Chapter Text
The acrid scent of stale beer burns Minho’s nose. He grimaces, his combat boots sticking to the probably never-before-cleaned floor. He shudders, trying his damndest to not think about it. He doesn’t want to think about it. He would give anything to stop perceiving the way he already feels grimy.
Felix giggles beside him, bright and lovely. Minho wants to shove him out the nearest window.
It’s the first time he’s been inside one of the frat houses, and he immediately knows that every horrible preconceived notion he had about them is irrevocably correct. It’s disgusting. Everything about it makes his skin crawl. He really wants to push Felix out the window and then dive out after him.
Instead, Felix laces their fingers together and leans his entire body against Minho’s, “You wanna help me find Chris?” he asks, and Minho rolls his eyes, elbowing the younger in his ribs.
“No, I do not want to help you find the mysterious frat boy who has distracted you. In fact, it’s probably better if I don’t see him because I cannot be held responsible for anything the rage makes me do,” he says solemnly, and Felix laughs again as if Minho was joking, curling into him until Minho can swear he feels the steady beat of his heart.
“You’re so funny, Minho-hyung,” Felix muses, righting himself to scan the room.
“I wasn’t joking,” Minho argues, but Felix is occupied.
The foyer isn’t too busy, with a few couples or groups of people loitering around. There’s a pretty girl laughing at something with her head thrown back and a boy who looks so drunk he might tip over in the next fifteen seconds.
Minho hopes to whatever god there is that Felix will spot Chris up here so they don’t have to go downstairs- where the real party is- as the Frat bro outside had said.
Minho’s luck seems to be lacking today because Felix is linking their arms together and lifting his chin, pulling Minho into the house without any of the obvious distaste that Minho is feeling.
By the time they’re in the kitchen, he feels the beginning of a headache. There’s the familiar dull throb in his temples. The doctors said it’s stress, the traitors. He wants to go home. He wants to curl up with a movie and his stuffed cat and laze around until the sunlight comes.
Felix pushes a cup of some mystery drink into his hand, and he makes an affronted noise.
“You aren’t seriously going to drink a frathouse concoction without having seen it made? You’re going to get assaulted,” he snaps, and Felix rolls his eyes, rolling his neck and tipping his drink into his mouth.
“You’re being a little dramatic. I hardly think anyone is bold enough to drug an entire party’s worth of people,” Felix counters, and Minho grumbles, pulling the red solo cup close to his chest without taking a sip.
The basement is plucked straight out of his nightmares. It’s cramped, bodies swirling around each other. He sees a group of guys playing beer pong, another group playing king’s cup, and so many people grinding near a guy who appears to be playing DJ.
Minho has never been in a louder room. It’s so loud that it almost feels like white noise, a wall of sound that leaves his nerves raw.
Felix still drags him along, weaving between the party-goers while he searches.
Minho has gone from hoping Felix will find his target quickly to hoping Chris is hiding away somewhere because the prospect of being left alone in this makes his stomach churn.
When Felix finds Chris, he perks up, face breaking open in a beautiful imitation of sunrise. Minho hates the situation a little less as he watches Felix slip away until he’s getting a bro-y one-armed hug. Minho watches Felix flirt, giggling and scrunching up his nose in the low light of the corner they now occupy.
But now he’s alone.
He’s here, standing amidst a group of drunk sorority girls singing off-key to each other and making eyes at anyone who will spare them a glance. He almost feels bad for them. One of the girls reaches for his hand, giggling when he spins her on instinct, pulling her to his chest and narrowly avoiding dumping jungle juice in her hair.
She opens her mouth to say something, but he steps away, turning on his heels.
He makes his way through the crowd until he’s toward the wall, still cradling his drink close while he watches. He can feel the music in his bones, and it smells like eighteen different colognes and sweat. He closes his eyes and wills the ache of his head to settle down.
“You know, you can leave if you’re having a bad time,” says a voice to his left, and he bristles, muscles tensing beneath his plain t-shirt. He doesn’t open his eyes right away, choosing to take a few measured breaths before he turns to look at him.
If he wanted to kill Felix before, he wants to rampage now.
He’s pretty.
He’s so pretty it’s unfair. He’s facing out at the makeshift dance floor, his profile glinting in the low light. He has a soft, sloping nose, and his biceps are on display thanks to his shirt. The sleeves are cut off, dipping low enough for Minho to see a generous amount of his ribs and the soft swell of his pecs.
He kind of wants to lick him. He mostly wants to die.
Minho has never liked parties. He never understood the hype. He’d way rather have a game night with his friends or go to a bar, and hang out in a booth while they talk shit. He never had the desire to get blackout drunk in a frat house basement.
“Who says I’m having a bad time?” he asks, and the man finally turns to make eye contact.
Shit.
He has the loveliest cheeks Minho has ever witnessed. He has mochi cheeks, and they’re even cuter when he smiles, lips splitting to reveal a set of perfect white teeth. Minho has never seen someone so beautiful in his entire life.
“Ah, sorry to make assumptions. You were glaring pretty hard for someone who is enjoying himself,” the guy says gravely, and Minho finally takes a swig of his drink so he can avoid answering that.
It’s bitter, a too-liquored jungle juice that makes his tongue feel a little too heavy in his mouth. He chokes it down anyway, keeping eye contact the entire time. His focus on the mystery boy distracts him from the urge to grimace.
“This is just my face,” he deadpans, and the boy laughs, shaking his head slowly.
“Well, I didn’t mean to imply that anything is wrong with your face,” he says, and Minho rolls his eyes, turning to look for Felix. It takes him a moment to find him, his platinum hair illuminated by the shitty LED lights, turning him a pretty blue. He’s grinning at Chris, leaning in close so that they can hear each other over the music.
“I’m here with my friend. Well, I was dragged here by my friend. I don’t even know why he wanted me here if he was going to immediately abandon me in hopes of getting dicked down by some stupid frat boy,” Minho explains, and Mystery boy hums, sipping his own beer and following Minho’s gaze.
Felix is beaming, swaying with Chris, and singing along to a song Minho has never heard before. Chris looks so patently fond that it’s hard to fault him.
“Chris has a 4.0,” he says casually, “He’s also head of recruitment. And he’s on the student government. He’s kind of an idiot, but he isn’t stupid.”
Minho glances toward the other boy, grunting, “Anyone who leaves me alone in a frat party is stupid,” he says, and the guy leans his body against the wall, head tipping back while he takes the final gulp of his beer.
Minho tries desperately to keep his eyes away from the long line of his throat.
His skin is shiny, glistening with sweat. It should be disgusting. It should make Minho’s skin crawl. Instead, he kind of just wants to bury his face there.
“I better not leave you then, hm?” he says when he’s finished, “I need another drink. You coming?”
Minho blinks once, head tipping to the side. He glances back toward Felix before he follows. There’s no reason to be a wallflower and watch them enjoy themselves when he could be following after the cute boy with too much skin on display.
Mystery boy is somehow both lithe and muscular with gentle curves and sturdy muscles. He’s about Minho’s height, but his frame is narrower. He walks with easy confidence, his head held high while he leads the way upstairs.
The noise fades, but Minho’s ears are still ringing, a reminder of the incessant sound they’ve left behind.
The kitchen is empty when they step in, and the mystery boy goes to the fridge. He pulls it open and fishes out some canned drink. He cracks it open and takes a long pull. When he turns back to the fridge, he rummages until he pulls out a couple of Mandarin oranges, holding one out to Minho as an offering.
He takes the fruit, setting his cup down amongst the mess to peel it carefully. When he looks up, his host is popping two pieces in his mouth. Their eyes meet, and Minho sucks in a breath, glancing toward the door.
“So, you are one of the aforementioned frat boys,” he finally says before he places a segment into his mouth, eyes falling closed when the juice bursts on his tongue. It’s tart the way he prefers.
“Mm. That, I am,” he says, “I’m Jisung.”
Minho’s eyes crack open. Jisung. They continue snacking in silence.
Neither of them says anything until the fruit is gone. Jisung takes their orange peels and opens a cabinet, dumping them in the trash can there. Minho glances at the graveyard of forgotten cups left discarded on the kitchen counter (and the floor).
“You aren’t going to tell me your name? It’s only fair,” Jisung says, and Minho plucks his cup back off the counter, taking a sip and grimacing.
“This stuff is fucking vile,” he says instead, and Jisung laughs, his shoulders shaking with it.
“I’ll make you a better one. What do you like?” he asks, and Minho frowns.
“You can go back to your friends or whatever. I’m sure they’re better company than me,” he says, and Jisung chuckles.
“I don’t like parties much,” he says, pulling open a cabinet and plucking a bottle of rum from the neat row of bottles (the only neat thing he’s seen since walking in the door). He watches Jisung work, filling a clean cup and offering it with both hands.
Minho takes it, giving it an experimental sip, and humming gratefully. It’s sweet, fruity, and tropical. Jisung takes the jungle juice from him and downs it in one gulp, smacking his lips when he’s finished. “Is that better?”
Minho nods, unsure of where they go from here, “Thank you.”
Jisung is watching him, eyes bright in the harsh light of the kitchen. Minho feels pinned down, stuck there for Jisung to see. It makes his breathing pick up.
“I will accept your name as payment,” Jisung says, and Minho rolls his eyes, glancing toward the door.
“I’m flattered,” he says after a moment, and Jisung chuckles.
“Fine, keep your secrets.” He leans against the littered kitchen counter, unbothered by the mess. There’s laughing in the other room and the far-away bass boom from downstairs, and Minho jumps, his gaze flickering toward the noise. He’s never been that good at conversation, but the thought of Jisung slipping away from him, back into the low light of the party makes him anxious.
“If you don’t like parties, why are you in a fraternity?” he asks suddenly, the words tumbling uselessly out of his mouth. He almost wishes he could pull them back, place them underneath his tongue where they’ll suffocate and die. Jisung just laughs again.
“You know it isn’t about partying, right?” he says, raising his eyebrows, “I’m shy. My first semester was lonely, and I thought it would be a good way to make friends. Also, the philanthropy is cool, and we do a ton of fun stuff together,” he says, shrugging.
“God, Sorry. I probably sounded like an ass just then,” Minho grumbles.
“No, I get it,” Jisung says, smiling so wide his lips split into a heart. Minho curses Felix for getting him into this situation, turning to study the kitchen backsplash, “So what’s your deal then?”
“My deal?” he asks, sipping his drink slowly and waiting for Jisung to clarify.
“Like… what do you study? Or what do you do for fun? You’re kind of an enigma,” Jisung explains, and Minho laughs, shaking his head.
“I’m a dance major,” he says, “Dance and theatre. I’m pretty busy with class and rehearsal and stuff. I like to watch movies,” he says, and Jisung hums, leaning closer. Jisung looks at Minho like he’s trying to drink him in, remember him later.
“No shit, that’s cool as hell! I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other at all. I study music,” Jisung offers, and Minho’s gaze snaps over to him. He blinks once and shrugs. So they share a building; it’s not like they take classes together.
“Mmm, well you must be busy rehearsing just like I am. You all seem sleep-deprived and caffeine-addicted,” Minho muses, and Jisung nods.
“Yeah. The things we do for our art, am I right?” he muses, and Minho finds himself nodding. He studies the soft planes of Jisung’s face. An artist, Minho thinks. Maybe he’s tortured, writing lines of poetry on take-away napkins or playing guitar until his fingers bleed.
Jisung is about to go on when Felix and Chris stumble into the kitchen, their shoulders knocking together. Felix is laughing so hard that his shoulders are shaking, and Minho raises his eyebrows, turning to square his shoulders.
“Hyung! Chris, I don’t think you’ve met Minho-hyung, right? He’s the light of my life,'“ Felix says, walking over and slinging an arm around Minho’s shoulders.
Jisung grins when Felix says his name. He mouths Minho’s name, getting a feel for it, and Minho fights back a pleased smile. He turns his attention back to Chris, who is staring at Felix like he hung the moon or something equally disgusting.
“Hi, Minho. It’s nice to meet you,” he says, and Minho nods, smiling politely.
“You as well. Hope you’ve been taking care of my Yongbokie,” he says seriously, and Felix groans. Chris smiles fondly, looking between the two.
“Yongbok?” he asks, and Minho hums.
“It’s reserved for his very favorite people,” Minho says gravely, and Felix nudges him with his shoulder, huffing dramatically.
“That’s not true. It’s reserved for my grandfather, and this fucking heathen who refuses to call me by my name!” Felix argues, gesturing wildly with his hands.
“It is your name,” Minho reminds him with an even voice, “You just don’t-”
“Well, I was looking for you to let you know that Channie-hyung and I are going to go watch a movie in his room. So, don’t bother waiting up. I was going to tell you that you could leave, but it looks like you’ve made a friend!” Felix mouths, he’s cute, and Minho rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, this is Jisung,” Minho offers, watching Felix and Jisung exchange pleasantries.
Felix is sizing him up, and Jisung is so unphased. He smiles warmly and compliments Felix’s freckles so earnestly that Minho’s cheeks warm.
By the time Chris is pulling Felix toward the stairs with their hands clasped together, Minho’s cup is empty. He taps it twice, shaking his head.
“He’s such a traitor. I swear, he sees one pretty boy, and I’m abandoned. Ridiculous. You would think that a year of friendship would trump whatever Chris has going on, but obviously, you’d be wrong,” he grumbles.
“Goodness. That’s what your name means, right? Minho,” Jisung says, and his voice is soft. There’s something wistful about the way he says the name. It makes Minho’s cheeks warm.
He nods slowly, turning to study him, “Yeah, that’s right.”
“A pretty name for a pretty guy,” Jisung muses, and Minho rolls his eyes. He walks over to the cabinet where Jisung had thrown their orange peels before.
“No recycling?” he asks, turning to look at Jisung over his shoulder. Jisung scrunched up his nose.
“Just put it with the rest. We’ll deal with it all in the morning,” he says, and Minho rolls his eyes, closing the cabinet with a thunk and standing back up. He rolls his neck, taking a couple of measured breaths before stacking his cup inside an empty one on the counter.
“Well, you’ve been relieved of your post. I’m going to go home and eat a snack in bed,” he says, and Jisung’s smile falls a little. He nods once and takes a tiny, stuttering step backward.
“Oh, right. Of course, yeah. It was nice to meet you, Minho. Hope I see you around sometime.” Jisung’s voice is a bit quieter than before, but Minho refuses to read into it. He doesn’t know Jisung, not really. Just because he’s been sweet doesn’t mean Minho owes him anything.
He doesn’t want to think about why the idea of not seeing Jisung around makes his chest feel a bit tighter. He’s just a stranger, Minho. Get a grip.
Jisung walks him to the door, lingering there with his eyes glued to Minho. The dancer smiles, pulling his phone out of his pocket to check the time.
“Goodnight, Jisung. Have fun at your party,” he says, and Jisung chuckles.
“Get home safe and enjoy your snacks,” he counters, and Minho nods, turning on his heels and leaving the house before he has the chance to talk himself into staying.