Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It started off as a joke. Started off as an accident.

8-year-old Jisung didn't know what the word crush truly meant when Renjun looked at him with wide-open eyes and asked, "Want about you, Jisungie? Who do you like?"

He could’ve replied no one. He could've asked what liking someone meant. He could've shrugged and said he didn't want to tell like Jaemin had done when Renjun asked him the same question, the apples of his cheeks turning dusk-pink as he bit his lips with pearl-white teeth to stop himself from smiling. But 8-year-old Jisung only wanted to fit in. He wanted to paint his face with Mark's features to get his big brother's friends looking at him the same way they looked at Mark.

He frowned down at his hands, sugar-coated fingertips and skin sticky with the left-overs of candy Donghyuck had bought earlier for himself, but hadn't been able to finish because he wanted to avoid a stomachache.

So Jisung mumbled, "I like Donghyuck-hyung," and rubbed his dirty palms on the nylon of his sweatpants, mouth tasting of orange lollipop. His face heated up, probably turning a tender pink a shade paler than Jaemin's.

"You're so cute," Jeno bumped his shoulder against Jisung's smaller body. Jisung's face burned hotter, arms flailing around to push Jaemin away when he leaned closer to pinch Jisung’s round, chubby cheeks.

"Please, don't tell," Jisung asked them. His eyes jumped to the two occupied swings in the park where Donghyuck kept flying further from the ground while Mark sat still beside him, the tips of his perfectly clean school shoes digging into the dirt.

The other boys laughed at Jisung's words, the kind of laughter that forces your head back and your mouth open. If it were to happen today, Jisung's cheeks would turn even warmer and his skin would grow spikes. Back then, he laughed along, embarrassment melting away under the warm pride that came with his brother's friends laugh as if they were Jisung's friends, no matter what their laughter meant.

It doesn't feel like a joke now, even if it remains an accident.

Mark's pale fingers shake when he uncaps the green velvet box in his hands, revealing a small shiny band that glows pretty silver in Jisung's poorly lit bedroom in the small apartment he shares with Renjun.

"I don't know if he will say yes," Mark speaks in that high-pitched tone of his that takes over his words when he's nervous. "But I'm planning to ask him tonight."

Jisung knows Donghyuck will say yes, has known for as long as he's known Donghyuck himself. He knew that very first day, when Mark invited Donghyuck over for the first time, the three of them so young that Jisung can't even remember the scene properly. He does remember, though, the way Donghyuck trailed after Mark like an overexcited puppy, bouncing on the tip of his shoes as if he wanted to leap with each step, trying to grow taller to match Mark's height. Jisung saw himself in Donghyuck back then, standing on his tippy-toes until his toes went numb just to feel at Mark's level.

Mark rubs the back of his neck as the box keeps shaking in his other hand. "But if he does say yes, I'd like you to be my best man."

Jisung has rarely seen Mark like this, each fiber of his body seemingly threaded with nerves, pale cheeks lit up and dark hair standing up in sweaty strands. He looks the way he did after basketball practice when he was sixteen, sweat sliding down his flushed skin, gaze cast low because he never dared to meet Donghyuck's eyes when he was dirty and breathless.

It's cute, the fact that Donghyuck can still get Mark jittery and nervous like this even if they've been dating for more than 5 years. It's cute and pure and sweet, and Jisung wishes the sweetness of it all didn't revolve his stomach the way it does.

He wants to jump into his brother's arms and congratulate him, wants to pat Mark's back forcefully to shake him out of his unnecessary anxiety. He wants to say congrats and of course and thank you. But Jisung stays pinned to the ugly grey carpet of his room, his socks sticking to the floor like glue.

Suddenly, he’s fighting an urge to throw up he hasn't felt since he was 18 and he saw Mark kissing Donghyuck for the first time, late summer evening and back-lit by the orange sky on the front porch of their family house, beautiful and clean like a sharp-edged knife right through your chest—face to face because those who love you never stab you in the back.

Jisung is choking up in feelings he hasn't felt in years, the muted pain that comes with something that's just a matter of time, something you've been expecting for so long that you are convinced you've gotten used to it, over it. But when you swipe dust under the rug it doesn't magically disappear, it only stays hidden there to stain everything grey once you tug the carpet off, revealing all the nasty secrets you've been keeping for years.

If he was able to survive swallowing mud when he was 18, though, Jisung is sure he can hold up one more time now, stronger and much less naive at 24. He can get used to it all over again.

Jisung walks over to Mark with a twisted smile on his lips. He cradles Mark's hand to force the green velvet box closed, just so the shine of the ring stops threatening to blind him. He wraps stiff arms around Mark's body, presses guilt-dirty hands to his back, and whispers an uglily forced, "Yeah, sure. Congrats, hyung," into his brother's sweaty hair.

Mark laughs his high-pitched giggle into the crook of Jisung's neck, back straightened up to throw his arms around his shoulders, feet bending at the tips because it is now Jisung the one who's always a bit too out of reach. Jisung would swallow mud a million times to get him laughing like this.

---

Get-togethers used to be one of Jisung's favorite things when he was a child.

There was nothing like the weekends, free-of-homework Saturdays in the washed-golden living room of their family house, the carpet soft and ticklish under Jising's bare feet when Mark beckoned him closer, squirming in the couch to open a spot between him and Donghyuck. Nothing like the too-warm, musty air after countless hours of video games in the same room, sweat gathering in the back of Jisung's knees, the leather couch rough on the skin of his thighs when his shorts rolled up, the tingling sensation on his fingertips when his hand brushed against Donghyuck's every time he handed Jisung the remote.

Jisung even misses the uncomfortable parts: the aching on his lower back from twisting his body in weird angles to fit as many of them as possible in the three-piece couch, his toes going numb due to Renjun sitting on top of his feet for hours, the redness on his fingers after pressing buttons too hard to end up losing.

"I'm never sure if Mark is good for real or if Jisung is just too bad," Donghyuck used to joke, fingers ruffling Jisung's hair so he could never get mad, the offended pout on his lips curling upward against his will.

Back then, Jisung used to drink strawberry milkshakes every weekend, these tiny pink bottles that Jaemin always brought with him when he came around because he knew Jisung couldn't handle the carbonated drinks the others shared. It made Jisung feel childish—a reminder that he was not really a real friend, but someone to pamper and take care of—the sensation sharpened by Mark's fingers on his back, far too harsh with child-like carelessness as he tried to rub away the soreness of Jisung's muscles.

Now, there are no video games, no carbonated drinks, no one sitting on top of Jisung's feet. Get-togethers only happen once every two weeks, always at night but never too late. They are rushed dinners reserved for family only that end quickly because Mark and Donghyuck have to get up early for work the next morning. Jisung too, sometimes, on rare occasions where he's got a part-time job that wants him for a few months.

Everyone at the table drinks wine now—not too much, never too much—and Jisung would probably kill to have Jaemin bursting into the house with his arms full of sickeningly-sweet strawberry milkshakes from the convenience store down the road.

The living room never looks golden at this time of the night, no matter how many candles their mom lights up. Everything is a muted shade of brown, boring like the evening. The laughter is still there, though, but even that is dull to Jisung's ears. Their parents’ giggling raises jarringly high when Donghyuck places his hand on top of the table, fingers interlocked with Mark's and a silver ring contrasting prettily with his forever-tan skin.

"Oh my god," their mom squeals, her chair almost toppling to the floor when she jumps from her seat, hands around her mouth in surprise. "Really?"

"About time, right?" Mark mumbles, smile tiny. His pale hollow cheeks turn a deep red, and that might be the only bright thing of the night.

Their dad walks around the table to pat Mark on the back, hard and proud. "Congratulations, son," he says, his other hand squeezing Donghyuck's shoulder affectionately. "Good job."

Both of their parents look happy, the smiles on their lips so big that they don't quite fit on their faces. It is not a weird sight, though, it's the familiar glee they get in their eyes whenever their oldest son accomplishes something. That pride branded for Mark and for no one else.

Jisung wishes he could share it. The happiness, that is, because he's always proud of Mark, has been proud of him since before he had learned to name the feeling. And he is happy for them, somewhere between nausea and self-pity, Jisung is happy for them. But he's too tired to reach for the nice feelings when he knows he’ll just end up tugging at something ugly instead.

So Jisung keeps his mouth clamped shut because he has never been good at faking niceties and Mark never deserves to get his moments ruined.

"Jisung will be my best man, by the way," Mark announces, smiling wider now than when he announced his engagement. He points at Jisung enthusiastically as if he's got anything to do with the excitement in the room, as if he deserves any part of it. "No one better to trust with the speech, right?"

Chapped lips into a thin smile to stop himself from saying something he might regret and arms tightly crossed over his chest, Jisung only ducks his head down. He stretches out his legs under the table as far as he can manage. He's grown taller than Mark and all of his friends, yet not tall enough to reach Donghyuck. He can only try to conjure back the feeling of Donghyuck's thigh pressed up against his in a small couch when they were children, searching for something that he's always known has never belonged to him.

Donghyuck isn't even looking at him. He's got tight fingers around Mark's hand, soft cheeks puffed out in a wide grin, eyes half-closed and glinting orange to the lilting flames of the candles, threatening to overflow.

"I'm sure the kid will do great," their dad says, looking at Jisung from across the table with a sincere smile.

How will Jisung ever stop being the baby when he's the first one that keeps longing for the past? A question he will try to answer some other night he doesn't feel so ugly green. Tonight, he pours some more wine into his glass and swallows it down as if it were strawberry milkshake, purposefully ignoring the disapproving glances his mom throws at him.

Jisung feels uglier than ever when the dinner comes to an end, wrapped up in Mark's arms as he hugs him goodbye like he's been doing ever since they stopped living together.

"Call me soon, alright?" Mark tells him, still smiling like that's the only thing he knows how to do. "You can help me out with the wedding. Or we can just, you know, hang out."

"Yeah. I will," Jisung lies through his teeth, patting Mark's back before pulling away.

And Mark is oblivious to many things, but he knows the tone of Jisung's voice better than his own. He holds onto the door frame on his way out, turning around to squint at Jisung.

"Hey, if you don't call you know I'll show myself at your apartment," he grins. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Jisung can't come up with a reply because, suddenly, there are familiar fingers at the back of his head, a warm hand tousling up his hair the way you would do to a little kid.

"Goodnight, Jisungie," Donghyuck says as he walks past Jisung to step out of the house, his heart-shaped lips smiling around the nickname as if it is something pretty.

And Jisung feels uglier than ever, arms tight across his chest as Mark and Donghyuck wave him goodbye, swallowing hard to try to drown the frantic beating of his stupidly childish, selfish heart.

---

"When are you going to call your brother?" Renjun asks, walking closer to the living room table where Jising is sitting. Lately, his fingers seem permanently covered in alcohol-based ink and they stain the white surface of the table purple when he places his open palms against it. "It's been a week."

Jisung keeps his head down, eyes scamming the open notebook in front of him, staring at his messy handwriting—countless sentences scratched over with dark-blue lines. He clicks the button of his pen in tune to the bouncing of his right leg, his other hand playing with the sheets of paper, trapping the edges in between nail and flesh.

"What are you now, my personal secretary?" he mumbles with a small mouth, frowning down at the trashed notebook as he waits for the right words to pop up from the wasted ink. "How do you even know I haven't called?"

"I ate with Donghyuck today," Renjun's hands slide closer to tug at the notebook and drag it towards himself. "He asked about you."

Jisung's finger stops tapping the pen and his other hand goes slack around the notebook, allowing Renjun to easily take it. His head is snapping up to look at Renjun with wide eyes before he can help himself. "He did?" Jisung asks, the question pitched embarrassingly high.

Luckily, Renjun is the one who isn't looking back now, too busy scanning the dirty pages of Jisung’s notebook.

He hums, the dirty pads of his fingers stroking the paper, smudging the still wet ink blobs across the page. "Said Mark's worried."

And Jisung wonders how he’s supposed to come face to face with his brother when his stomach drops heavy and dirty to the floor at Renjun's words, disappointment flooding his body in waves and putting out the warmth that had lit up his cheeks at the mention of Donghyuck's name. He can't talk to Mark like this, with his heart swelling inside of his chest due to the person his brother is going to marry, sweaty-handed and tongue-tied like a little kid with a stupid crush whenever Donghyuck so much as glances his way.

The worst part is that it isn’t something new, but it is as familiar as it is old. Jisung has been exposed to Mark and Donghyuck’s romantic relationship for so long that he got really good at numbing everything. So used at repressing it that he has forgotten how to deal with it, now that his feelings have decided to bloom again full-force, tickling his belly gently and dangerously.

He used to feel like this every time he got sick when he was younger, once everyone else had started high school and he was still trapped in middle school, always two or three steps behind, still smaller in every way. After class, Donghyuck used to burst into their family house with Mark as if it was also his, bare feet thumping loudly on the stairs when he ran up to Jisung's bedroom.

"Don't get near me, I can get you sick," Jisung used to complain in a thick, snotty voice. He always tugged at his blankets, head covered up to his nose—not to avoid infecting someone, but to prevent Donghyuck from looking at his blotched, swollen face: runny nose and watery eyes and lightless skin.

Donghyuck didn't care about getting sick, though. He wasn’t scared of anything, back then. He walked closer anyway, flopping down on the mattress next to Jisung, his hands rummaging through his school bag to fish out a package of chocolate muffins Jisung had never liked.

"Here," he handed them over with generous hands, orange plastic wrappers creaking loudly as he pressed them into Jisung’s cold fingers. “They’ll make you feel better.”

They never did. The dry sweets left a cloying after-taste in Jisung’s mouth that only went away after he drank enough glasses of milk to get a stomachache. He ate them anyway because it kept Donghyuck’s eyes on him, and the pleased smile on Donghyuck’s face did make him feel better.

Once Donghyuck was gone, Mark scolded Jisung with his forehead wrinkled in concern, his fingers pushing Jisung’s hair away from his sweaty face when he bent over the bathtub to throw up.

The worst part was that Mark never got mad, not even when Jisung pushed him away because getting babied like that only made him want to vomit again. The worst part is that today, Jisung knows Mark wouldn’t even get angry if he found out why he isn’t able to face him. That only bitters the guilt.

“Stop being all up in my business,” Jisung says, reaching across the table to grab his notebook from Renjun’s hands. “Don’t you have a comic to draw?”

Renjun huffs at him, purple hands lifted in surrender. “That thing’s a mess,” he nods toward the paper. “At the rate you’re going you won’t be able to write that speech in time.”

“Dude, there are months left until the wedding,” Jisung points out, fingers tightening around the notebook at the pinch in his chest when he says that last word.

“Exactly. You’re doing that bad,” Renjun laughs, leaning closer to pat his dirty fingers against Jisung’s cheek. “Stop acting like a pissy teen and call Mark.”

And oh, how Jisung wishes he could retaliate, snap at Renjun, and say that Mark can call him himself if he wants to talk so badly. But he knows his brother very well, patient and considerate and thoughtful Mark Lee, who respects Jisung’s boundaries more than anyone because he knows that the more you push him, the faster he runs away.

Jisung might admit that it isn’t very mature of him, but he still allows himself to throw his pen at Renjun’s retreating back once he finally leaves him alone.

---

Of course, Jisung doesn’t call.

The one thing he hates more than people still treating him like a little kid is feeling like one himself. He’s aware that he’s been acting like a child for days now, but he’s at a loss on how to deal with this aside from hiding away.

It’d be easier if he had something to do other than work on paintings no one will ever see and try to write a beautiful speech with nothing but bitter and petty words inside of him.

It’s been weeks since his last job interview and he even misses the angry twist in his gut every time he gets rejected. It may be defeating and demoralizing, but walking into an almost-sure ‘no’ still makes him feel more useful than his apartment, with its grey walls and half-empty shelves, always smelling of strong oil paints and alcohol markers, Renjun’s sketches for work scattered all over their house like neon signs that remind Jisung of what he will never achieve.

If only he had the guts to grab his keys and go out. But Jisung has always felt a little bit ridiculous walking down the street on his own, and he is as childish as he is a coward, so he doesn’t dare to visit Jeno’s bar like he usually does when he’s bored in fear he will bump into Donghyuck.

He’s staring at his phone now, his thumb hovering over Chenle’s contact name, nail dark with dried-up paint. It shouldn’t be difficult, none of it—the wedding, the jealousy, the inferiority complex—has anything to do with Chenle. Yet, his own face will betray him if Chenle so much as asks about Mark, and he is the one person Jisung could never lie to. He wouldn’t be able to handle disappointment on Chenle’s face of all people, but arm wrestling between loneliness and guilt usually ends up in a tie.

Jisung is about to press call, but the screen of his phone flashes bright with a notification.

hyuck hyung

u okay?

Jisung hates the gentle rush of warmth in the pit of his stomach, the fairy tale butterflies that force his heart to double its pace. Only in quiet, lonely moments like this, the feeling isn’t accompanied by guilt-induced nausea.

He breathes in deep, allows himself to enjoy the sensation for a quick second, his thumb rubbing the name on the screen like he used to do when he was an over-dramatic teenager in love for the very first time. He’s not a teenager anymore, but love turns everyone a little bit over-dramatic. So he lets himself have this, and fake-promises to the empty apartment that it is the last time.

The happy feeling dies in his belly when a second message comes through, though, because it is not about Jisung. It has never been about Jisung, after all.

hyuck hyung

marks a bit worried :(

It’s dizzying, how Donghyuck manages to make him feel better and so much worse all at the same time, without even intending to. Jisung has been trying to escape this never-ending loop since he was a stupid teenager, with his mouth full of chocolate muffins—Mark’s favorite brand—just to keep Donghyuck’s eyes on him. If an exit door existed, Jisung is sure he would’ve found it by now. All he can do is swallow down the lump in his throat and learn to live with a dry mouth.

He still catches himself staring at the pale-brown door of his apartment, half-hoping and half-daydreaming for Donghyuck to burst into the living room with a bag full of sweets.

The door doesn’t click open, but the sudden ring of the bell has Jisung jumping from his seat, his phone slipping out of his fingers to fall into the carpet with a loud thump.

It’s stupid, the way his heart grows in his chest with each step he takes toward the door, drumming against his ribcage, behind his eyes, in both of his temples.

When he tugs the door open, Jisung is still trying to figure out if his heart has gone crazy out of fear at the prospect of coming face to face with Mark, or out of dirty hope at the minimal possibility of Donghyuck coming to check up on him in person. None of them wait at the other side of the wood, though.

“Shoes on,” Jaemin says as soon as the door is open, arms crossed over his chest and his left heel tapping the floor. He’s still wearing his working clothes, black dress pants that are too tacky to drive a taxi comfortably, and a blue striped shirt with the two top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “We’re leaving.”

Jisung looks down at himself: yellowish t-shirt with the logo of a random bank branch on the front, grey sweatpants stained with orange juice he accidentally spilled this morning, and a pair of old green socks. He wiggles his toes on the carpet and holds the knob tighter, considering pushing the door shut to hide in his room for the rest of the day.

“Nah-ah, don’t dare,” Jaemin takes a step closer to lean his shoulder on the open door, preventing Jisung from closing it. “I’ll give you five minutes to get changed, but you’re coming with me.”

With a loud, dramatic sigh, Jisung lets go of the handle and turns around to walk inside. “Where to?”

“The supermarket,” Jaemin says behind him, the door closing with a loud bang after them. “We’re having a sleepover at your brother’s tonight. You’ve always been a shit eater, so get changed fast and jump in the car, we’re running to the store on the way there.”

Instead of going to his room to change into fresh clothes, Jisung throws himself into the brown couch of the living room, his green socked feet resting on the small coffee table. He palms the cushions of the couch, the worn-out leather rough under his palms as he searches for the TV remote.

“You wanna go out like that?” Jaemin says with exaggerated surprise. He crosses the room to stand in front of the TV, hip jutted to the side and arms once again crossed over his chest. “A shower would do wonders to you, you know? But whatever you want.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Jisung mumbles, wiggling in his seat once he’s got the remote in his hand. He tries to turn on the TV, but it’s impossible with Jaemin blocking the appliance. “Can you move? Sit down or get out, but stop bothering me.”

Jaemin scoffs, but he doesn’t move from where he stands. “See, I knew you’d be all moody and annoying, but you can drop the act around me.”

Jisung gives up and throws the remote on the couch, crossing his own arms across his chest in a useless attempt at stopping Jaemin from seeing right through him. “I don’t feel like going out, alright?” he says, taking his feet off the table to cross his legs as well, trying to fold his body tiny enough that Jaemin won’t be able to read between its lines.

“Good thing I don’t care,” Jaemin exclaims, hands thrown in the air as he walks closer to Jisung. “Mark is worried, so you’re coming with me. He wanted to pick you up himself, but you know how’s work for him, he couldn’t find the time.”

Jisung doesn’t really know how’s work for Mark, his knowledge of mechanical engineering starts and ends with the name, but it’s not as if Mark understands anything about Jisung’s paintings. He does know, though, that Mark is busy eight days out of seven, that he runs on dark coffee he doesn’t even like, and that Donghyuck had to teach him how to put makeup on himself to hide the permanent greenish eye bags under his eyes.

Back when Mark first started working full-time, almost right after college, Jisung used to hate it. Mark moved out from their family house to never come back, their reunions on the weekends turned into sad meals where Jisung ate alone with their parents, and far away were the meet-ups at Jeno’s bar or the basket games at the old court in their family neighborhood. Now, Mark having a busy schedule is convenient, an easy way out most of the time, even if Jisung feels a bit hollow at night, paint-stained fingers itching with the need to type Mark’s number.

“Sungie,” Jaemin’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts, sweet like cotton candy and incredibly close as he leans over the coffee table, one of his arms stretched out to squeeze Jisung’s right knee gently. “Moping around all day won’t fix anything.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” Jisung mumbles, his voice thick when it rolls out of his tongue quietly.

His throat is starting to hurt, his neck getting tense with the effort of holding back tears. The way Jaemin is looking at him doesn’t make things any easier. He’s smiling softly, lips pressed tight together and the corners of his eyes tugged down. It takes Jisung back to the day he buried himself between the sheets of his bed in his family house after he saw Mark and Donghyuck kissing for the first time, summer sky blooming orange around them in the front porch like the beautiful colors of one of Monet’s paintings.

Jaemin was the one to drag Jisung out of bed that day like he’s trying to drag him out of the apartment today. Although he was a lot more gentle and patient back then—light fingers running through Jisung’s hair until he stopped crying, gentle hands on Jisung’s face as he stroked his cheeks dry, never asked any questions—he’s just as sweet today.

It still makes Jisung feel pathetic, though. He ducks his head down, rubbing his eyes with the hem of his shirt harshly before the tears have the time to fall. “Nothing to fix,” he repeats, getting up from the couch, Jaemin’s hand sliding off his leg.

“Alright,” Jaemin straightens with him, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he’s battling himself on whether he should reach out or not. He doesn’t, because he knows better. Jisung is not that teenager that tried to cry himself to sleep while mourning something he never had, therefore Jaemin doesn’t treat him like that anymore, he doesn’t give away useless sympathies nor sugarcoats truths that aren’t meant to sound mellow. Jaemin is still very much sweet like strawberry milk, but with a bitter aftertaste that Jisung is thankful for, the kind that itches underneath your tongue and keeps things real. “Go get dressed.”

Jisung stomps his feet all the way to his room and bangs the door closed because he just avoided crying in front of someone else, he deserves that much.

---

The inside of Jaemin’s orange car is always tidy, vacuum-cleaned black leather and windows wiped crystal clear. The seats are mushy and comfortable, there’s just enough space for Jisung’s long legs, and it smells of cherry air freshener. The scent comes from a small pink bunny made of plastic hanging off the rear mirror and wiggles with each turn Jaemin takes. It’s been there for as long as Jaemin started working as a taxi driver—the design matches the small plastic bear hanging off Donghyuck’s taxi, smelling of fresh orange juice.

It isn’t fair that Jisung can’t forget about Donghyuck for five seconds because he’s that settled into his life, moved into Jisung’s brain when he was a child and decided to stay forever.

Jisung wonders if the air fresheners are supposed to last forever, too, or if Jamin and Donghyuck are that good at replacing them. Both of their cars smell so sickeningly sweet that Jisung always ends up rolling the window all the way down, welcoming the cold air even if it tangles his light brown hair.

“It’s the middle of winter, Jisung,” Jaemin complains, his eyes glaring at Jisung in the rear mirror. “You’re gonna get sick.”

Jisung only rolls his eyes, uncrossing his arms to push one of his elbows through the window. He slides closer to the door and rests his head on the black rubber, eyes screwed shut as the wind hits him straight in the face. He stays like that even when his teeth start to chatter, mouth and nose growing dry due to the cold.

“You’re gonna get me sick,” Jaemin huffs. Jisung retreats into the warm, sweet interior of the car when the window rolls up. “Do you wanna talk about it? Or are you gonna keep acting like a dramatic teen in his emo phase?”

“I told you there’s nothing to talk about,” Jisung says, leaning back against the comfortable seat. He twists his cold fingers into the seatbelt, knuckles pressed between his ribs to feel the way his heart rushes. “I’m fine.”

“Sure, baby,” Jaemin scoffs, the pet name rolling off his tongue as naturally as Jisung’s name.

Jaemin has been calling him that since the day they met. Mark stood tall in his small feet on their front porch, arms stretched wide to welcome his school friends into the house for the first time. He grinned a wide smile with no front teeth and introduced Jisung proudly as his baby brother.

They were so young back then, at the kind of age where remembering is still difficult, memories blending together into blurry flashes of color, stacking into the brain like snapshots that seem closer to a dream than to reality. Still, Jisung can recall the weight of Jaemin’s hand on his head when he stepped into the house, his eyes wrinkling when he proclaimed, “Baby,” in a high-pitched voice.

The word would’ve suited the two of them, but Jaemin smiled around it as if it tasted sweet like his favorite candy, so Jisung figured he could keep it. Jisung had yet to learn to dislike the constant reminders of his status as the baby of the family, the baby of the friend group. So he only ducked his head shyly and smiled right back with warm cheeks.

Somehow, the meaning grew up with Jisung through the years. It is a constant that has turned comforting instead of annoying, unlike most things linked to growing up. Getting called baby doesn’t make Jisung irrationally angry when it comes in Jaemin’s voice, it only gets his cheeks as warm as that first day, and gets him a little shy when there are other people around.

“Seriously,” Jisung insists now. He stares out the window and into the side mirror, frowning at the image of pink cheeks and a red nose that stares back at him. “It’s been years. I’m fine.”

“Because it’s been years I expect you to talk to me about it,” Jaemin points out matter-of-factly. Jisung is thankful that he’s driving because he wouldn’t be able to keep everything bottled up if Jaemin was looking at him. He doesn’t feel like splashing the neat car green with his dirty feelings. “You’re talking to me, Jisung. You don’t have to act all edgy and-”

“Jaemin,” Jisung straightens to glare at him now that Jaemin can’t glare back, can only sneak glances at Jisung through the corner of his eye. “I can handle myself, thank you very much.”

It’s not as if Jisung has ever told Jaemin what’s truly wrong. He’s never been able to admit it out loud: not when it first started when he was 8 years old, not when he realized what it meant when he was 15, nor when it exploded in his face that late summer evening when he was 18. Jaemin just happened to be there every time Jisung ended up overflowing, and he’s always understood without words for some reason Jisung could never grasp—can’t even grasp now, at 24.

Jaemin has never needed Jisung to spell it out for him, and Jisung is not about to start now because saying things out loud makes them more real, heavier to bear, tangible enough for the rest of the world to see. Some secrets you have to mold your body to, carry them between your ribs and learn to live with them.

Jisung keeps his eyes trained on Jaemin’s side profile, on the shaking muscle of his jaw, the seam of his lips tugging downward, the tips of his fingers going white when he grips the steering wheel harder than necessary. He can tell the exact moment Jaemin has had enough, his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth to wet his lips in preparation to spit out something hurtful, something true.

“Hiding away in your room whenever things don’t go the way you want them to go doesn’t feel like a very mature way of handling yourself if you ask me.”

“Good thing I never asked,” Jisung snaps right back, taking his eyes off of Jaemin’s face to look out the front window.

Everything goes quiet after that, and Jisung holds his breath until his chest starts to hurt. He waits, lower lip trapped tightly between his teeth as he listens to the tack-tack-tack of the blinkers, for Jaemin to bite harder, because he could if he wanted. He stares at the number plate of the car driving ahead of them and goes over the numbers again and again as he waits, waits, waits for Jaemin to tell him he won’t be there for him once Jisung inevitably ends up in tears one more time. But Jaemin’s reply never comes because both of them know he’s way too nice.

What does come is a defeated sigh and Jaemin’s fingers drumming against the steering wheel the way he always does when he’s feeling bad. That hurts even worse than words.

In the end, Jisung is the one to break the silence. “There’s more shit going on in my life than the stupid wedding, alright?”

“I know,” Jaemin says in a sharp tone. “We can talk about that, too, if you want.”

They come to a stop at a red light and Jaemin turns to look at him properly. Jisung only slides down in his seat, unblinking eyes focused on the stoplight, his right leg bouncing as he counts backward in his head.

“Do you want to talk about work? Wanna talk about all the paintings in your apartment that you won’t show to anyone? Do you wanna talk about how you don’t feel good enough?” Jaemin never raises his voice, but Jisung feels the weight of his eyes on the side of his face and it makes it a little hard to breathe. He doesn’t find the words to reply, he only stares straight ahead and swallows thickly in the suddenly deafening silence of the car. “Yeah, right. That’s what I thought.”

“Can you stop lecturing me now?” Jisung finally snaps, fingers twisted into the seatbelt as he turns to look back at Jaemin. “I have an older brother to do that, I don’t need a babysitter.”

Jaemin scoffs loudly, but he doesn’t even look angry. He’s never gotten angry at Jisung in all these years, only frustrated. “I’m not trying to lecture you,” he says calmly, his hand stretching between their seats as if he’s reaching out for Jisung, but it stops to hold onto the gear. “I’m trying to say that I’m here if you-”

“And I said that I can handle myself,” Jisung almost yells, turning around in his seat because looking at the worry all over Jaemin’s face will only make him throw up out of guilt.

“Alright, Jisung,” Jaemin sighs, setting the car into motion when the traffic light blinks green. “But you know, there is no age for people to stop worrying about you,” he mumbles quietly, sweetly, and Jisung almost wishes Jaemin would get mad at him. He’d take anger over condescension any day. “You should write that one down.”

The thing is, it’s been a long, long time since Jaemin stopped catering everything to Jisung’s taste. He used to be all over Jisung when they were young, buying him pretty things when something went wrong, smothering him in hugs and kisses when Jisung so much as complained about anything. Sometimes, Jisung misses the easiness of it all, the certainty that Jaemin would be there to stand up for him no matter what, to praise him for each step he took. He’s still not used to having to stand up to Jaemin of all people when he used to make it clear there was no other side he’d rather be than Jisung’s.

But it’s easy to feel under attack when someone comes at you straightforwardly, even if that’s exactly what Jisung has been asking for for years. He tends to blow up at the wrong people, like a child throwing a tantrum at the worst times.

“You are so cute when you pout, Sungie,” Jaemin says all of a sudden.

Jisung snaps his head up, meets his eyes through the rear mirror, and only pouts harder at the white flash of Jaemin’s wide grin.

“And you’re annoying,” Jisung mumbles, cheeks growing warmer. Jaemin ends up laughing out loud, cooing as he reaches across the console to press his warm fingers to Jisung’s cheeks. “Stop it, both hands on the wheel,” Jisung complains, slapping Jaemin’s hand away.

“Alright, alright,” Jaemin giggles, filling up the tense air of the car with a happy feeling Jisung doesn’t think he deserves. “As you wish, baby.”

Just like that, they are okay. It may not be as easy as when Jisung was a kid, but it’s still easy with Jaemin.

---

When they were teenagers, Jisung and Mark’s mother used to drag both of their mattresses to their living room on sleepover nights. She placed them right in front of the big family couch, next to their father’s recliner chair, and stuffed them with fluffy pillows and thick comforters. It was not as if they needed them—seven kids that were still growing up locked up together in a small living room, door closed because they got too loud at night, and blinds rolled down because movies always looked better in pitch-black darkness—but Jisung used to love burying his nose into the clean duvet and breathe in the homey smell of fresh laundry.

Now, Mark makes enough money to afford a big, nice apartment in the center of Seoul, with a main room and a guest room, and two big couches where the seven of them fit comfortably without having to squeeze their thighs together. Some things never change, though, and the coffee table ends up covered in all sorts of candy—yogurt jelly and green grape candy and sunflower seed chocolate balls—all of Jisung’s favorite brands because, Jaemin’s words, “Grab whatever will end this pissy mood you’re in.”

Jisung doesn’t need any candy to stop his mouth from ruining the night, though. The happy twinkle in Mark’s eyes is more than enough, cheeks hollowed out in a permanent smile from the second he saw Jisung at his door.

“You’re gonna lose all your teeth if you keep drinking that,” he says now, his hand slapping Jisung’s thigh lightly before pointing to the carton of strawberry milkshake with his thumb.

“You can drink soda straight from the bottle but I can’t drink my milkshake?” Jisung shoots back, chewing on his straw as he folds his legs to bring his knees up to his chest. “Let me have this.”

“Let me have this,” Mark mocks in an exaggerated high-pitched voice that is nothing like Jisung’s, deeper than Mark’s since he turned 17. “I let you have everything,” he says, beaming even wider, tugging at Jisung’s ear affectionately.

Jisung shakes his head, ducks away from the touch, and sucks around the straw harder.

It is true, Mark has always let him have everything, from the last crumbs of the chocolate cereal they used to eat at the sleepovers they had when they were kids, to the last inch of his forearm when Jisung liked to practice drawing flowers on skin, convinced his life goal was to become a tattoo artist.

Everything was so much simpler back when Jisung knew nothing about the toxicity of acrylic paints, or the need to prepare a canvas with gesso before you start creating, or the importance of different shaped brushes. He gathered the old colored gel pens he never used for his school notes and doodled different types of flowers around Mark’s pale skin using his moles as a guide, tongue between his teeth as he stretched the flesh with long fingers. And, every time he ran out of space on Mark’s arms, Jaemin had already rolled up the sleeves of his sweater, offering Jisung his clear tan skin like fresh toned paper to try new colors on.

“Will you design my first tattoo when you have your own studio, Jisungie?” Donghyuck used to ask, peeking at the drawings over Jisung’s shoulder, the heat of his chest damping Jisung’s back even if they were never touching. “They are so pretty.”

Jisung nodded, dry-mouthed and speechless, quiet as he always went around Donghyuck.

His ears used to burn like they do today when Donghyuck flops down on the couch next to him, squeezing his body right between Mark and Jisung. He’s got a green gel pen in one hand and a small notepad in the other, cold feet pressed to Jisung’s overheated thigh when he folds his legs on top of the couch.

“I think Jisung should be in charge of the flowers,” Donghyuck says, tapping his plush lower lip with the but of the pen, eyes glinting at Mark expectantly. “He’s good with colors and he likes pretty things.”

Jisung does like pretty things, he’s liked pretty things since he was a child, sadly. Pretty like the golden light of the living room accentuating the corner of Donghyuck’s jaw when he turns his head to stare at Mark. Pretty like Donghyuck’s cupid bow shaping his lips into a subtle heart. Pretty like the small moles on Donghyuck’s body, sunflower seeds blooming on his cheeks and cascading down his neck to pool on the exposed thin skin of his collarbones as if spring is forever around the corner inside of him. Pretty like the curve of Donghyuck’s shoulder, the shirt he’s wearing sliding down his smooth skin because it’s too big on him, because it belongs to Mark. And Mark has always had wide enough shoulders to carry the two of them. To carry Jisung as well.

Donghyuck looks away from Mark to turn to Jisung, still wide-eyed in excitement and expectation when he catches Jisung staring, still glinting pretty orange. Jisung snaps his gaze away, eyes jumping to the television just a beat too late. The heat on his ears spreads through his face, all the way down to his chest.

“Why are we even planning this?” he mumbles, lips dragging across his knees as he hugs them closer to his body, his right heel bouncing and causing him to rock into the cushions. “You two have enough money to hire a professional to help you.”

“Where’s the fun in that, though?” Donghyuck says, and he sounds the same as always, lively and not at all suspicious. “Don’t be a party pooper, Jisung.” He leans closer to Jisung, bumping their shoulders together. Jisung clamps his teeth, the carton of milkshake squeezed tight in his right hand.

“I think it’s better like this,” Mark chimes in, leaning forward on the couch to look past Donghyuck, round eyes searching for Jisung. Jisung stares back at him, his cheek squeezed against his bouncing knee. “More meaningful, you know? I suck at words, but like, it makes it more personal.”

Mark’s hand drops onto Donghyuck’s thigh. He curls slender fingers around the crook of Donghyuck’s knee, digging places Jisung can’t even dream of touching. Mark tugs until Donghyuck is unfolding his legs, stretching them out to drape them comfortably over Mark’s thighs. Donghyuck shifts on the couch to sit sideways, his back sliding down to flop on Jisung’s shoulder.

“It stays between family,” Mark finishes, his smile shrinking into something shy when Chenle gags loudly from the other couch. He gets shy often when it comes to things soft on the heart, but he’s always been brave enough to speak past the embarrassment. Conversely, Jisung has always had the softer voice out of the two of them, but he’s never got the words.

Jisung shoves his straw back into this mouth, slurps the empty milkshake, and imagines honey in his mouth, trying to swallow down the guilt that surges up to his throat at Mark’s words. He traps the plastic between his teeth and bites hard until his gums go numb, the seams of his lips curled upward in a smile that Mark doesn’t buy.

Mark doesn’t say anything, though. He only tilts his head in confusion, his eyebrows falling over his eyes in a worried grimace that has Jisung sinking nails into the carton.

“You’re so fuckin cheesy,” Donghyuck says, his body sliding away from Jisung on the couch as he curls into Mark’s chest, folding himself tiny to fit right into the space between Mark’s shoulders. He’s equally amused and fond, and Jisung can’t see his face like this, but he knows that Donghyuck is wearing that soft smile Jisung rarely sees on him because it’s got one owner only.

“Alright. I’ll help Jisung with the flowers,” Jaemin announces, hands pressing onto Jeno’s and Chenle’s knees to lift himself up from the other couch. He flops down on the carpet instead, right in front of Jisung’s place, the crown of his head resting on Jisung’s shins when he leans back against the couch.

“So, a recount,” Donghyuck lifts his gel pen in the air to point at the other couch. “Renjun, the menu,” he starts, his hand jumping from person to person as he lists off everybody’s duties. “Jeno, the invitations. Chenle, you’ll help out with our suits.” When Jisung’s turn comes, Donghyuck twists his body to look at him, his arm thrown over his shoulder so he can dig the butt of the pen into Jisung’s cheek lightly. “Jaemin and Jisung, the flowers. Is that okay?”

It is something about the way he’s looking at Jisung—gentle and oh-so-careful—that has him wondering if Donghyuck suggested flowers because he remembers, too, the trembling on Jisung’s fingers as he scribbled over Jaemin’s skin carefully, drawing countless sunflower seeds because they were Donghyuck’s favorite flowers. So Jisung nods, forever dry-mouthed and short of breath, and the way Mark beams at both of them makes the thirst worth it.

With cold fingers, Jaemin touches Jisung’s hand the way you would touch something warm enough to burn. He peels Jisung’s fingers off the ruined milkshake carton and replaces it with a new one, his head falling back on Jisung’s legs afterward, heavy and grounding.

Renjun ends up stealing the notepad from Donghyuck’s hands to sketch out layouts for the wedding hall, and they talk about the grand day long enough for Jisung to get lost in the passing of time.

He’s always been good at getting lost. Sometimes, it is the only way to get by when those who hurt you are those closest to you, those who matter most. Jisung keeps sleepy eyes focused on the hand that isn’t holding the milkshake, on the way Jaemin’s hair curls around his fingers as he plays with his soft strands, admiring the pretty contrast between Jaemin’s pitch-black hair and the paleness of Jisung’s own skin.

Donghyuck stays tucked by his side, simmering hot orange against Jisung’s body. Jisung’s hand itches for a gel pen to paint blooming flowers on the tan skin of Donghyuck’s exposed shoulder, just to play pretend and go back to the days where there was no set date for when he would officially lose what was never his.

He curls his fingers tighter into Jaemin’s hair and swallows until his mouth turns strawberry sweet.

---

Sometimes, Jisung likes to think of the colors he would use to paint other people.

It started when he turned 12, the first time he ever dared to say out loud that he wanted to become an artist. At first, only Mark took him seriously.

Mark has always been the smarter brother out of the two of them. Even back then, he already got two safe hands that knew exactly how much they should give and how much to keep for the future, in permanent contrast to Jisung’s forever hollow-heavy pockets. Mark gathered the little pocket money he had saved and bought a cheap watercolor palette from their neighborhood discount store, the kind that comes with a frail plastic mixing plate and round color pills that crack after a couple of uses. He packed it up in pretty starry wrapping paper and handed it to Jisung as if it was worth a million won.

It felt like it was worth even more when Jisung first opened the package.

Jisung picked up the small brush that came with the set—this tiny thing made of aluminum that twinkled pretty silver—he got paper towels and a glass of water, and dragged the tousled paintbrush over a sheet of printer paper that buckled up the second it sipped the first droplets of water. Jisung painted Mark green even before he knew what it meant. He was trying to say thank you but ended up drawing envy.

Now, Jisung speaks the language of color fluently.

When it comes to Jeno, he decides he wouldn’t paint him. Jisung would draw him charcoal-white over a recycled sheet of dark-night paper, so his gentleness can shine full-force.

It’s always white with Jeno. Clean, bright white like the napkins on each table of his bar, like the lilting neon tubes on the ceiling. Worn-out white like the stained old apron tied tightly around his waist, like the cloth he uses to wipe the water rings left behind by cold glasses. Yellowish white like the dyed color of his hair, like the tired faded white of his eyes, like the bitten part of his nails.

From desaturated pearl to rich blank, the wide range of whites that comes with the safety of a well-known, lived-in place. The comfort of uncomfortable stools tall enough for Jisung to wiggle his feet in the air, the cleanliness of a dirty floor covered in peanut shells and bland chips, the familiarity of the edge of a bar biting into Jisung’s forearms as he leans forward against the wood.

It deserves to be painted in soft white pastels, the illumination of a dark downtown bar, lit up purely by the way Jeno’s eyes curve into silver half-moons each time Jisung walks in with muddy shoes.

Today, Donghyuck is there, too. He’s usually there, has a stool with his name on it right in front of the coffee machine, he claimed it the first year of college and hasn’t let go after all this time. He’s there so often that Jisung likes to think of Jeno’s bar as their place, as childish and untrue as it sounds when they are never alone in it.

It used to be everyone’s place, back when Jeno first chose his father’s bar over college and the seven of them started meeting up there when schedules got too busy and out-of-tune, the one place they knew would always have a familiar face waiting for them. Just like that, it stopped being everyone’s place once college was over for everyone and schedules were impossible to intone anymore. But the bar is right across the street from the taxi stop, and Jisung has never had a definite schedule to live by anyway, so he can always find the time to walk three blocks and drop by.

Jisung walked and walked and walked until it slowly became their place, even if they have to share it with Jeno and Jaemin most of the time, like today.

“Will you come with me once we get an appointment?” Donghyuck asks, one of his hands stirring the dark coffee that has replaced the soda he used to drink back in college, the other hand resting gently over a fashion magazine, fingers drumming against the catalog of fancy wedding suits. “You all got shit taste, but Chenle is picking so many designs that I’m gonna need opinions.”

Donghyuck’s got clean fingers, he wipes his pads on white napkins whenever he eats the small jelly toasts Jeno always prepares for him along with his coffee. Long gone are the days he used to spill crumbs of Cheetos all over the bar, back when he handed Jisung the decals at the bottom of the bag with orange-bright fingers even if Jisung was already way too old to play with that stuff. Jisung kept them anyway. Still keeps them, somewhere between the folded pages of his old sketchbooks. Would still keep them if Donghyuck decided to walk back in time and trade his coffee and toasts for greasy Cheetos and coca-cola.

“Excuse me, but I’ve got better taste than you,” Jaemin says, stretching his body across the bar to take the magazine from underneath Donghyuck’s hands and slide it closer to himself, his shoulder pressing Jisung into Donghyuck’s side in the process.

“You wear a uniform six days a week, Jaemin,” Jeno points out, his eyes permanently curved into tiny moons as he leans against the back counter, arms crossed over his chest with his damp cloth hanging from his elbow.

“So does he,” Jaemin replicates, hands pressed to the bar counter so he can lean forward into Jeno’s face. “And I look hot as fuck in it. So, your point?”

Jaemin isn’t wrong. Tacky trousers and wrinkled-up shirts and a grey vest way too dull for someone like him, he still makes it work with his clean-cut face, bright black hair, smooth skin lit-up pink due to exhaustion. Jisung can’t help but snicker at the overly offended tone of his voice, though.

“Got something to say, Sungie?” Jaemin asks in this sugar-coated tone of his, one of his hands flying to Jisung’s face to pinch his cheek between warm fingers.

Jisung can only squeal in the back of his throat, his hands coming up to Jaemin’s shoulders to try to push him off. “I didn’t say anything, okay?” he exclaims, words muffled between his stretched lips, his body falling further and further into Donghyuck’s as he tries to escape from Jaemin’s threatening hands. “Stop, Jaem. Stop it! I’m sorry, alright?”

“That’s what I thought, baby,” Jaemin smiles his triumphant, cheshire smile, grinning big with strawberry pink lips and pearl-white teeth.

Jaemin releases Jisung’s cheek to pat the sore skin twice before he pulls away completely. Jisung feels set on fire from the inside, shame burning up on the tip of his ears as he straightens his back on the stool, head ducked down when he mumbles a quiet sorry to Donghyuck, rubbing the tingling skin of his arm where it was just pressed up to Donghyuck’s body.

“Maybe I shouldn’t invite you if you’re gonna be acting like this in the wedding,” Donghyuck rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth hides a fond smile. He looks like he did five minutes ago, unphased, calm and collected as if he hasn’t just started a forest fire inside of Jisung’s belly. “So childish,” he adds with a click of his tongue.

“Says you of all people,” Jeno laughs, taking a peanut from underneath the bar counter to throw it at Donghyuck’s chest. “You asked for a giant rilakkuma bear as a wedding present, Donghyuck.”

Donghyuck catches the peanut before it rolls down to the floor and throws it back at Jeno. “So what? It’s cute and cheaper than the dishwasher Mark wants. I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”

“Don’t trust him,” Jaemin says, his eyes focused on the magazine as he pages through the different outfits. “It isn’t that much cheaper.”

“Aw, Nana,” Donghyuck’s mouth curls upward into a smirk, so similar to the way Jaemin’s lips twist when he’s teasing someone that it makes Jisung’s head spin a little. “You’ve been looking?”

Jisung detaches his eyes from Donghyuck’s face before he can get hooked in the seams of his mouth. He turns around to focus on the side of Jaemin’s face instead, on the way his lips curl downward safely when Donghyuck’s words sink in, a wrinkle settling on his smooth forehead as he frowns down at the magazine.

“Wasn’t all this about the suits?” he deadpans, still looking down as if he’s speaking to the models on the page. “Why aren’t we talking about the suits? Everything here looks ugly as hell.”

The only reply he gets is a giggle, this lilting and lively thing that is lovely enough to have Jisung looking back at Donghyuck like a rat seeking the melody of its Pied Piper.

“So are you gonna come with me or not?” he asks, going back to stirring his coffee, “Not all of you, though. I need someone to entertain Mark ‘cause he’s being really annoying.” Donghyuck starts rambling, something he does when he gets excited, something Jisung can clearly tell he’s picked up from Mark. “He insists on coming with me, but he can’t. He’s the one who’s into all the romantic stuff about weddings, but he still wants to come. We can’t see each other’s suits before the wedding day, isn’t that supposed to bring bad luck or something? Did I make that up? But he’s so thick-headed-”

Donghyuck sighing exasperatedly now, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he moves his hands in wide, frustrated motions. Jisung has seen him like this many times before, back when they were still in college and Mark had started to drown himself in homework to ignore the growing tension between him and Donghyuck, this pull between them that had been there since the first day Jisung saw them together, thickening through the years to the point that it became almost tangible, heavy on Jisung’s shoulders like a death sentence, a matter of time until it squeezed his chest still.

He used to munch his Cheetos as he complained about how dense Mark was with a full mouth, orange crumbs all over his cheeks and fingers. He used to look as exasperated as he did in love, just like today, fondness dripping off every single complaint that falls from his lips.

His mouth keeps saying Mark’s name as if it’s been shaped to pronounce it, with the lack of shame that comes with someone who has nothing to hide.

Donghyuck has always loved so openly. He’s been clear and obvious from the start, feelings scattered all over his face as if they’ve been painted there in bold brushes of permanent paint, so neon-bright that Jisung has never understood why it took Mark so long to accept it. Jisung guesses that’s a luxury only those who fall for the right person at the right time can afford, the boldness of it all, and he desperately wishes he had the means to steal it.

“You keep complaining about Mark being a hopeless romantic but here you are trying to stop him from breaking traditions because you know he’ll regret it,” Jeno points out as he starts clearing out the bar, taking away Donghyuck and Jaemin’s coffees and Jisung’s tea.

“They are both so fucking cheesy,” Jaemin complains, closing up the magazine and pushing it towards Donghyuck over the bar. “Can’t wait for marriage to wipe out all the cheese.”

“Just say you’re jealous, honey,” Donghyuck says, sending a wink to Jaemin as he gets up from his stool.

It’s a joke. Of course, it’s a joke. Jaemin is too clever and too good of a friend to get trapped into something nasty like that. It doesn’t make the sting in Jisung’s stomach any easier to bear when the words ring true in his ears, head permanently ducked down around Donghyuck so he can’t read the truth all over his face.

“Do you want me to drive you, Sungie?” Jaemin asks, his hand finding the small of Jisung’s back and causing him to jump on his seat. “It’s late and cold.”

“No, you have work,” he gets up, moving away from Jaemin’s touch as he hurries to drop some cash on top of the counter.

When they wave Jeno goodbye and walk towards the exit, Jisung keeps his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if he’s trying to stop his body from losing something important. He feels stripped from something meaningful, the whites in the bar looking duller than ever, tainted by something that feels like robbery.

“It’s the middle of winter, Jisung. Grab this if you’re gonna walk home,” Donghyuck shrugs off the coat he’s put on only five seconds ago, handing it to Jisung with a caring smile and eyes that tell him he will not take no for an answer. So Jisung twists cold fingers into the fluffy fabric and hugs it to his chest.

Jaemin opens the door to the street, but Donghyuck turns around to face Jisung one more time before walking outside.

“And you’re accompanying me to pick out the wedding suit,” he points at Jisung with his index finger, the keys of his taxi fisted in his hand. “You know I trust you with colors.”

---

Ask Jisung how many people he’s ever kissed, and he won’t have enough fingers to count them. Ask him how many of them have mattered, and he’ll come up with nothing to count.

This fact explodes in his face the moment he walks into his apartment to step on clothes scattered all over the floor. Renjun’s giggles sneak from under the closed door of his bedroom, entangled with loud bursts of laughter that can only belong to his boyfriend Lucas.

Jisung drags his cold, bare feet to his grey room, and he falls into his bed wrapped up in loneliness and a coat that smells like his brother’s laundry detergent.

---

To Jisung, being born the youngest child was like joining a football match in the second half of the game when his team was 3 goals behind, one for each year he hadn’t been there. It’s like racing the clock, a constant battle against the passing of time that you know full well you will never be fast enough to win, but you can’t stop running anyway.

When you accomplish something, it is not that impressive because your older brother already did it before. When you fail at something, it is a bigger disappointment than it should be because your brother already did it before. And Jisung can’t even get mad at Mark because he’s the only one who doesn’t judge him, the only one that gets it.

Mark has always been there in each step Jisung has taken. From the late nights working on algebra problems that resembled jigsaws more than schoolwork, through the afternoon Jisung failed to join the basketball team even if he had everything to make it—10 centimeters above Mark and still falling short—, to the day he finally raised his voice loud enough to tell his parents he was choosing art over politics, unlike Mark, who set music aside to focus on science. Mark was there every single time, open hand pressed to Jisung’s shoulder, heavier than comfort should feel even if he had the best intentions.

Jisung got here tripping over dull accomplishments and neon-bright failures. He’s got all this hot anger bubbling inside of his chest and aimed at himself because there is no one else to blame, and all these high expectations unfairly draped over Mark because he’s the only one who can achieve everything Jisung can’t reach.

Jisung has wondered time and time again if Mark would’ve accomplished the same things if they traded places. He wonders every night if Mark would be able to reach the same things if he had to tip-toe in Jisung’s shoes.

“You will lend me your shoes, right?” Mark says on the phone. He’s incredibly chirpy for someone who’s talking about borrowed things, but he’s always played life a semitone higher than Jisung. It must be the hidden musician in him, laughing in major chords while Jisung speaks in minor.

Being born as the youngest child is also a fight against your body. Jisung spent his childhood trying to fill up Mark’s used clothes, long sleeves covering his hands all the way to his nails, jeans hanging low on his hips and bundled around his ankles, the heels of his feet sliding out of his shoes whenever he tried to run. He spent his teenage years trying to shrink his body to fit into Mark’s used clothes, seams pulled tight around his shoulders, collars small enough to suffocate him, jeans so short that never stretched low enough to hide his bright-patterned socks, no matter how hard Jisung pulled at them.

Like a second-hand item, Jisung trailed after Mark wrapped up in old garments, looking dull next to his forever-pretty, shiny-new brother.

“Why do you even want my shoes?” Jisung groans into the speaker, shifting on the couch where he’s been lying all day, loose sheets of paper full of discarded speech lines crumpling under his weight. “The only dress shoes I’ve got are like a million years old, all scratched and stuff.”

“You know this thing mom told us about. Like, you are supposed to wear something borrowed on your wedding day?” Mark explains. “I don’t wanna start my marriage with bad luck or something, dude.”

“You truly are into all those cheesy traditions,” Jisung can’t help chuckling into the phone, free hand running through his hair as he stares into the grey ceiling of the living room. He’s never been the romantic type, never had anyone to be romantic with, and listening to the excitement in Mark’s voice has him missing something he doesn’t even know. “You’re hopeless.”

“Is that a yes?”

Jisung sighs into the phone. He takes his eyes away from the ceiling to look down at his feet, his toes wiggling underneath the thin fabric of his melon-colored socks. “They are big on you, hyung. You’re gonna be uncomfy.”

Mark's reply comes faster than a heartbeat.

“I don’t care, Sung. They’re yours.”

---

“Are you gonna stay home all day again?” Renjun asks as he slips his purple socked feet into his worn-out Vans, a damp towel still hanging from his shoulders, his wet brown hair falling messily over his eyes.

Jisung leans his shoulder against the door frame of the living room, arms crossed over his chest. Renjun’s feet move on their welcome carpet mat, Jisung’s dress shoes waiting beside it on the tiny foyer. They’ve been there for so many days that the shiny black material is covered by a thin layer of grey dust, their smooth surface looking dull as the rest of their apartment, like a promise you don’t really want to keep.

“I don’t really feel like doing anything,” Jisung says, squirming in his place when his shoulder starts to get numb against the rugged wood of their door frame.

“You never feel like doing anything,” Renjun sighs, giving his back to Jisung as he stares into the small round mirror on their foyer, his hands working the towel over his wet strands. “Well, then you should take the shoes to Mark’s since you’re free. Told me to remind you, he needs to know if they’ll go well with whatever suit he chooses.”

Jisung can’t help the groan that tumbles up his throat, his eyes drifting shut when his head thumps against the door frame. He can see it clearly in his mind, Mark’s and Donghyuck’s apartment with its large windows and spacious living room and warm light-orange walls. Jisung isn’t in the mood for matching toothbrushes and shared laundry detergent and countless picture frames all over their stuffed shelves, Mark and Donghyuck hugging inside of pretty wood squares, smiling pretty grins that look nothing but genuine.

It’s such an ugly thing, perceiving other people’s happiness as fuel for your own unhappiness. Jisung feels a bad enough person here on his own, leaning against this door frame as jealousy curls into his gut at the sight of Renjun styling his hair carefully for his boyfriend.

“I’m kinda sick of the wedding,” he mumbles, opening his eyes enough to squint at Renjun’s reflection in the mirror. “It’s all we ever talk about lately.”

“Well, it’s pretty important,” Renjun chuckles, but his features soften when he meets Jisung’s tired eyes through the mirror, his head tilting to the side as if he can suddenly see something Jisung is too bitter to understand. “Do you wanna come with me and Lucas?” he asks, ink-free fingers running through his damp hair.

“Oh, yes, sure. I really want to third wheel today. That’s exactly what I need.”

Renjun rolls his eyes at him, clicking his tongue as he turns around to face Jisung properly. “It could be fun. You can tell Jaemin to come with us if you want.”

“Why would I even tell Jaemin?” Jisung pushes himself off the door frame with his shoulder, frowning at Renjun when he only gets crooked eyebrows as a reply. “Besides, I think he’s got work today.”

“Alright, I get it. You wanna stay home today. Again,” Renjun sighs for what feels like the millionth time in this conversation. He tugs the towel off his shoulders to throw it at Jisung’s chest, turning towards the door to grab the coat that’s hanging from the doorknob. “Call Chenle or something. I don’t like you staying here alone all day.”

“As if it’s the first time.”

“That’s why I don’t like it,” Renjun looks over his shoulder to fix Jisung with a look as he slides his arms into his coat. “It happens way too often.”

Jisung could ask why Renjun even cares, it’s not as if they do much together when they are both at home anyway. Renjun is always too busy with work, deadlines continuously biting his heels because people tend to forget that creative work takes time. Jisung has gotten used to watching TV sitting next to a quiet Renjun, getting nothing but low hums in return whenever he comments on something because Renjun is too focused on his drawings to pay proper attention.

It’s not bad. Jisung doesn’t blame him. Renjun is too busy dealing with a life Jisung wishes he could have, sleeping whenever he isn’t working because his mind can only handle so many hours of nonstop sketching. The little free time he can find between projects belongs to Lucas, and Jisung is perfectly okay with that.

Not everyone can be up and ready to fill up Jisung’s endless gaps, that’s on him to deal with. They aren’t even that close, after all. Renjun is his brother’s friend, not Jisung’s.

So Jisung hums, eyes drifting shut once again as he curls his fingers tight into the damp fabric of the towel.

He keeps his eyes closed until the door slams shut.

---

The reason why it is so difficult to message Chenle is that his rejection hurts twice as much as everyone else’s.

It is not a big deal, Jisung tells himself as he stares into the lit-up screen of his phone, the pop-up notification causing the warning light to flash green. Everyone is focused on the wedding these days, Chenle just happens to have one of the most important tasks, it’s only natural that Mark needs him around all the time.

Still, Jisung rereads the words, again and again, running them through his head and hoping the sting won’t be that strong the next time he goes over them. After all, Jisung is used to things not being about him.

But it used to be about him, though. When it came to Chenle, it used to be about Jisung.

chenle

suit hunting with lee mark

u cant join

ull blabber on to hyuck

Little does Chenle know that, lately, Jisung rarely talks to Donghyuck. There is a chat on Jisung’s phone with Donghyuck’s name as its title, a one-sided conversation full of pictures of flowers that look anything but pretty. Pompous ranunculus, too big peonies, too small daisies, cloying carnations, and dull red roses. A wide range of tiny leaves that cover every single color of the rainbow but never hit quite the perfect shade, and Jisung at a loss of words on how to tell Donghyuck that nothing feels quite right.

So Jisung turns off his phone and tucks it between the boring brown cushions of the couch. He reaches for the TV remote to replay a drama he’s watched a million times, but he’s spent enough lonely afternoons at home to know there is nothing better to watch.

He’s only halfway through the first episode when the bell goes off.

At first, Jisung ignores it. If Renjun forgot something, he has a perfect set of keys he can use to come up. But the bell rings twice, thrice, and, soon, loud footsteps are stomping their way up the stairs and a fist is banging on the closed door.

“Get your ass off the couch, Jisung!” Jaemin’s voice comes in muffled from the other side of the wood. He isn’t angry, but the words are demanding enough to have Jisung jumping from his seat. “Open up. Or else I’m gonna stay here bothering you all night.”

“What even are you doing here?” Jisung snaps as he tugs the door open.

Jaemin stands there, one hand lifted up in the air and balled into a fist, the other one resting impatiently on his hip. He’s wearing his work uniform, the sleeves of his striped blue shirt rolled up to his elbows even though spring is only starting to warm up the air, the two top buttons undone, and the collar all wrinkled up around the hem of his dark grey vest. His black hair is unusually tousled, his eyebrows drawn into a frown that looks unnatural on his smooth skin, pretty pink lips curled downward.

“Hello,” Jaemin says, his tone so chirpy that it seems insincere. He tilts his head to the side when he comes face to face with Jisung, the frown between his eyebrows disappearing as his mouth stretches in a wide, wide grin. “I thought we were over this.”

Jisung looks at him in silence for a couple of seconds, his fingers drumming on the doorknob as he considers shutting the door closed again and going back to his drama. “You’re being really fucking creepy right now.”

Jaemin only smiles wider at the words, if possible. “Don’t swear, baby,” he says, the hand that’s still suspended in the air coming down to pat Jisung’s cheek as he shoulders his way into the apartment. “And get dressed, we’re going for a drive.”

With a light push, Jisung lets the door slide closed and follows Jaemin inside. “Renjun called you, didn’t he? I’m fine.”

“You’re always fine,” Jaemin stretches out the adverb mockingly. He huffs when he flops down on the couch, his hand reaching out for the remote to turn off the TV. “And I never buy it. So quit it and get dressed.”

“Don’t you have work? Customers to drive around?” Jisung fights back, but only half-heartedly because he’s dealt with Jaemin long enough to know he never backs down.

He’s had enough experience as a brokenhearted teenager tucked away in his room, Mark’s worried hands running through his hair but unable to find the right places to touch to stop Jisung’s tears, at a loss of what to do because Jisung has never been brave enough to come clean with him. Jaemin has always been the only one clever enough to get Jisung to unravel because Jisung never had to be brave enough to tell him anything. Jaemin just happens to understand, somehow.

Now, Jisung walks closer to the couch, arms coming up to curl them on the backrest so he can lean forward. “You’re gonna get into trouble.”

Jaemin leans his back against the couch and tilts his head up into the cushions to look at Jisung in the eyes. “Good for you that I don’t care,” he says, eyebrows crooking up mischievously as his fingers fly to thumb at Jisung’s nape.

He’s still smiling, pink cheeks all puffed out and eyes squinted cutely, his skin glinting warm even after so many sleepless hours on the road. He looks out of place in the apartment, always far too lively for the dullness of Jisung’s walls, his touch way too tender on Jisung’s prickly skin, forever nicer than what he deserves.

The apartment stills for a second, silence stretching between them like a wordless conversation Jisung doesn’t have enough vocabulary to follow. Jisung likes to think he knows silence well, but he’s used to the empty kind, the one you can’t share with anyone but yourself because there is no one there willing to share it with you.

It is different, this time. For once, Jisung’s fingers aren’t itching with the need to turn on the TV to fill the room with something other than his own thoughts.

“What,” he whispers, head ducked down to hold Jaemin’s gaze.

Jisung keeps his eyes wide open in case blinking is the wrong move, but Jaemin is the one who ends up blinking first. His hand drops from Jisung’s nape to grab his cheeks between his thumb and index finger, squeezing tight the way he used to do when Jisung was a weeping kid.

“Clothes, c’mon,” Jaemin says, shaking Jisung’s head a little. And then he’s letting go, pushing away to flop sideways on the couch.

With sore cheeks, Jisung drags his feet all the way to his room. After all, Jaemin has always been way too lovely to be stuck in a grey place like this.

---

When Jaemin stops the car it is already late afternoon, that time of the day when the blue of the sky bleeds purple and turns the clouds cotton candy pink, the horizon shining light orange because the sun refuses to go to sleep.

It’s such a pretty view. Jisung likes to call it the painting hour, the perfect moment to pick up an old brush and smear colors all over a dry canvas to slowly build up the landscapes he likes to paint so much.

Today, Jisung kind of hates it.

Nothing but ugly sadness swirls in his stomach when he unbuckles his seat belt and jumps out of the car. It is not about the time or the hour or the light. It is all about the place. No matter how many times Jaemin brings him here, Jisung hates it whether it is washed in pretty pinks or in vivid blues, sharpened by bright oranges, or drowned by deep, night ultramarines.

The park is always so lonely. Jisung rests his back against the side of the car, arms crossed tight over his chest, and he watches the empty swings as they move back and forth tousled by the cold breeze and old nostalgia. They stopped playing here the second Mark set foot in high school—he stopped coming and, suddenly, there was no point without him—and Jisung has never seen another group of kids taking over this place. Not in the same way they had, at least.

If he allows himself to, Jisung can still picture his younger self gliding down the old slides, running between bushes, sinking his worn-out sneakers into prickly grit. If he squints and concentrates, he can still picture Donghyuck climbing up a tree to reach the dirty wooden house at the top, his tacky school shoes all scratched up as he pushed himself up on unstable branches, red-palmed hands holding onto rough bark as he went up, up, up and away from Jisung.

Jisung was always falling behind, legs too short and arms too small to reach Donghyuck's hand whenever he turned around to offer him help. He was always too slow, ended up sitting on the stone benches as he watched the others climb up. Mark was always the first one to make it to the top, and Jisung can clearly see his wide, hollow-cheeked smile, eyes so open wide that they looked too big for his small face when he waved down at Jisung.

Donghyuck was already fearless back then, jumped off of trees with closed eyes and ended up with bloody fingers and peeled off knees, scratched skin that never made him cry, no matter how red it got. He rubbed his hands on his clothes and stained his school uniform dirty orange, and he still managed to look cool with sweaty skin and tangled-up hair.

Maybe Jisung started liking Donghyuck because he was a walking reminder that you could be charming without being perfect. Unlike Mark, who also ran for hours and jumped fences and climbed trees, but always ended up unscarred.

Mark reminded Jisung—still reminds Jisung—of those green erasers they used to share when they worked on their homework together once they got home after playing in the park. Sometimes, Jisung wanted to grab the eraser and rub Mark's pale skin with it until it shone red, just to prove there was something underneath.

Mark jumped and ran and climbed while Jisung was always falling behind, waiting on the stone bench, watching the way he's watching now. And, back then, Jaemin was as nice and patient as he is today, his shoulder pressed up to Jisung's on the bench, playful feet kicking sand into Jisung's overused shoes.

He used to be as warm as he is now when he walks around the car to flop next to Jisung. But he doesn't lean against Jisung's body and dirties up his sneakers, he only sighs and waits.

"This fucking sucks," Jisung whispers once silence gets too heavy to share.

Jaemin replies automatically, chuckling under his breath. "Don't swear, baby."

"Not a baby," Jisung mumbles, tightening his arms around himself at a gush of air that feels particularly cold on his warm cheeks.

"Definitely acting like one lately," Jaemin laughs again. When Jisung turns around to punch him in the shoulder, Jaemin is already recoiling, open hands lifted up in the air like a peace offering, but lips stretched into an unrepentant grin Jisung knows too well. "Alright. I get it, okay? I get it," Jaemin says between giggles, cold fingers grabbing Jisung's wrist for a second until he wraps his arms back around himself.

"I don't think you do," Jisung retaliates. He turns around to look at the park one more time, the pinks and oranges of the sky slowly turning dark blue. Still, he can feel Jaemin's eyes trained on his profile when he says, "You're, like, nice and funny and pretty. I mean, I doubt you've ever gotten rejected. Not like- It's not as if I've ever gotten rejected." Jisung snickers, eyes drifting shut when the breeze picks up again. "Not like I've ever tried, you know? I don't even want to, like, try."

"Did you know you stutter like Mark when you're nervous? It's cute."

Jisung can't help but huff. Of course, it's cute. Everything about Mark is always cute. "Yeah, sure. And you're deflecting."

Now, it is Jisung the one who turns around to run his eyes over Jaemin's profile while Jaemin stares into the darkening sky. He looks calm like this, his face showered in purple shadows, cheeks painted cold-pink. He’s biting his lips as if pondering the worth of his next words. He sighs, eyes drifting to the ground as he slides his hands into the pockets of his dress pants.

"I liked Hyuck once," Jaemin says, quietly into the silence of the night. He laughs afterward, his shoulders shaking slightly as the wind raises one more time. "Twice."

Jisung goes still, both on the inside and on the outside. "What?"

Jaemin laughs again, louder this time, but he keeps his eyes on his feet when he speaks. "I guess you can figure out it didn't go well, right?" he sighs, his right foot kicking at the grit on the ground. "It's always been about your brother when it comes to Donghyuck. Since day one."

And surprise shouldn't be paralyzing Jisung's body the way it is, not when Jaemin has always understood in a way no one else ever has. But Jisung does not feel relief because someone else gets it, there is only guilt squared, the taste of his own selfishness crawling up his throat and setting bitter under his tongue. Jisung has had Jaemin by his side through all of his tantrums, but who did Jaemin have all this time?

Jisung swallows hard, turning around so his shoulder rests against the closed car door. He's meaning to say sorry, but instead, he asks, "Do you still-"

"No. God, no." Jaemin shakes his head forcefully, but still refuses to meet Jisung’s eyes. "I had this stupid crush on him when I was a kid," he explains, looking upfront as if he's telling the story to the dark trees, even though they've witnessed all about it, accomplices in both of their stories. "I liked him again back in college. Stuff got a bit weird for a while. He's just so open. So close, you know? Thought I had a chance there," now when Jaemin laughs, his breath comes out as small puffy clouds. "Maybe if my name was Mark and I had cute ass laughter I could've had a chance."

"You've got cute ass laughter, though," Jisung says automatically. It might be ill-timed, but he means it, and it finally gets Jaemin looking back at him, cheeks pinker than the cold could ever turn them and eyes soft around the corners. "Are you sure it's gone?" Jisung asks quietly.

"I know what liking someone feels like, Jisung," Jaemin tells him, turning around so his shoulder is also resting against the car, staring at Jisung head-on. "And it’s not what I feel for Hyuck. Not anymore, at least."

"How did you-" Jisung tries, his chest swelling up to the point that it is difficult to get the words out. "Like. How did you get over him?"

He doesn't know what he's expecting as an answer, but it's definitely not the pitying look on Jaemin's face, head tilted to the side and pink, chapped lips pushed down into something that looks like a sad pout. "It's not the best advice I can give you."

"Just. How?"

Jaemin swallows so hard that Jisung can see it in the dark, his Adam's apple jumping under the thin skin of his throat. His neck is covered in goosebumps due to the cold breeze, and Jisung has to tighten his arms around his own body to stop the impulse to reach out and rub Jaemin's skin warm and smooth.

"I happened to find someone I liked more, but it didn’t work out either," Jaemin confesses, leaning closer to Jisung as if he's sharing a secret. "Not good advice, baby," he shakes his head lightly, and the smile on his lips is as pretty as it is sad. "As you said, it fucking sucks."

"And what am I supposed to do?" Jisung asks. His voice trembles and he blames it on the cold, but he knows he sounds as pathetic as he feels.

Jaemin looks at him for a long, long time, his lips pressed into a tight line and hands still shoved into the pockets of his uniform. He's still leaning forward, close enough to Jisung to be offering him a hug.

He pulls away abruptly, though, and flashes one of his bright, wide grins as he makes his way around the car, keys jingling in his hand.

"We go to 7/11 and grab some strawberry milk. That's what we do."

So that’s what they do. And it sucks, but at least it tastes sweeter than mud.

---

Jisung can try to run away from his brother all he wants, but it only works for so long.

As patient and considerate and thoughtful as Mark is, he's also a worry bug and a family boy. He's the guy who used to call Jisung six nights out of seven when he moved out during his first year of college, up until one in the morning to hear Jisung ramble on about artists Mark didn't even know. He's the guy who still messages Jisung good morning every day and sends sad emojis when he doesn't get a reply in the next half an hour. He's the guy who pesters their parents to make video calls at least once a month, the guy who thinks family board games are the best kind of gift, the one who will pull an all-nighter after weekend-long work conventions just to drive in time to a family dinner.

That is why Jisung can only smile and push the door wide open when Mark shows up at the apartment unannounced after weeks of not seeing each other. He's smiling his hollow-cheeked smile, dressed in unusual sweatpants and a hoodie instead of his formal clothes for work, both hands tightly wrapped around the handles of what looks like paint buckets.

"First full day off in like a month," he says in place of a greeting, handing Jisung the buckets so he can crouch down to take off his shoes. Mark is wearing bright white sneakers that look shiny new when they fall next to Jisung's almost forgotten dress shoes, grey pooled all over the black after weeks waiting on top of the welcome rug. "I thought we could paint your bedroom together. I mean, you've been living here for years now, man. I don't get why you haven't done it yet, you're the artist."

Jisung looks down at his hands, white-knuckled fists and fingers holding onto the heavy buckets. They are closed and clean, probably brand new from the art store down the street. The containers are white, but the caps are color-coded. Jisung doesn't even need Mark to say anything to know the color he's picked

"I got green," Mark says anyway as he makes his way into the apartment, his socked feet padding against the floor as he marches towards Jisung's bedroom. "Like, that dark one? You know, your favorite."

So they get the floor and furniture of Jisung's bedroom covered up in old newspaper paper, grab some paint rollers from Jisung's art stack, and get to work.

It is messy, half an hour into it and there are green droplets of paint all over both of their skins, splattered on their cheeks and hair, dotting their socks and sweatpants. Their strokes are uneven and chaotic, but the grey of Jisung's walls keeps disappearing slowly and steadily under a thin coat of color, and that is enough.

"We should've googled how to do this first," Mark giggles, taking a step back to look at the streaked wall. He's sweaty and flushed, paint spreading over his forehead when he tries to rub his skin dry with his forearm. "It's looking all weird."

"It's fine, I kinda like it like this," Jisung says. He bends down for a second to soak his roller on some more paint before he's getting back to work. "I would even have us painting with our hands if I could. You know, I like it when paint looks natural? When you can tell that someone made it," he explains with a strained voice as he goes on his tiptoes to reach higher up the wall. "I mean, this is a wall, not a painting. But, still. It's like, more fun this way."

"We can paint with our hands if you want," Mark says, stepping next to Jisung and looking at him with big round eyes. "It's your bedroom, after all. Whatever you want."

Jisung chuckles at the honest look on Mark's face, always more than willing to get his hands dirty for him. "It would take us a million years to finish this with our hands," he points out. "Also, Renjun would kill me if the room ended up looking that messy. He likes clean art, you know? Have you seen his comics?" Jisung waits a bit for Mark's reply, who nods at him with wide, shiny eyes, listening attentively even though Jisung is pretty sure he doesn't really care. "He's all about digital art and rulers and stuff like that. He likes markers 'cause they are cleaner..."

"He's definitely going to be mad when he gets home," Mark points out, his gaze drifting upward.

Jisung follows his line of vision, the wall getting greyer the further up from the floor he looks. "We should definitely get a ladder next time," Jisung jokes. "Or you can, like, get up on my shoulders and paint the higher parts? But the newspapers are slippery, I could trip. Wait, hyung, do you think I'm too weak for that? Can I even pick you up? I haven't tried in years-"

The rambling is only broken by Mark’s giggling. It's high-pitched laughter, the happy kind Jisung would do anything to hear. When he looks down at Mark, his brother is looking right back at him, his big eyes squinted happily, green-stained cheeks hollowed out.

"What?" Jisung snaps, but he feels his own lips stretching into a mirrored smile.

"Nothing. I just missed seeing you like this," Mark confesses, pointing at Jisung with his roller. His smile shrinks, but it grows in honesty. "You're in a good mood."

It is impossible not to be in a good mood right now. Mark is standing in front of him, dirty and sweaty and smiling, covered up in green pain that suits him like a second skin.

And if Jisung were to paint him, he would use this exact shade of green to draw Mark. Something about sea green—calm and familiar and deep—fits Mark like no other color. It is the shade of the deepest parts of the ocean, everything Jisung could see when Mark first taught him how to dive. It is the shade of the garden in their family backyard, where they always set up an inflatable pool during the summer that they never used because they liked to lie down on the prickly green grass a lot more. It is the shade of an empty bottle of Mark's favorite cologne—the smell of morning dew and late spring and good luck—the one he always shares with Jisung when he stays over at Mark’s house.

Pretty green like health and tranquility and stability.

But also dark, nasty green like jealousy and envy and anger when Mark asks, "So, are you gonna bring a plus-one to the wedding?"

Jisung grits his teeth hard, holds his roller tighter, and swallows thick and dry to push the bitterness down his throat. He breathes out through his nose and he takes his eyes off of Mark to focus back on the wall. He coats grey with green and wonders how much of it he needs to cover up for it to start feeling like green.

"I'm not bringing anyone," he says through tight lips. "You know I'm not good at serious relationships."

And it is a lie. Jisung doesn’t even know if he’s good at serious relationships because the only person he’s ever wanted to try with has never looked past the man standing next to him.

It is a lie and Mark doesn’t buy it.

He isn't looking at him, but Jisung senses Mark’s worried eyes cold on the side of his face. He can clearly picture Mark's expression in his mind, the apprehensive twist of his mouth, the concerned wrinkle between his brows, his teeth biting down on his lower lip as he tries to stop himself from voicing his fears because that will only scare Jisung away and close him up tighter than before.

Jisung can picture it perfectly because he's seen it one too many times before: curled up on his bed with his brother sitting by his feet, hands running up and down Jisung's legs as if calming down a weeping baby instead of a teenager that was out-growing him.

"What's wrong?" Mark used to ask back then, quietly in the darkness of Jisung's bedroom, fingertips pressing into the tense flesh of his heels. "Who is it?"

He asked and asked and asked until he didn't ask anymore because Jisung stopped crying. He doesn't ask anymore, but Jisung can read the question all over his face without even looking.

And Jisung might be an adult now—shoulders twice as wide as Mark's and legs twice as long—but somewhere inside of him there is still a weeping kid desperate to tell the truth, but never brave enough to voice it. Inside of him hides the bratty teen that pettily promised to himself that he would find love before Mark did, like a sick one-sided competition against his own low self-esteem and nothing else. And he's still trapped in there, too embarrassed to admit defeat and loneliness, too ashamed to confess he's scared he will never find it.

So Jisung sets his jaw and keeps painting everything nasty green because hiding is the only escape route he's ever mastered. He swallows hard and holds back tears and blames his wet eyes on the harsh smell of wet paint. And Mark keeps painting with him because he's as patient, considerate, and thoughtful as he was back then.

Later, though, Mark pushes sticky green fingers into Jisung's shoulders and jumps on his back, roller in hand. He giggles light and high-pitched into Jisung's sweaty neck before he's letting go, both arms in the air to paint the rest of the wall because he's always trusted Jisung more than Jisung trusts himself.

The wall flashes pretty green again.

---

It is midnight when Donghyuck knocks on Jisung's door.

He’s probably wearing the same taxi driver uniform Jaemin always walks around in, but it is hidden under a fluffy coat that is too big for him, long sleeves hugging his fingers the way Mark’s clothes used to hug Jisung’s many years ago. The coat fits Donghyuck in a way Mark’s used clothes never fitted Jisung, though. He looks cute standing on the threshold, teeth chattering behind the lifted collar of the jacket, his light brown hair all over the place and his face flushed red due to the cold.

Donghyuck looks like he just ran through a blizzard to get here, and yet, he manages to stand beautiful. Unlike Jisung, who is waiting awkwardly in front of him on his long, lanky legs, covered in dry paint from head to toe, slender fingers twisted into nervous balls while his right foot bounces.

“Hey. Mark is, um. He’s washing up,” Jisung points over his shoulder toward the bathroom with his thumb, eyes fixed on Donghyuck’s chest to prevent the words from dying in his throat. “Do you wanna come inside and have a drink or-”

“It’s alright, I’ll wait here,” Donghyuck says when Jisung trails off. “I’m in a bit of a rush. I have to get back on the road as soon as I drop him home.”

He speaks in such a casual manner, like driving home the person you love is the most natural thing in the world, one more small step in his daily routine. And it is, a small mundane thing that weighs tons on Jisung’s shoulders even though it has nothing to do with him—because it has nothing to do with him.

“Oh, okay,” Jisung mumbles under his breath, taking a step back so his back rests against the wall, sweaty hands trapped behind his back.

It is childish and ridiculous and dramatic, the way Jisung’s knees go weak at the sight of Donghyuck in his tiny foyer even though he’s been here a million times before. It is stupid and frustrating and exhausting, the way Jisung’s hands grow itchy with desperation, his entire body simmering under his dirty clothes with want. He wants something small and mundane with the person he loves so badly that his mouth goes dry, chapped lips pressed tight together so he doesn’t end up blurting out something he might regret.

“How did the room turn out?” Donghyuck asks before the silence stretches out for too long. Jisung’s eyes snap to him and his breath gets caught in his throat at the smile on Donghyuck’s face, gentle and kind and easy because that’s who he is.

That’s the worst part of it. This is just who Donghyuck is, warm even when he’s shaking out of cold, familiar even though not in the way Jisung wants him to be, friendly because that’s all they are to each other. There is no reason for Jisung’s skin to burn the way it does, no explanation for the lack of words or the burst of shyness. There is only a nice guy trying to act like his friend because that is what they are supposed to be, and Jisung being too clumsy to meet him halfway, tripping over puppy feelings and getting his hands dirty with guilt like a careless toddler.

“Good!” Jisung winces at his own voice, set a key higher than his natural tone. “It’s a bit messy, but I think that’s cool, kind of charming. Would you wanna, um, come in and see it?”

Donghyuck’s shoulders shake with laughter under the big coat. He lifts his hands to his face and blows his breath on his fingers, his head bowed down but his eyes looking up at Jisung through pretty eyelashes. His mouth is covered by his hands, but Jisung knows he’s smiling just by the way he squints.

“Nah, it probably smells weird now,” Donghyuck says, his nose scrunched up cutely. He’s still rubbing his fingers together, and Jisung has to press his back hard against his hands until they go numb to stop himself from pushing off the wall and walking closer, dying to test if Donghyuck’s nose is as cold as his fingers seem to be. “I can come over another day and take a look, though.”

And it’s ridiculous and childish and dramatic, but Jisung’s chest swells anyway as if the words mean something more than they should. He’s blushing, can feel it on the overheated skin of his entire body, and he curses himself in his head for always making everything so damn awkward between them. It shouldn’t be this awkward, not when they’ve known each other for more years than Jisung can count, not when Donghyuck has seen him toothless and snotty and wearing ugly neon green braces.

“Is that my brother’s coat?” Jisung asks in a desperate attempt at small talk that shouldn’t be this difficult. He tucks his chin to his chest to try to hide his blush, eying Donghyuck tentatively as he tugs at the long sleeves of the jacket. “Wait. I have your coat here! I never gave it back. I can go grab it now and-”

Jisung never gets the chance to finish the question and Donghyuck never gets the time to reply. Suddenly, Donghyuck’s face is opening like a sunrise, eyes growing wide and eyebrows shooting up when he smiles behind the lifted collar of the jacket. He stretches out his right arm, the long sleeves sliding off of his hand as he wiggles his fingers in the air.

For a fleeting, naive second, Jisung believes Donghyuck is offering his hand to him. Then, Mark walks into the foyer, his fingers curling around Donghyuck’s hand as soon as he’s within his reach.

“Hey there,” Donghyuck greets him as he tugs Mark closer, but not close enough for their bodies to touch. “You look terrible,” he says with a chuckle, his free hand coming up to thread through Mark’s messy black hair.

“Woah, thank you, babe,” Mark says with fake offense. “Good to see you, too.”

He’s smiling what Jisung calls his Donghyuck smile—tight lips and dimpled cheeks and squinted eyes—when he leans closer to kiss Donghyuck on the lips, but Donghyuck ducks out of his reach, brows furrowed and nose scrunched up as he twists his hand in Mark’s hair to pull him back.

“Don’t get that close to me right now,” he complains, taking a step away from Mark. “You smell gross. Did you even wash up? You look like a goblin, green all over.”

Mark doesn’t complain, but he looks at Donghyuck with confused wide eyes, his eyebrows arched high in his forehead. Jisung is as lost as his brother, he’s seen Donghyuck kiss a red-faced, sweaty-skinned, out-of-breath Mark after friendly basketball games enough times to know he’s never cared about these things. Donghyuck never passes up an opportunity to drape himself all over Mark, when Mark allows him to, that is, still shy and fidgety when it comes to public displays of affection even though they’re five years into this. Though Jisung understands Mark, even if he wishes he didn’t. He’s 14 years into this and he can’t help getting irrationally shaky around Donghyuck.

Now, Donghyuck stands on Jisung’s foyer a good foot away from Mark, but he slides his fingers into Mark’s in what reads like a quiet apology as soon as Mark’s got his shoes on. He smiles at Jisung like nothing’s happening, warm and gentle and friendly as he waves him goodbye, dragging Mark out of the apartment with him.

“Don’t forget to call me,” Mark calls from down the hallway as they walk towards the elevator. “Or I’ll just come up with other stuff to paint.”

Once the door is closed, silence crawls all over Jisung like an uninvited guest, curling around his joints like winter cold even though it’s already spring. It’s in times like this, when Renjun is outside sharing his time with someone that matters, when the walls come down on Jisung like flaked paint, cracking open under the weight of his loneliness.

He rests his back against the door, his eyes finding his dusty dress shoes that are still waiting on the welcoming mat for someone to wear them.

---

me

hyung

u forgot the shoes

hyung

oh

did i?

youre gonna have to come over and bring them here yourself

me

-_-

u did it on purpose

hyung

:)

---

“But at least things with Jaemin are good, aren’t they?” Jeno asks after half an hour of listening to Jisung ramble about his life.

The bar is always empty at this time of the afternoon. Most people have more important things to do than crawling to a dark downtown local on a sunny spring day, so Jeno doesn’t have much work besides cleaning up dirty beer glasses and smiling at Jisung with half-moon eyes while he goes on and on about how everything sucks.

Jisung smacks his dry lips together, sucking on his orange-juice tongue as he squints down at his half-empty glass. “What do you mean things with Jaemin?” he asks, one of his hands playing with the white plastic straw Jeno always makes sure to put inside of his drinks. If it was anyone else, gestures like that would make him burn with anger at being treated like a little kid, but it’s nothing but sweet when it comes from Jeno.

“What do you mean what do I mean?” Jeno chuckles, the loud rustle of the running water muffling his low laughter.

“You mean the stuff with the flowers?” Jisung squints up at him, and Jeno only tilts his head like a cute Samoyed dog, his lower lip jutted out. “That’s why I’m here. The damn flowers. Jaemin said he’d pick me up so we could go look for some,” Jisung clicks his tongue, letting go of the straw to unlock the screen of his phone to check the hour. “He’s late, by the way,” he huffs. “It’s not like it matters, though. I doubt we’ll find anything worthy.”

“And why’s that?” Jeno prompts him to keep talking, looking right at Jisung even though he’s still washing dirty tableware.

Jisung guesses it is a barista thing, the easiness with which Jeno swims through conversations. He’s always been like this, has the natural talent to keep people talking and make them feel listened no matter the topic, has always had the patience to go through every single one of Jisung’s endless nagging rants without a single complaint. That is probably why he chose to pour drinks over a promising astrophysics career, son of a barista that inherited the magic trick of making sad people feel understood over a few gulps of alcohol.

“I’ve been going through some catalogs and all the flowers look ugly,” Jisung says, but Jeno holds his gaze steadily and raises a skeptical eyebrow at him. “Alright, not ugly. Flowers are never ugly. But nothing feels right? I don’t really know why, something about the colors.”

“I think you do know but you don’t wanna tell me.”

Jisung sticks the straw into his mouth to swallow some juice and rolls his eyes, trying to make some time to gather his thoughts. “Did you know peonies are the most common wedding flowers? But that’s not very Mark and Donghyuck, don’t you think? They are, like, all pompous and too much,” Jisung explains, and Jeno hums along with him as if he’s making perfect sense. “People usually order them in pink, but it’s not- Pink is not hyung’s color.”

“What about Donghyuck?” Jeno quips. “Pink’s cute like him.”

And Jisung would be a liar if he said he’s never thought about it. After all, everybody knows pink is the color of love. But it is also a careful hue, kind and softly pretty, meant for smooth feelings and thoughtful hands. As soft and thoughtful as Donghyuck is, Jisung would never paint a hurricane in pastel washes of pink.

When Jisung thinks of Donghyuck, his brain floods with Cheetos-powder-stained fingers, dirty school shirts, sugar-bright lollipops. Donghyuck is the plastic wrappers of sickeningly sweet chocolate muffins and the bitter juice Jisung is currently drinking, all at the same time. He is consumed scented candles and an old, painful sunset.

It’s all about that sunset when it comes to Donghyuck, simmering orange around him like an explosion. Orange like summer warmth and loud laughter and sunshine. Orange like fascination and creativity and courage. The perfect mix of energetic red and happy yellow, just strong enough that it makes your eyes itch and well up when you stare at it for too long, but so pretty that you can’t blink away.

Jisung doesn’t have the words to explain this to Jeno. He wraps his lips around his straw and swallows down cold orange until car keys clashing together announce Jaemin’s arrival.

“You’re late,” Jisung mumbles around his plastic straw, his right leg bouncing on the footrest of the stool he’s seated on.

“You have to understand, Jisungie,” Jeno tells him as he wipes his wet hands on his faded-white apron. “He only gets out of his uniform once a week, he had to pick his outfit carefully.”

Jisung slides his now empty glass towards Jeno and turns around to face Jaemin. He’s standing by the open door with his arms crossed over his chest, an oversized baby pink sweater wrinkled up around his elbows and falling to the middle of his denim-clad thighs, his keys hanging from his index finger. He’s got his hips cocked to the side, and he tilts his head towards the street impatiently when Jisung finally looks at him, as if he’s the one who’s been waiting for an hour.

“Shut your mouth, Jeno,” Jaemin says, turning around. “I hope you break one of your expensive bottles of wine.”

With a final wave towards Jeno, Jisung jumps off the stool to follow Jaemin outside.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty!” Jeno screams after them.

Jaemin turns around to flip him off, and he winks at Jisung shamelessly before looking straight ahead again. Jisung can only duck his head and chuckle under his breath because god knows Jeno is right.

---

Four flower shops and two stops at 7/11 later, Jaemin decides he’s had enough.

“I don’t get what’s your problem with the colors,” he complains on their way back to the car, hands tucked in the pockets of his ripped jeans as he drags his feet on the sidewalk. “What are you waiting for? Some kind of epiphany? I know you’re picky, Sung, but damn. You find problems in everything.”

Jisung walks right beside him, eyes looking down at his feet to try to match his steps with Jaemin’s. “It’s not my fault, alright? They look wrong.”

“How does a flower look wrong?” Jaemin huffs. “They were all so pretty, well kept and stuff. They looked fancy, perfect for the rich wedding your sappy brother wants.”

But, if Jisung didn’t have the words to explain to Jeno why everything feels wrong, he can’t find them now to reply to Jaemin. It’s even more difficult with Jaemin, since he’s never really had to voice important stuff, Jaemin is just too good at reading between Jisung’s lines.

Jisung is still looking down as they slowly make their way to Jaemin’s car when a flowering plant catches his attention. Is a short thing, standing cutely in the side garden of some random house. Jisung hopes that, if it belongs to someone, the owners won’t mind too much when he walks closer to tear out one of the tiny flowers.

“Are you kidding me?” Jaemin’s feet drag noisily over the pavement as he stops right behind Jisung.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Jisung tells him when he turns around, the flower gently gripped between his thumb and index finger. “It’s a Korean rose.”

“I know what it is,” Jaemin impatiently snaps at him. He takes his hands out of his pockets to cross them over his chest, his oversized sweater sliding off his forearm to pool around his elbows. “You didn’t like any of the flowers at the flower shops but you like a stupid flower you found on the street. Great. Do you want me to start collecting bouquets right here?”

Jaemin is being unusually rude, tired after wasting his only day off driving from one store to the other with no results. Still, Jisung knows him well enough to affirm that Jaemin would roll up his sleeves and start picking up flowers if Jisung told him these are the right ones.

“I don’t like them for a wedding, but they are nice,” Jisung says, taking a step closer. Jaemin is squinting because he’s facing the setting sun—hard orange highlights softening the sharp angles of his face—and his frown only deepens when Jisung slowly tucks the small flower behind Jaemin’s ear. It fits the shade of Jaemin’s sweater just right. “Pink suits you.”

Jaemin goes incredibly still at the words, his eyes growing wide even though the sun is hitting him full on the face. He uncrosses his arms to touch the flower lightly with his fingertips as if he’s scared the small petals will come undone under his hand, as if it would matter if they do. His pink lips fall open, but he doesn’t utter a single word.

“Why are you looking at me like that, weirdo?” Jisung rolls his eyes. He starts towards the car again, his shoulder bumping against Jaemin’s when he walks past him. “It matches your clothes, it’s cute.”

“Cute,” Jaemin mumbles from behind.

Jisung doesn’t understand the weird tone of Jaemin’s voice, it’s a stupid street flower. But Jaemin keeps it in his hair until he drops Jisung off, so the day is a little bit less of a waste.

Once he opens the apartment door, Jisung’s rare good mood lasts the small space between the foyer and the living room.

He finds Renjun curled up on the couch, wrapped up in his favorite purple blanket with his drawing tablet resting on his thighs as he speaks on the phone. He’s talking quieter than usual, as if he’s sharing a secret with whoever is on the other line. Jisung walks towards the couch intending to flop down next to Renjun, but the words he’s muttering cause him to stop dead in his track.

“Why don’t you give the song a try if you like it?” Renjun says, his voice rising a bit in frustration. “I don’t get it, Mark. You won’t lose anything for trying it out.”

Jisung digs his heels into the carpet to stop his leg from bouncing nervously. He curls his fingers tighter around his keys still in his hand and presses his lips together to hold his breath. It’s bubbling up in the pit of his stomach, fear mixed up with anger and betrayal, a disappointment he’s never felt before, not towards Mark.

“You’ve been brooding over this for weeks now,” Renjun keeps talking. “I know. I know you don’t have the time, but I still think that-” he stops mid-sentence right when he turns around on the couch to see Jisung standing near the door frame. His eyes go wide in surprise before offering a small apologetic smile. “Jisung just got home,” he says into the phone as he waves Jisung over. “I’ll call you back. Bye, bye. And please, sleep.”

“What did he want?” Jisung asks as soon as Renjun hangs up. He comes to stand beside the couch, but he stays still when Renjun pats the empty space beside him.

“We’re having dinner at your parents’ this weekend,” Renjun announces. “Mark’s been promoted and he wants to celebrate with all of us. You know, your parents and us. He called it a family thing.”

“Right,” Jisung mutters under his breath, the keys in his hand biting into his palm painfully when he tightens his grip. “Promoted.”

Renjun huffs at him, his head sinking into the ugly brown cushion of the couch when he leans back. “Wow Jisung, your enthusiasm amazes me.”

If it was any other day, those words would cause Jisung’s stomach to turn with guilt and his throat would hurt with the need to throw up. Right now, the only thing that hurts is his pride.

“And he tells you instead of calling me?”

“You’ve been out and busy all day,” Renjun points out. “He called me to talk about something else and the topic came up. He asked me to please tell you.”

Jisung takes his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans with his free hands. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting when he unlocks the screen, but the missed calls don’t make him feel any better, and the green notification light flashes brighter than ever.

“What else did he say?” he asks, sticking his phone back in his pocket. Renjun doesn’t reply, he only looks up at Jisung with tight lips, his hands playing with the case of his drawing tablet. “C’mon, Renjun. I heard you talking about music.”

When Renjun shrugs, the couch makes an ugly, squeaky noise at his clothes dragging over the brown leather. “Yeah, so what?”

Jisung huffs exasperated, finally letting go of his keys to throw them on top of the small coffee table. Renjun knows what. With Mark, music used to be about Jisung. He was there the first time Mark picked up a guitar, he was there to wrap the red fingertips of Mark’s right hand with band-aids when he played long enough to end up sore, he was there to go over music scales and scores even though he didn’t know how to read them. Jisung was a witness of Mark’s first scratched note, and he was the one to hear Mark’s first written verse. He’s never been embarrassed by it before, but now the week of silent treatment Jisung gave to his brother when Mark first decided to quit music for engineering seems like a tantrum, a petty kid’s one-sided fight.

It’s always like this with Mark, after all. One-sided feelings and lost battles that haven’t even been fought. Jisung keeps running away from things that weren’t even his because he isn’t first for anything, because it is never about him.

“Why would he tell you about his music before telling me?” Jisung finally asks, pressing down on his sore, indented palm with the fingers of his other hand. “What is even there to tell? How’s this been going on for weeks?”

Renjun pushes himself forward, his hands gripping his drawing tablet tighter. “I don’t know, Jisung,” he says, but the seams of his mouth curling downward tell Jisung that he’s lying. “I’m not the person you should be asking that.”

But Jisung has never been good at voicing things that threaten to turn him inside out. He’s only ever been good at swallowing words and locking doors. So he stomps out of the living room like the brat he knows he is and slams the door of his room closed when Renjun offers to cook him something for dinner.

Why would Mark want to share the important stuff with him? When Jisung can’t even keep a job for longer than three months, can’t even fucking cook. He can only throw a fit about it.