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“I didn’t mean it like that,” Minho says. “I didn’t… Jisung-ah.” He says it even though he knows it’s too late. Maybe he should just shut up. His mouth has done enough damage already.
Jisung laughs and it’s a terrible, forced thing. “Of course, you didn’t, hyung,” he says, voice so light the words float away almost as soon as they’re free, bright and beautiful like always, only a hint of waver on his lips, a tremor in the tilt of his jaw. “Who wouldn’t want to date me, after all? I’m a catch.” He rocks back on his heels, cocky and carefree and Minho wants to cry because Jisung has never lied to him before, not once, but he is now. Not because what he says isn’t the truth, but because he doesn’t believe it is.
“Jisung.” He tries again. He has to. “That’s not what…”
“It’s fine.” Jisung’s words are sharp now, the smile on his face all crooked, like a crack in an otherwise perfect bowl. “Look at the time.” He makes no effort to even pretend to glance at his phone, instead staring at the wall somewhere just past Minho’s ear. “I better go.”
Minho opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Something enormous and sticky catches in his throat, burning and bitter. It only grows larger when Jisung walks out of the room without a word, and Minho recognises it for what it is.
Fear.
***
“What did you do?”
It’s Changbin who corners him two days later. Minho had half expected it to be Chan or maybe Felix, but the first is probably trying to maintain some leader objectivity and quite likely also busy keeping Felix from clawing Minho’s face off, so. Changbin makes sense. He’s protective of Jisung but has enough patience to hear Minho’s side of things.
“What makes you so sure it’s me who did something?” Minho asks but it’s weak, an instinctual deflection that he knows won’t work. That he doesn’t even want to work, if he’s honest.
Predictably, Changbin only scoffs at him. “Because if it had been Jisung, he would’ve caved in three hours and roped all of us into a sophisticated apology scheme. There probably would’ve been a choreo.”
Minho feels the corner of his mouth lift despite himself. It’s true and he’s never felt as envious as he does now of the ease with which Jisung shares his emotions.
“I said something stupid,” he admits quietly, eyes on the scuffed practice room floor. It’s just him and Changbin left, everyone else already gone, Jisung practically running out as soon as the staff had called time.
Changbin waits him out, but Minho doesn’t elaborate. It’s too… Too awful. Too truthful too, for him to say it to anyone else, not until he’s explained it to Jisung.
“Hyung…” Changbin sighs. His grip on Minho’s shoulder is tight and heavy. Minho doesn’t let himself flinch out of it. “Have you apologised?”
“No,” Minho says. “He won’t let me.”
Changbin’s knuckles ghost over Minho’s down-tipped chin, and he jerks his head up in surprise, instantly caught in the knowing look in Changbin’s eyes.
“How hard have you tried?” he asks, and Minho feels shame curl in his gut, hot and sour.
Because the truth is, he hasn’t. Not after that first, instinctual and aborted attempt at an explanation. Because Minho is a coward who’d rather let Jisung believe a half-truth than know the whole, ugly extent of it.
“That’s what I thought,” Changbin says and Minho kind of wants to hit him. But not as much as he wants to hit himself.
***
It takes five more days until he breaks. He can tolerate (badly, but he can) Jisung not talking to him, he can even live with Jisung not looking at him or touching him or even acknowledging his existence because it feels like something he deserves.
What he can’t deal with is Jisung being uncertain of himself with the others. They’re filming variety show content for the new album and every time a game calls for them to pair up or form a team, Jisung hangs back. Instead latching himself onto people – Minho, usually, though he knows he’s definitely out of the running at the moment – he instead waits for them to come to him, for Seungmin and Jeongin to claim him as honorary member of vocalracha, for Chan to reel him in with a not-so-subtle glare in Minho’s direction. It’s obvious Jisung’s subdued demeanour is giving everyone unpleasant flashbacks to a few years ago when his anxiety had gotten the better of him and Minho…
Minho is a coward but he’s not cruel. Except right now, apparently. He doesn’t need Changbin’s meaningful knuckle crack to know that it’s high past time to fix this. Even if doing so may very well break something else.
And to do that, he’ll need to use actual words. Even though it’s Minho’s mouth that’s responsible for the situation in the first place.
***
They’d been watching some stupid dating show, something where pretty twenty-somethings asked inane questions and assigned points to each other based on some convoluted system that Jisung had spent thirty minutes explaining to Minho and Minho had spent fifteen seconds deciding he didn’t even want to understand. He didn’t really want to watch the show either, but Jisung was obsessed, something about it appealing to the side of him that was all hopeful romantic and not that well-hidden, and Minho was, as always, powerless to resist.
It didn’t mean that watching Jisung watch the show was entirely pleasurable. In fact, listening to Jisung rate other people (even people in television) as potential romantic partners was grating on Minho’s nerves for reasons he was perfectly aware of and completely unwilling to address. And then Jisung had eventually moved to chatter about his own dateability, wondering out loud if his future partners would like his personality or find him tiring, if they’d cope with the demands of his job, if they’d like how small Jisung’s waist was, the long line of his throat, he’d read comments, hyung, some people definitely thought about putting their hands on him in a way Jisung was at least a little curious about and—
Something in Minho had snapped. Because no matter how hypothetical, how abstract, these people Jisung was talking about, they were, very much, other people. Not Minho. And because of that, what had come out of his stupid, useless mouth was…
“I don’t think anybody should date you.”
***
Hyunjin lets Minho in without a fight. In fact, he looks downright relieved to see him standing behind the door and gestures him in with a dramatic sweep of his hand.
“Chan and Changbin hyungs are at the studio,” he says. “And I’m going to go and do… something. In the other dorm. With other people.” He’s already scrabbling for his trainers, clearly intent on vacating the premises as soon as possible. Minho would normally make some kind of mocking comment about who Hyunjin is in such a hurry to go see, but right now he’s too nervous for anything but distracted gratitude.
When the front door closes behind Hyunjin, Minho toes off his own shoes and makes his way deeper into the apartment. There’s nothing but dirty dishes in the kitchen and haphazardly piled pillows in the lounge. Alright. Fine. It’s not Minho’s first choice to do this in Jisung’s room – too intimate, not so easy to escape from – but nothing about this is his choice so perhaps it’s only fitting.
He doesn’t bother knocking, simply turns the handle and walks in. The room is dimly lit, table lamp on and curtains half-drawn. Jisung sits up from among the messy blankets on the bed, his hair looking like a bird’s nest, his eyes red and puffy. Maybe from sleep. Maybe from something else.
He’s clearly startled by the intrusion but the surprise on his face hardens quickly when he sees Minho. “Get out,” he hisses, fingers curling into the covers.
“No.” Minho pushes the door shut behind him and leans against it, arms crossed like he’s guarding the exit. Which he is, in a way. He absolutely wouldn’t put it past Jisung to remove himself from the situation if Minho wouldn’t.
“Not until I’ve said what I came to say. After that…” Minho shrugs, eyes dipping to the ground, his whole posture softening until he’s sliding down against the door, ass hitting the floor, elbows resting on his bent knees. He feels exhausted and somehow still jittery with adrenaline at the same time, his limbs heavy like stone, his pulse jackrabbiting, chest tight as if he’s unable to get enough oxygen.
There’s a long moment of silence and then a rustle of bedclothes. Minho chances a glance up and finds Jisung sitting on the edge of the mattress now, bare feet on the floor, spine ramrod straight.
“Go on then,” he says. There’s a tilt to his jaw that’s half defiance, half hurt. “Tell me again how you think no one should date me.”
“Else,” Minho snaps, tone harsh. He’s angry at himself and the situation, but it’s still Jisung who flinches.
And then he blinks, eyes wide, brain clearly catching up with delay. “…what?”
Minho breathes through his clenched teeth and makes himself look Jisung in the eye as he lays out the ugly truth of it. “Else,” he repeats. “I meant I don’t think you… I don’t want you to date anybody else.”
Jisung’s inhale is loud and shaky. Slowly, he starts to peel the covers from around him and it takes everything Minho has to stay still, and not scramble for the door.
“Anybody else than who?” Jisung asks even though it’s clear from his stunned expression that he already knows the answer.
Fair enough, Minho thinks. Jisung is more than entitled to his full and unambiguous humiliation.
“Than me,” he answers quietly. “I don’t want you to date anyone else but me.”
Jisung is halfway across the floor now, his knees pink and bare under the frayed hem of his sleep shorts, the old t-shirt he’s wearing inside out. “Why?” He crouches down, right in front of Minho, and it feels like a kindness he doesn’t deserve, to not have to keep craning his neck to look up.
“You know why.” Minho’s voice comes out hoarse, words sticking like thorns, hurting as they catch in his throat.
“Maybe.” Jisung is so close now, close enough that if either of them reached out they would be touching. Neither of them does. “Say it anyway.” He swallows and Minho watches the bob of his Adam’s apple, helpless. “Please?”
“Because I’m in love with you.” In the end, it’s a relief. The words keep pouring out as Minho tips his head back against the door. “Because I want to date you. Because I can’t stand the idea of anyone else—”
Jisung’s hand is shockingly warm, gripping Minho’s ankle and effectively shutting him up. He stares, uncomprehending, as Jisung methodically tugs Minho’s legs down, one after the other, until they’re lying straight. In fact, he doesn’t realise what Jisung is doing until he’s already pulling Minho’s arms open and crawling into the space between them. He straddles Minho’s legs, expression determined, the shorts riding up to reveal a distracting amount of smooth thigh, against which Minho’s hands land on their own volition.
“I am,” Jisung says, from his perch on Minho’s lap, “so mad at you.”
“I…” It is possible that Jisung had wanted a clear aim and gotten close to deliver a gut punch but nothing of the sort materialises even though Minho gives it several long seconds. Finally, cautiously, Minho slides his hands up and wraps them around Jisung’s – small, extremely appealing, Jisung had not been wrong about that in his speculation – waist, squeezing experimentally. He’s immediately rewarded with a hum from Jisung, one that elongates into something in the lower register as he arches a bit in Minho’s hold.
“I’m getting some very mixed messages here,” Minho admits breathlessly. Nothing about this is happening the way he’d expected, and he doesn’t know yet whether that’s a good thing or not, teetering on the edge of something like joy but too scared to take the plunge just yet.
“Nothing’s mixed,” Jisung says, “you’re just not paying attention,” which is an absolutely ridiculous accusation because Minho has never paid anything or anyone as much attention as the boy in his lap.
“Maybe this will help.”
Minho thinks he makes some kind of questioning noise, but it gets swallowed by Jisung’s lips. The kiss starts tentative, shy even, but doesn’t stay like that very long, not when Jisung’s fingers twine into Minho’s hair and pull, not when Minho’s heart is freefalling, all the caution and fear that’s been holding it back for years starting to crumble.
It’s a struggle, trying to get a word in, trying to even draw enough breath to speak, but Minho has to know. He wrenches his mouth free, the back of his head colliding with the door painfully. “Jisung-ah…?”
Jisung’s mouth is swollen and pink, the look in his eyes soft and unbearably, undeniably, fond. “Yes, you idiot,” he says, his smile blinding and all for Minho. “I mean it.”