mother would go crazy, oh, lord.”

The two of them fall into silence while Minho’s grandma averts her eyes, looking out into the street through the window with a smile, blissfully unaware of the haywire she’s sent Minho’s thoughts into. 

Heart forcefully crashing against his ribcage, picking up speed with each passing second, Minho goes through her words and wonders if his friendship with Jisung really looked this way to his family, or if their need to see him with the love of his life blinded their judgement. 

Admittedly, he and Jisung get on like a house on fire ever since Chan introduced them, seamlessly blending into each other’s lives, bonding over shared interests, and enjoying things their other mutual friends aren’t keen on doing. 

And maybe from an outsider standpoint it could seem that they’re dating, for all the time they spend together and how fondly they speak of one another, but it’s just their thing. Minho has always thought they have something special, a kind of understanding he would never be able to find with anyone else.

He never considered what other people thought of them, because it didn’t matter—it still doesn’t, frankly, but with bits and pieces of outsiders’ point of view reaching him, Minho might be beginning to see them in a different light.

He turns his head to the side to look at Jisung, and isn’t at all surprised to find him already staring. Expecting red-hot embarrassment because of his grandma’s assumptions, Minho is more caught off-guard to see Jisung sporting a timid smile. 

A dash of juvenile butterflies takes flight in his stomach, whirling around his pounding heart to tickle it with the ghost of a touch of their wings. Afraid the rush of warmth could push him to something that bears disastrous consequences, Minho forces himself to look away.

And yet, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth is too difficult to fight back. He clears his throat, then, and—partly to kill time, partly to acquaint Grandma with Jisung—proposes, “We should do something before dinner. Did you know Jisung is really good at literally any card game?”

Jisung laughs, while Grandma is quick to assure, “Not better than me!” 

Minho walks over to the cupboard to get a pack of cards and they move to the table, spending the entire afternoon laughing, and it’s nice, even though most of the time Jisung and Grandma are laughing at Minho.

His mom ushers them to empty the table once the food is ready, and Minho promises revenge for all the rounds he’s lost.

For him, the dinner passes by in a blur of delicious bulgogi, kimchi, sweet potato noodles, and quiet conversations here and there. The one time his dad directs a question at Jisung, asking how his studies are going, Minho’s hand automatically finds Jisung’s under the table; he laces their fingers together in a gesture of support—silently hoping and praying their questions won’t be too invasive—and doesn’t let go for the rest of the evening, easily moving chopsticks to his right hand. 

“I’ll do the dishes,” Minho says after they all finish their food, stopping Jisung from standing up as well with a hand on his shoulder. 

He ends up sharing the space of the kitchen with his mom, who follows him inside to make tea. They’re working in comfortable silence, but when she catches Minho smiling to himself when Jisung’s laughter sounds through the apartment, she—correctly—assumes that he’s smiling because of him, stops displaying cookies on a plate, and simply says, “He’s nice.”

Minho’s brain initially doesn’t register what she’s trying to say and he only hums curtly in response, setting the washed pot aside to dry. She sighs exaggeratedly behind him like she’s disappointed with his response, but Minho doesn’t really know what to say.

That Jisung is more than just nice? Does she want him to rant just how absolutely nice he is? 

“What I’m trying to say is that I’m glad you finally got together,” she says, moving over to the sink to put a cookie to his mouth. Minho shoots her a look, but he eats it anyway, thankful that it prevents him from having to speak. “Even though you haven’t said anything when I came to visit last month.”

Minho keeps munching.

“With how you’ve always been so comfortable and intimate every time I saw you two, I always thought you were good together, but I could just never tell what was going on,” she says, genuine endearment in her voice making Minho swallow thickly. “I can see that he makes you happy, and that’s what’s most important for me.”

Minho peers into the living room.

Jisung is laughing, but it’s more of a breathless giggle as he rolls around on the floor while Dori tries to claw at his face. When Grandma finally draws the cat’s attention with a feather twirling around on a string, Jisung falls back against the floor with a sigh. The serene smile on his face as he pushes his tousled hair back is enough for Minho to think that he’s the most beautiful person in the entire goddamn universe.

Oh.  

Minho doesn’t know where that came from, but the thought alone is what sends his brain over the edge. 

Of course Jisung makes him happy and, hopefully, he makes Jisung happy in return, it’s nothing new; but all of this goes beyond simple happiness.

Should his heart do somersaults in his chest, fluttering until it hurts at the mere sight of his best friend? Should his best friend be the first thought on his mind after he wakes up and the last one before he drifts off to sleep? Should Minho consider what Jisung likes when he plans on going out? Should he hear a line of a love song and think that it fits his best friend so perfectly, should he have his face appearing in his mind then? 

All that slips out when Minho’s mouth parts wordlessly is a shuddering breath. Afraid Jisung will somehow feel him staring and will look back—like he always does—Minho averts his wide eyes and silently goes back to washing the dishes. 

He doesn’t get a response to all the questions piling up in his head and it takes all of his energy to shove them into one of the drawers in the darkest corners of his mind. For later. For some more appropriate time. For when they’re away from Gimpo and the act of pretending to be together isn’t clouding his judgement.  

The hollow ache in Minho’s stomach dissipates the moment he steps into the living room and Jisung beams at him from the floor where he’s rubbing Doongie’s belly. Instead, Minho’s chest feels like it’s going to burst open, setting his heart free and letting it find the person it belongs to.

And, as much as he tries to pretend it’s not true, he knows who that person is. He just doesn’t know when that happened. 

“Dishes done?” Jisung asks, lips curving into a pretty smile when Doongie meows loudly, demanding Jisung to keep petting him the moment his attention drifts to Minho instead. And Minho decides then and there that he isn’t going to let some feelings ruin their time together. 

“All done,” he confirms, arms akimbo. “Wanna try putting together the cat tree now?” 

Jisung lights up, nodding eagerly, but the moment he tries to stand up, Doongie mewls and digs his claws into his thigh, clearly desperate to make him stay. Minho melts, brain turning into soft and disgusting and awful mush when Jisung murmurs sweetly, “Come on, buddy. I’ll come back, alright? I promise.” 

Doongie, needing the attention on him at all times, unsurprisingly doesn’t let up. Jisung looks up at Minho with his sparkling doe eyes, then, and Minho can only sigh dramatically. 

“Okay, I’ll go get it.”

He hears his grandma speak to Jisung when he disappears in the hallway, but Minho can’t make out what her words are. When he brings the packaged cat tree from his bedroom, Jisung maneuvers Doongie onto the couch despite the cat’s protests. In the end, he gets interested in the cardboard box after the two of them take the pieces of the tower out, curling up inside. 

Minho scoffs fondly at the sight of him. “Yah, I’m building you a cute house, you better use it well,” he tells Doongie, reaching into the box to pet him on the head. “Please, don’t waste our hard-earned money and please, don’t scratch the furniture or mom will kill me.”  

Jisung laughs, but he has no idea that this will definitely happen—the cats have other cat trees and scratching posts, and yet they sneakily choose to destroy furniture around the house for no other reason than knowing they’ll get away with everything; Minho not so much—after making doe eyes at his mom, yes, but—hopefully—this time it won’t come to that.

In the middle of assembling the cat tower, Minho gets up to get them a bottle of wine. He pours them a glass, and pours just a bit for his grandma—because she insists it’s too late for her to drink—and sits back on the floor.

“I wish I were a cat,” Jisung says, screwing in one of the supports. “No responsibilities. No work. Just food and sleep and cool humans that buy me nice toys and houses.”

They are both cool humans, apparently, since Jisung saw him browse through online stores in search for a perfect Christmas present for the cats one evening, and—against Minho’s objections—decided to pitch in half of the price, for no reason other than finding those little beasts cute. 

Frankly, the only ones in the family who get presents for Christmas are the cats, but it feels like everyone else is just as satisfied with watching them play with their new toys as though they’re the ones receiving the gifts.

Minho smiles, reaching out to scratch Jisung under the chin without thinking. “You’d make a cute cat.”

With wide eyes, Jisung lets out a breathless chuckle, seemingly surprised—either by the gesture, or the words. Minho retreats his hand, then, quickly as though Jisung’s skin burns; it’s his neck that’s actually in flames.

Why does he keep doing this?

But instead of finding him strange (and he probably should), Jisung just sighs dreamily and says, “Not as cute as Dori, I’m afraid.”

The grey tabby is sleeping in his grandma’s lap without a single care in the world, and Minho knows Soonie is the same; he was enjoying the floor heating in the hallway the last time Minho saw him. 

He looks back at Jisung, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration as he puts up another support post of the tower, blond hair falling into his eyes, arms flexing under the zip-up hoodie that’s falling off with every twist of the screwdriver. 

Minho swallows thickly.

Dori may be cute, but Jisung is… well.  

✦

A night walk through the city is exactly what Minho needs after a good, but tiring day, so when Jisung proposes the idea—like he’s reading his mind—Minho is grabbing his jacket before Jisung even gets to finish his sentence.

“Wanna take the cats, too?” he asks with a fond smile as he’s pulling a white beanie over his head, hair sticking out from beneath it.

As much as Minho loves the idea of going out with not just Jisung but also his cats, he shakes his head. “It’s too cold, so they’d probably rather stay at home. And, besides, the stroller might get stuck in the snow if the sidewalk isn’t shoveled.” 

Slipping into his jacket, Jisung nudges him in the side on purpose. “Right,” he says. “The stroller.” 

“Do not make fun of me,” Minho warns, wagging his finger as he pushes the front door open and steps out into the crisp air, holding it out for Jisung. Then, he locks it with the key, since no one’s home—his parents have gone to drive his grandma back home, and they’ll probably stay out for their anniversary time alone. 

Jisung laughs, but Minho is disappointed to see that the scarf wrapped around his neck hides his pretty smile. “I’m not making fun of you!” he insists, but he was the one who sent at least twenty different messages just laughing when Minho had sent him the picture of his new lovely purchase. “I think it’s cute, alright! I just need to see you push that stroller once in my life.” 

Minho scoffs. “You will never. You’ve got it covered now.”

“Come on, just once,” Jisung asks, nudging him in the side.

When he turns around to face Minho while walking backward, Minho almost tells him to stop fooling around—he could slip on the frozen pavement and fall—but then Jisung juts his lower lip out and puts on the sweetest doe eyes and Minho wants to push him into the closest snowdrift himself.

“Please,” he tries again, “for me.”

Minho groans, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly just so he doesn’t have to look at Jisung, and strides past him. His heart thumps in his heart when Jisung laughs again, the sound carried by the piercing-cold wind dancing around them.

“Stop sulking, alright!” 

Jisung aligns their steps again. Minho can tell by the sudden silence and how their shoulders bump against one another that Jisung got distracted by the moon hanging high up in the sky. Minho only allows himself a glance to the side and a strange kind of warmth swivels in his chest at the realization that he was right—Jisung is walking, a bit wobbly in his step as his head is tilted up so that he can stare at the dark expanse of blue.

The silver light tears through the clouds to bathe his face in a magical glow. His eyes are shining, wide with awe, inviting Minho to get lost in them; his lips, curved up in a benign smile, draw his gaze almost automatically—Minho has to force himself to look away.

It should be a simple sight for both of them—Jisung is seeing the moon for the upteenth time, and Minho is seeing him for the upteenth time.

And yet. 

The moon seems to shine a bright light at those dark parts of Minho’s mind that he’s so scrumptiously been trying to push far away at least for now, and brings them back to the forefront of his head; how pretty Jisung is inside out, how much Minho enjoys his company, how he must be the only soul in the world who understands him, and how there are a million words right on the tip of his tongue but he can’t bring himself to set them free. 

The sound of vehicles passing by brings Minho back to his senses and he wonders if he’ll ever get to catch a break. Now that the thought of seeing Jisung in a romantic light has been planted in his head, he can barely stop his mind from straying towards it at any given chance. 

The worst thing is that Minho doesn’t hate it—he’s just trembling from fear of what all these thoughts and feelings and questions might entail; if he can hold back the consequences for a little longer, then he will.

Jisung turns to look at Minho, and almost catches him staring. Dropping his gaze to the ground, Minho feels Jisung’s eyes burning holes into the side of his face as they make their way over to the park.

He sighs, kicking a stray pebble, and a moment later, says, “The moon is beautiful tonight.”

When Minho tilts his head up to see for himself—because he was too busy staring at something else before—out of the corner of his eye he notices that Jisung is still looking at him. Minho considers that maybe he caught the sight of Minho staring at him earlier, that maybe—just like always—he somehow is able to take a peek right into Minho’s mind and see all the jumbled mess that his thoughts have become, how they all swivel around his persona.

What if he knows? 

Minho shakes his head, mentally scoffing at his own stupidity—not only is it impossible for Jisung to actually read his mind when Minho has just had his own epiphany earlier today, but there’s nothing in Minho’s behavior that could lead him to any… conclusions.

He’s the same he’s been ever since they became friends.

“It’s pretty,” Minho agrees eventually, but the silence has already stretched for too long. 

Jisung notices, just like he always does. He’s hesitating, that much is clear; pursing his lips together and staring at the path beneath their feet, he falls silent, too, just to awkwardly nudge Minho in the side and finally ask, “Everything okay?”

They’re not the best at those serious and deep conversations, but when questions like “do you want to talk about this?” or “are you sure you’re alright?” are brought up, they’re always filled with genuine concern. They’re not asking just for the sake of asking. 

“Yeah,” Minho breathes out. “Just thinking.” 

Jisung hums in understanding. “About something in particular?”

Yes, he wants to say truthfully, and the word is on the tip of his tongue, but Minho doesn’t dare to let it out. Not when it brings along a greater confession, something he isn’t yet sure if is worth talking about; something he isn’t yet sure if is real or just a figment of the act they’re supposed to put up in front of his family.

“No,” Minho tells him instead. “I’m just… always thinking when I’m at home. And during my walks. So…”

Jisung cracks a weak smile and supplies, “So today’s a combo.”

Minho hums in response. The last thing he wants is for him to worry, though, so with a light elbow to the side, he tells Jisung, “But I feel good.” Their eyes lock for a moment, faces illuminated by the gold glow of the streetlights, and Minho thinks that he honestly feels good. “It’s nice to be home for the holidays and it’s nice to be here with you.”

Jisung’s eyebrows shoot up like he hasn’t been expecting such a confession, a smile threatening to break through the surprise until it does, and Jisung is grinning at him until his eyes turn to crescents. 

Under the dark night sky, with white snowflakes scarcely falling to rest on their hair and clothes, with no one around them besides the cars passing by in the distance, Minho realizes there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to keep that heart-shaped smile on Jisung’s face. 

That’s why he needs to wait and sort out his own feelings before he even tries to meddle with Jisung’s. He would never forgive himself if his impatience and carelessness hurt Jisung in any way.

Minho smiles, but the corners of his mouth twitch. “Let’s go back, hm?” he proposes. “It’s getting really cold.”

“It’s been cold for the entire day,” Jisung points out with a roll of his eyes, but he turns on his heel to walk back through the park just like Minho. “I’m gonna need ten blankets and three cats and a warm bed to get my limbs to feel the blood flowing again.”

“And me,” Minho adds teasingly.

He expects Jisung to push him or laugh, but he lets out a breathy chuckle and  nods instead. “And you,” he confirms, sounding serious. But the exaggerated wink he sends Minho’s way tells him that he’s only joking.  

They continue walking through the park in silence only disturbed by the sounds of the city, still alive despite the late hour.

Minho thinks there must be something deeply wrong with him because he just about dies when their knuckles brush and Jisung grabs his hand to shove it along with his own into the pocket of his jacket.

“Your hands are so goddamn cold all the time,” Jisung nags, glaring at him non-threateningly. “Give up on being stylish and buy a coat with actual pockets or start wearing gloves.”

“Not that I actually am trying to be stylish,” Minho starts, raising his eyebrows and vaguely gesturing towards his fluffy black coat and sweatpants that he’s sure have a small hole on the back somewhere, “but why would I want pockets or gloves when I’ve got my personal heat pack always with me?”

He squeezes Jisung’s hand inside the pocket, feeling the warmth spreading from where their bodies are joined together, and pulls him forward.

✦

“If you’re calling me at midnight, then you need my honesty, so I’m going to be honest.”

Seungmin takes a sharp breath on the other side of the line, and the beat of silence that follows rings loudly in Minho’s ears, louder than the wind rushing and the city bustling around him. 

Mouth set in a firm line, he leans against the railing of the balcony and closes his eyes. 

What if he’s overreacting?

What if his family’s words, their blessings and happiness, and genuine encouragement for his non-existent relationship with Jisung is messing with his head? What if Seungmin texting him saying “if I see him over at the apartment even more often than I do now, I’m moving out” after Minho posts a picture of the two of them on Instagram is only adding to his confusion? What if Minho pursues those feelings driven by everyone’s input, confesses, and Jisung accepts it? What if Minho ends up discovering he doesn’t have real romantic feelings for him after days or months, after the tension of pretending wears out? 

What if Minho hurts Jisung by taking his words back?

That’s the only thing holding him back from crossing this bridge.

On this cold night of December, he admits to himself that he’s scared of losing Jisung more than he’s scared of anything else in the world. He would probably never say that to his face unprompted, but Jisung is easily the person he cherishes the most in his life; if Minho were to no longer have him around, his heart would shatter to pieces. 

It would be even worse than just a heartbreak. 

He’s perfectly content with what they have now and what they’ve had for years; as much as entertaining the thought of something more, of holding Jisung’s hand, of going on dates, of kissing him and loving him and making him feel rightfully like the loveliest person the world has ever seen leaves him feeling soft and yearning, chasing romantic feelings just isn’t worth the risk. 

Subconsciously, he knows exactly what he wants to hear from Seungmin, but his heart sinks with every second of silence on the other side, anyway. Minho shudders, either from the cold or the feelings wracking his body, and that’s when Seungmin finally speaks. 

“Personally, I feel like you’ve been on the verge of dating for all the years that I’ve known both of you,” he says, and the world goes silent for Minho, though his pulse skitters, far from normality. “And with all the people flirting with you and trying to take you out on dates, you declined and just… always had your eyes on Jisung. At least it felt that way when I saw you.”

Minho listens attentively, finger tracing the top of the railing as he tries to ground himself, trying to convince his inner romanticist against running up to Jisung sleeping just inside the house and confessing his soul out. It doesn’t feel right just yet.

Seungmin sighs. “How many times have I walked in on you two having conversations cuddled up and you didn’t even look away from each other when I walked in because you were stuck in your own world?”

Minho doesn’t respond. 

He knows that even when they’re not together, Jisung’s residence in his mind is a constant and sometimes (most of the time) it’s difficult to not connect every little thing to him with how many memories they share and smallest details they know about each other.

No one else can understand them and their banter the way they themselves can, so most of the time, if it’s not necessary, they don’t bother filling others in. Minho thinks their friends have already given up on trying to take a peek into their universe—whenever they slip into a conversation only for the two of us, all they get is amused looks.

“Too many times,” Seungmin supplies for him, a hint of a smile in his voice, but the initial worry is still hiding in the spaces between his words. “I know it’s your specialty, but I would like it very much if you stopped dancing around each other.”

Against himself, Minho snorts.

“What I’m saying is… sometimes to find the right person it simply takes opening your eyes,” Seungmin continues. “Sometimes they’re right in front of your face and have been for a few years and you need to take them home for Christmas to realize.”

Letting out a sigh that turns the cold air into a white fog, Minho looks up at the sky, the snowflakes twirling around him to eventually rest on the ground as a blanket. Warmth floods his cheeks at the thought that appears in his mind: Jisung will be thrilled to see another layer of snow when he wakes up.

He considers for a moment that it’s not just the stay at home that makes him think of Jisung almost all the time, that ever since they met, he’s just been occupying Minho’s mind in the best way possible. As much as he loves his other friends, with Jisung it’s always different; Jisung means much more to him, and he struggles to find a label that could fit his role in Minho’s life perfectly.

(Everything—he’s Minho’s everything.)

“I’m just…” he trails off, cringing. “How can I be sure that he feels the same? That I won’t just fuck up our friendship over a whim? I would rather—”

Keep things this way than lose him. 

Minho swallows, but the lump lodged in his throat doesn’t go away. Head falling forward, Minho shivers when snowflakes find their way to the back of his neck where his hoodie isn’t shielding him.

Seungmin seems to understand that he isn’t going to finish the sentence, because he sighs softly and says, “I can’t tell you that for sure, because I don’t know what goes on in his head, but… Tell me, throughout these years, especially the last few days, have you ever felt like his gestures could mean something more?” 

He thinks of the too-easy kisses that Jisung initiated, of the confident flirting when it was just the two of them and no one to pretend in front of; the fond, longing stares Minho caught him on, reminiscent of the usual ones, but magnified; the conversations in the middle of the night when neither of them wanted to drift off to sleep just yet, how Jisung giggled and Minho wanted so badly to reach out and pull his hand away from his mouth so that he didn’t hide his smile, but he knew he couldn’t; how Jisung lied on his side and stared at him with sparkling eyes and listened to every word that fell off Minho’s lips.

Minho thinks about how easily Jisung agreed to pretend to be his boyfriend, even though he had no idea what they would have to do to make the stunt believable. 

It just so turns out that they didn’t have to do anything. 

Everything is closed in that one whisper: “I’m just scared we’ll hurt each other and it just… won’t be the same anymore.”

Seungmin must be taken aback by Minho’s display of honesty, how the cloak he’s been hiding behind all this time just falls, revealing him in his trembling glory. They don’t usually talk about serious things this way; even when Seungmin was going through a heartbreak, moping around the apartment, neither of them knew how to talk about it—Minho ended up threatening to get rid of the person who hurt him and had Seungmin choose one of the ways he’d had in mind. 

(Seungmin doesn’t know that Minho found out about the reason for their break up weeks later, after someone aired out the guy’s cheating business on the online bulletin board, and, during some shitty party, he sold the guy a black-eye. His hand hurt like hell, but seeing him hiding around campus after that was worth the pain, and Seungmin had seemed a little brighter, too.)

Minho opens his mouth, but the sound of the balcony door sliding open prevents him from downplaying everything he’s just said by lying that it’s just the late night hour making him overthink. He whips around, and there stands Jisung, eyes droopy with sleep, a blanket thrown over his shoulders like a cloak.

Minho freezes, irrationally afraid that Jisung might’ve heard, and pulls the phone away from his ear to say, “Thanks, I have to go now,” and hangs up before Seungmin even gets to respond. Closing the small distance between them with furrowed brows, he throws an arm around Jisung’s shoulder to pull him back inside the house. “You shouldn’t be outside when it’s snowing,” he scolds.

Even clearly half-asleep, Jisung pointedly rolls his eyes. “And what were you just doing?”

Minho ignores the question with a pounding heart and leads him back to the bedroom. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asks instead, closing the door behind them with his foot. 

“I woke up and you weren’t here and you weren’t coming back so I went to see what’s going on,” Jisung says softly, ever-caring, and climbs back onto the bed, completely clueless to how Minho’s already-speeding heart rate skyrockets.

He pauses in the middle of the room, staring at Jisung’s silhouette disappearing in the dark when he slips under the duvet. He awoke in the middle of the night when Minho left the bed and even still in the arms of sleep, he thought to go and look for him. 

Minho’s heart melts right then and there.

“Come on,” Jisung calls; Minho can’t see his face in the darkness of the bedroom, but he knows Jisung is pouting. “I’m cold.” 

As soon as Minho is back on his side of the bed by the wall, Jisung untangles himself from his blanket and drapes it over the two of them, pressing himself against Minho’s side and resting his head on his chest, arm loosely slung over Minho’s waist.

He lets out a contented sigh, contrary to Minho, whose breath catches in his throat. 

“Your heart’s racing,” Jisung points out sleepily, his hand traveling up so that he can press his palm to the left side of Minho’s chest and feel it pound properly. 

“I know,” Minho only whispers. 

✦

MINHO:

sorry for dumping all of that on you

groceries are on me when i’m back

SEUNGMIN:

i’m not gonna refuse free food 

MINHO: 

don’t get used to it

SEUNGMIN: 

i’m not gonna refuse free food BUT don’t say sorry

it’s better if you let these things out

we can talk when you’re back

MINHO: 

no thank you

♡

✦

The ride back to Seoul the following evening is accompanied with the quiet sounds of folklore coming from the radio—Jisung plugged his phone to the aux cord and decided to play Minho’s favorite album out of nowhere, leaning back against his seat with closed eyes and a gentle smile. 

Minho wonders if Jisung, too, thinks about how they don’t have to pretend to be together anymore; each kilometer that divides them from Gimpo serves as a needle piercing Minho’s heart—afraid of the change and selfish, he doesn’t want to let go of the romantic intimacy they shared back in his hometown. 

But nothing really changes, because instead of the kiss a stupid part of Minho’s brain has been picturing, when they reach his apartment building, Jisung departs with a bright but tired smile and jumps out of the car, running through the snow and almost falling on his ass on a frozen puddle.

Minho lets out a sigh, forehead falling against the wheel, and pretends his heart doesn’t feel heavy when he starts the car again and drives back to his apartment, where Seungmin is waiting for him with a bottle of wine and home-made pasta.

He and Jisung don’t really talk about the whole fake-dating thing.

Instead, they slip back into the comfortable closeness from before the holidays, and the weight that’s been dreading that something between them would crack comes off Minho’s heart.

He’d been worried for nothing.

✦

“I think I’m gonna stay home for New Year’s Eve,” Jisung says one night, setting his phone aside as he lies curled up on Minho’s couch. 

Minho tears his eyes away from the book he’s been reading, taking the polaroid of Dori he’s been using as a bookmark and sliding it in between the pages. “Why?” 

Jisung isn’t looking at him when he answers, “Just don’t feel like going.” 

His eyes are wandering somewhere along the wall where the TV is hanging; maybe he’s watching the framed pictures on the bookcase beside it—Minho can’t tell, but the fact that Jisung doesn’t meet his gaze leaves his stomach twisting. 

“Okay,” he says softly. “I’ll stay home, too. You should come over then, so we don’t have to just sit alone.” 

Jisung finally looks at him, but the few glasses of wine he’s had must’ve already messed with his brain, because Minho can’t quite decipher his expression. It seems almost gloomy. Or tired.

Minho tries not to show that the sight worries him, but he can’t tell how successful he is, because Jisung’s face remains uncharacteristically impassive. 

He came over just a little over an hour or two ago, a bottle of wine and a bag of take-out in his hands, saying that he’d needed to get away from his thesis and his apartment; he didn’t seem like there was anything bothering him then, and he’s been on his phone ever since they finished their food, so Minho kind of doesn’t understand where this is coming from—he would very much like to know, so he can kick the ass of whatever turned his mood sour. 

He reaches out to pull the blanket tighter around Jisung’s curled-up frame where it’d slipped off his shoulder and lets his hand stay on Jisung’s back. 

“I mean, I can stay home on my own, so it’s not like you have to… give up on the party since you said you wanted to go,” Jisung shrugs. 

Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t know if you realize,” he starts, “but if I went without you, I’d be forced to thirdwheel, and that’s not really a dream start of a new year.”

Because admitting that he wouldn’t have as much fun without Jisung as he would with him is a bit too much. 

Jisung presses his cheek into the couch and mumbles, “I’m sure you’d find someone fun.” 

“What—?” Minho chuckles breathlessly, blinking at him in disbelief. Then, he shakes his head, mentally waving a dismissive hand, and firmly says, “I’m not leaving you alone. Besides, it won’t be the first, nor the last time we’re ditching a party with these losers.”

Jisung once again grumbles something incoherently, and then grabs his phone, unlocks it, taps away at the screen, and extends it to Minho. 

The messages in their friend’s groupchat reads:

CHAN:

would you mind if a bunch of other people came tomorrow?

jeongguk and mingyu were supposed to host a get-together

but their neighbours saw them carrying alcohol in

and threatened to call the police 

SEUNGMIN: 

?!@##?@!@#?#@ 

FELIX:

the more the merrier~

Minho looks up from the screen and frowns. “Okay, and—? I still want to spend it with you,” he says truthfully, nudging Jisung’s shoulder to get him to look up. “Unless you really hate the idea, then that’s okay, too. I’m still not gonna go, but—”

“I don’t hate the idea,” Jisung interrupts, sitting up, a determined look on his face, and Minho believes him in a heartbeat, though the thought of Jisung actively trying to make him go to a party instead of staying with him made his heart clench uncomfortably. “I just… I don’t know.” 

“Okay,” Minho breathes out. “I’ll cook us something nice, then. Whatever you want.”

A corner of Jisung’s mouth twitches, and Minho has to fight the urge to roll his eyes—of course the prospect of food would convince him; Minho should’ve started with that. 

“Okay,” Jisung echoes.

Minho’s shoulders involuntarily relax when he moves his hand to the side of Jisung’s neck and Jisung leans into the touch. Like a cat, Minho’s stupid brain supplies, and that evening of assembling the cat tree comes back with a rush. 

He shouldn’t remember this. It’s been so good for the past few days, and besides the barely-noticeable ache in his chest, everything has been exactly the same as it was before they went to Gimpo. Minho can’t go back to that and overthink again. Things are great the way they are.

He drags his bottom lip between his teeth and runs from his thoughts. Again.

“And if you want to go home at any moment, I’ll personally walk you.”

Jisung cracks a tired, but undeniably fond smile that stirs something warm in Minho’s chest. “You’ll walk me?”

“Yeah, I can’t drive, ‘cause if we’re staying home then I can drink those bottles that I bought on my own and I won’t feel guilty for not sharing,” Minho says matter-of-factly.

Jisung rolls his eyes, but he shifts so he can properly sit against the back of the couch, leaning on Minho’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t feel guilty.” 

Minho grins, resting his cheek against the top of Jisung’s head. Of course he knows. “I wouldn’t.” 

✦

Later that night, when Jisung is about to leave the car, his hand already on the handle, Minho thinks of taking him by the arm, making him turn back around, and thinks of kissing him. He tries to tell himself it’s out of habit, but he doesn’t know where the habit came from. He tries to tell himself it doesn’t mean anything, because in the end Jisung jumps out and nothing happens, but the thought stays with him as he drives back home and lies in his bed, tossing and turning.

The cloak he’d kept such meticulous care of isn’t thrown over his feelings anymore, and belatedly Minho realizes that he was wrong—everything has changed.

✦

“I hope you have my tea ready ‘cause I’m on my way and I’m freezing.”

Minho smiles to himself, overtaking the group of teenagers walking down the sidewalk. He’s going back to his apartment from the short trip to the convenience store to get snacks and champagne for the night, and Jisung has just called him on the phone; Minho fumbled with his phone to get it out of the back pocket of his pants and almost dropped it on the ground, just to pick up when he saw Jisung’s name on the screen. 

“Where are you?” he asks, and he hopes Jisung can hear him through his mask and the bustle of the street because Minho isn’t going to freeze his face off in this weather. “I went to the store, so I’m on my way home, but—”

“I’m waving at you!” Jisung interrupts. “From the other side of the road!” 

Minho looks up, and there he is: in his long-padded jacket, with a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, and that white beanie he can never leave at home, no matter the weather; he’s waving at Minho like they haven’t seen each other in years, and Minho knows he’s smiling, even though the scarf is hiding his face almost entirely. 

Against himself, Minho breaks into a wide smile and thanks the mask he’s wearing for preventing him from exposing himself as the undeniably fond one. He crosses the street without even bothering to hang up the call, and watches Jisung clumsily try to tap away at the screen of his phone with his gloves still on. 

“How are you cold when you’re bundled up like this?”

Jisung scoffs. “Try walking all the way from my building in this weather yourself.”

“I told you I’d come to get you, but you didn’t want me to,” Minho reminds him. “Besides, you’re just always cold. I’m starting to think you’re somehow manipulating your body temperature so you can leech off other people’s warmth.”

Probably on purpose and just to spite him, Jisung throws his arm over Minho’s shoulder, pulling him in close, and Minho—with his traitorous heart skipping a beat—wraps his arms around Jisung’s middle, even though now the tote bag he has slung over his shoulder is digging into his side. It’s admittedly a little weird of a position to be walking in, but the thought of letting go doesn’t even cross Minho’s mind when Jisung’s embrace makes him feel so comfortable as they make it through the snowy streets of Seoul.

✦

It’s a little past six in the afternoon when Minho lays out all ingredients he needs on the kitchen counter and gets to work. 

Jisung is in the living room, trying to find good music to play quietly in the background, and Minho is silently praying that he doesn’t put on any Christmas music. He’s had enough of the cheery love songs and jingle bells Hyunjin still insists on playing in the car when Minho generously offers to drive him home from work. 

But Jisung puts on some mellow playlist instead, letting the song echo in the apartment on low volume, and emerges from the living room to seat himself on the stool by the counter with a smile.

Minho can feel him staring as he’s beginning to cook their dinner. Something about the unashamed glint in his eyes makes blood rush to Minho’s neck and it takes a lot of effort to not get lost in the unexpected attention and fuck up the pasta. 

He doesn’t know what’s been going on with Jisung these days and the sudden changes from flirtatious to gloomy to undecipherable are messing with his head; Minho never knows what to expect—other than the softness Jisung always brings along. That’s something that never changes.

“I’m gonna open the wine,” he says, snapping Minho out of his thoughts and making him realize that the onion he’s supposed to stir on the pan is beginning to burn. “Do you want some?” 

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Minho smiles at him over his shoulder and goes back to chopping tomatoes on the cutting board. 

But then the scent of Jisung’s flowery perfume hits his senses, more forceful than before, and Minho feels him stepping closer. Resting one hand on Minho’s hip, Jisung makes his breath catch in his throat and renders him silly. 

He chuckles quietly and says, “Move to the side? I need to get the corkscrew.”

Right. Right. Right. 

Why did Minho’s stupid pea of a brain make him think that Jisung touched him just for the sake of being close? He deflates with the thought and feels utterly foolish for acting like this; a part of him wishes he’d never realized his true feelings; maybe he wouldn’t be making a fool out of himself and possibly ruining everything now. 

He lets out a soft sigh while Jisung lets go of his hip and moves to fetch two glasses from the cupboard. With practiced ease, he opens the bottle of wine and pours them both a generous amount, setting one of the glasses on the counter beside Minho, taking the other one for himself and leaning back against the kitchen island.

“How were your classes today?” 

“Uhm, okay, I guess,” Jisung says, but he doesn’t sound convincing. “I’d just been tired, so I couldn’t focus well.”

Minho hums, throwing tomatoes into the pan, and pauses, scrambling to find something to do so that he doesn’t have to look at Jisung just yet. “Maybe you shouldn’t come over so late every day and actually get some sleep? You have a lot on your plate, you really should take care of yourself properly.”

Jisung falls silent after putting down his glass with a clinking sound. And then, in a hesitant voice, he asks, “You want me to stop coming over?” 

Minho whips around, brows furrowed in a frown, and meets Jisung’s eyes, dimmed again. His heart physically hurts at the sight.

“What?” he breathes out in confusion. “I didn’t say that.” 

Jisung grimaces. “You did. You said I shouldn’t—”

“I meant you shouldn’t give up on your sleep just so you can spend time with me here,” Minho interrupts sternly. “Especially not now, when you’ve got your graduation right in front of you. I didn’t say you can’t come over at all.”

Jisung takes a big sip out of his wine glass and averts his eyes. He looks like he wants to drop the topic, but Minho feels like there’s something more to it, and he refuses to create some misunderstanding between them. 

So he honestly admits, “I love having you here.” 

And Jisung looks up again, wide-eyed and mildly surprised, and he looks so adorable in those overalls and hoodie that Minho wants to… 

He takes in a sharp breath and turns on his heel to stir the pasta. When Jisung can’t see his face and look into his eyes with that piercing gaze of his, it’s easier for Minho to say, “Of course I want you to come over. What I don’t want is for you to be exhausted just because you get back home late, okay?” 

A thought passes through Minho’s head, fleeting and foolish, and he’s one step from offering Jisung to stay over for the night more than just when they accidentally fall asleep while watching a movie. 

He shakes his head like he’s trying to chase it away.

Then, he looks over his shoulder and, in a tone more teasing, adds, “If you’re so obsessed with me, we can always just video call.”

Jisung raises an eyebrow. “We’re gonna video call while we’re sleeping?” 

“Why not?” Minho shrugs, and goes back to cooking the sauce.

They fall silent again, but it’s comfortable and easy, something they’re both used to. Minho takes a big sip of his wine and Jisung starts quietly singing the song playing from the speakers in the living room. 

Even then, when Jisung is supposedly focused on something else, Minho can’t get rid of the feeling that he’s being watched; he’s mastered the skill of recognizing his gaze among everyone else’s, how different it feels when it’s Jisung’s eyes lingering a moment too long on his body. 

Now, Jisung’s eyes are insistent, like he’s expecting something from Minho, waiting for something, or trying to study his behavior. Minho can’t tell why Jisung is staring in the first place, but the weight of his gaze leaves his cheeks dusted in pink.

He clears his throat. Though he doesn’t feel uncomfortable, it’s still strange and confusing, and Minho needs to get Jisung’s eyes off himself before his skin bursts aflame. “Can you strain the pasta, please?” 

Jisung hums in response, and soon enough they’re sitting on the couch with bowls of steaming food in their hands and Law School playing on the TV.

Not even ten minutes into the episode, Minho can’t help but throw his head back against the couch and whine, “Oh, the things I would let sexy professor Yang Jonghoon do to me.” 

Jisung snorts, bursting into laughter, but the food must fly into the wrong pipe and he starts choking on his pasta. Mildly in panic, Minho leaps towards the coffee table to get him a glass of water and takes the bowl he’s been holding, lightly patting him on the back as Jisung bends in half, half-choking, half-laughing.

“Jesus, breathe, baby, breathe.” 

Jisung starts coughing even more, eyes wide and face red as he yanks the glass out of Minho’s hand to gulp it down. A slightly terrifying moment later, he falls back against the couch, breathless. 

Minho mindlessly reaches out to push his hair back from his forehead. “Okay now?” 

Jisung chuckles in disbelief. “You almost killed me!” he wheezes out. 

“It’s not my fault that Kim Myungmin is so hot!” Minho grumbles, but his expression quickly softens. “You sure you’re fine?”

Jisung sighs. “Yeah, but I don’t think I can eat anymore,” he says, grabbing a cushion to hug it to his chest. “Sorry. The pasta’s really good, though.”

Minho runs his fingers through Jisung’s hair one more time before retreating his hand. “It’s okay. We can have it for dinner tomorrow, then. I kinda feel heavy, too.” 

He stands up, gathering the dishes to bring them to the kitchen, and grabs another bottle of wine on his way back to the living room. Climbing onto the sectional, he rests his head against Jisung’s lap and eases into his touch when Jisung’s fingers tangle in his hair, eyes automatically fluttering shut. 

This—having Jisung close, all of his attention—is even better than the hot actor on the screen, and Minho soon completely loses the plot of the show, too busy trying not to melt under Jisung’s hands. 

Feeling warm all over, with his stomach full, content like never, Minho catches himself getting sleepy. Lips curling up in a small smile, he mumbles, “I’m probably gonna be out before the clock even strikes midnight. I’m too old for New Year’s Eve. I need my grandpa-sleep, especially after eating pasta.”

Jisung laughs, but Minho knows he’s the same—they both get sleepy after food, but Minho is more of a going-for-a-walk-to-feel-alive-again person, while Jisung simply gives in and goes to sleep. 

Sometimes, Minho manages to drag him out of the house and they roam through the streets and parks of the city together; sometimes, Jisung uses his big, doe eyes to lure Minho into his arms. Most of the time his tactic works best—and he’s well aware of it.

With a faint smile, Minho begins rubbing his palm over his belly; just a moment later, another hand joins his own, and he stills, taken off guard by the warmth colliding with his own cold skin; Jisung wraps his fingers around his wrist to pull his hand away and decides to rubs his abdomen instead. 

He doesn’t say anything. Minho doesn’t dare to speak, either. 

✦

Jisung stirs him awake right before midnight.

He leads Minho to the door of the balcony so that they can watch the display of fireworks together, but some twisted part of Minho’s brain already knows something is up solely by the look on Jisung’s face, by how soft his voice is when he quietly confesses, “I want to tell you something.”

Minho’s heart leaps all the way to his throat and he nods. Instead of staring at the city stretching in front of them, he can only look at Jisung and the unusual shyness softening his features. 

Jisung draws in a shuddering breath then, eyes flitting everywhere as he gathers his thoughts, just to finally, finally meet Minho’s. And the emotions Minho sees in his expressive irises unbalances him, causing his already pounding heart to skip a beat or two. 

Jisung presses his lips together, setting them into a firm line, opens his mouth and closes it wordlessly, and Minho—although himself is strangely nervous—reaches out to hook his arm around Jisung’s waist in hopes of easing his nerves. 

With a shaky smile, Jisung stakes everything on one card. “I’ve been thinking about saying something ever since we went to Gimpo, but I never really… I could never muster the courage.” 

Minho’s breath hitches; he makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat when his heart tells him just in which direction this conversation might be going, and—frankly—he’s having a hard time believing this isn’t just a wicked dream. 

He’s had those before. So many of them, so realistic, putting him in a setting where he and Jisung are something more, or where they’re heading towards a little more than just friendship. But this feels like a punch to the gut—this can’t be a dream.

With the short silence, Jisung visibly swallows, his heart-shaped Adam’s apple bobbing, and his eyes fall to the floor again. Minho fights the urge to reach out and lift his chin with a finger; he wants to give Jisung the chance to finish what he started, and if it isn’t what Minho is hoping and praying for, then he at least won’t make a fool out of himself. 

But where else can this go? 

“I like you more than just as a friend.”

No other place, apparently. 

“And I—I don’t know,” Jisung continues, completely oblivious to the way his words make Minho’s heart thunder painfully in his chest, his feelings a disastrous force he has no real power over. “I’ve been trying to figure out if you liked me back at least a little, but I just—I don’t know if I’m simply seeing what I want to see or you…”

Minho’s fingers tighten on Jisung’s hip, and for once he successfully gets him to look up. They stare at each other silently, their wide, lovestruck eyes having their own conversation, and Minho can hear the first fireworks going off in the distance, a splash of colors reflecting on the window pane, but he simply can’t bring himself to care. 

“Please tell me if I’m reading this all wrong,” Jisung whispers, sounding so utterly scared, making Minho want to skip everything else and just kiss the nervousness off of him. “I need to know now. If this is not what you want, I’ll leave it behind this year and won’t ever bring it up again. I promise.”

And Minho wonders; would it be that easy for Jisung? To just… forget about his feelings for Minho? To push them away so they don’t interfere with their friendship? Is it possible that it’s what he’s been doing all this time?

How long has he known?

Jisung’s expression falls before Minho manages to sort his thoughts out. He takes a step back, and Minho’s eyes widen, heartbeat skyrocketing in panic. He frantically reaches for Jisung’s wrist to stop him from walking away, his other hand gripping his waist to pull him closer.

“Wait—”

Jisung doesn’t shake his hand out of Minho’s grip, but his eyes linger there a little longer, dimmed and sad. “I understand—” he tries defeatedly.

“No,” Minho shakes his head. “The thing is that you don’t understand.”

“Minho—”

Minho rolls his eyes fondly and lets go of his wrist to press his palm against Jisung’s mouth. “Be quiet. Let me speak, will you?”

He doesn’t think he’s ever been this scared. 

Not on his first day of kindergarten, not when he got lost in a mall during Christmas’ rush, not when someone stole his bike and he considered running away from home just so he doesn’t have to see his parents angry and disappointed. The course of fright through his body doesn’t compare to the moment when he was opening his acceptance letter from college, not even when he was being interviewed for his first job in the dance field.

“You don’t even realize how often I think about you,” he whispers, desperate for the two of them to finally be on the same page. “Frankly, I didn’t even realize how often I think about you. Until we went to Gimpo.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Jisung moves his hand to rest it on Minho’s bicep and squeezes in that comforting way only he knows. To Minho, his power still feels like magic, but he would sound crazy if he said it out loud. (Not to Jisung, because Jisung always understands.)

“There… I felt something was just… I don’t know. It felt like a wall got smashed down when we got there, and I was afraid that I was just under the influence of the whole pretending thing,” Minho says, fingers skimming over the denim fabric of Jisung’s overalls. “I was afraid that it would get weird and that I wasn’t actually… feeling things and that I would just end up hurting you if I backed away later.”

He tries to take a moment to simply breathe, but it does nothing to stabilize his heart that’s threatening to jump out of his chest with every forceful crash against his ribcage.

So, in one breath, he admits, “And it did get weird.”

Jisung inhales sharply. A beat of loaded silence passes and then, his voice a little small, he asks, “It did?” 

“It got weird because it wasn’t weird.”

Jisung blinks at him, now more confused than anything, his eyebrows drawn together as he asks, “What? I—I don’t think I’m following.”

Minho offers him a slanted smile. “It wasn’t weird,” he says. “I saw you with my family and it wasn’t weird. I held your hand and it wasn’t weird. I kissed you and it wasn’t weird. We slept in the same bed, we woke up together, we drank wine and we ate cookies at two in the morning and we…”

Minho’s breath catches in his throat with how fast the words are spilling from his mouth—he feels a little bit choked up. He’s never said something like this before, and it’s taking a lot of his energy to still make some sense so that Jisung understands perfectly what he’s trying to say.

“It wasn’t weird,” he repeats. “It was right.”

Jisung doesn’t say anything, but his eyes stay locked with Minho’s, wide and glazed over and sparkling and beautiful. His expression betrays nothing, but those eyes are enough to make all the fear leave Minho.

Still, it feels like his knees are about to give out.

He always thought that saying all of these mushy things would feel forced and gross and that it simply wasn’t for him. That’s why it never felt right to date other people—sooner or later, everyone expected him to jump out with romantic confessions, something he could never bring himself to do.  

But here he stands before Jisung and the words fly out of his mouth on their own. Easily. 

Because he means them.

“I love you,” he says softly, watching in awe as Jisung’s eyes widen, fireworks outside reflected in the darkness of his gaze. “It seems like… literally everyone else has already known. Except for me. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize.”  

Jisung lets his head loll forward, resting his forehead against Minho’s forehead, and lets out a breathless chuckle. Taken aback, Minho sneaks his arms around his waist to pull Jisung into a proper, bone-crushing hug. 

And when Jisung whispers the three words back to him, the whole world seems to stop. Everything that’s happened between them throughout the years they’ve known each other is closed in that one simple, on-point I love you.

The sound of fireworks exploding somewhere nearby breaks their embrace; they pull away with sheepish smiles, but they remain close, and Minho refuses to let go of Jisung yet. Shamelessly, he stares at his pretty face and thinks about how lucky he must be to have someone like Jisung in his life, the only person in the entire universe who understands him just the way he is. 

Minho’s mouth curls up in a soft smile when Jisung’s eyes flutter shut the moment their gazes meet. It’s funny how the same thought seems to run through their heads.

This time, Jisung lets him take the lead.

Minho allows himself the moment of self-indulgence to simply stare at him for a second longer, at the impatience passing through his features, how he scrunches his nose, waiting. 

And then, softly, slowly, gently, like they have all the time in the world, Minho leans in and presses their lips together. 

Kissing Jisung felt incredible before during the short moments of weakness, but now, when they’re on the same page, when the air between them is clear and their hearts can freely beat in the same rhythm, it feels otherworldly. 

Minho doesn’t know how he could’ve survived without kissing Jisung before, because now that he freely can do just that, he frankly doesn’t want to pull away, and when Jisung does, Minho chases right after him, deepening their kiss and melting when Jisung strokes his cheek with his thumb, smiling into it. 

✦

“For the love of god, why are you two making out on my fucking couch?”

A pause.

“Oh, hell no. No. No. No. I’m moving out, Minho! I’m moving the hell out!”