Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When Minho’s grandmother died, she left him with two things. The first was the restaurant, and by extension, the apartment above it in which they lived. Calling it a restaurant was generous. Their main clientele consisted of a few older couples from the surrounding apartments and the occasional lost tourist or businessperson. Minho had been in the kitchen before he had gone to school, had learned to distinguish between various herbs and spices before he’d learned how to read. They didn’t operate the restaurant for money, and had, in fact, only just recently earned a high-enough margin to buy a small TV and pay the cable bill.

In her last few months, Minho had already taken over most of the work — cooking, cleaning, shopping, and bookkeeping. He had decided in his last year of high school, much to the disapproval of his grandmother, to stay behind and take care of her and the restaurant instead of applying to college. The TV, too, had been purchased with the hope that she would slow down and rest more. She had stayed on her feet, bustling around even with her diminishing but ever-youthful energy, until she couldn’t anymore.

The second thing wasn’t a thing at all, but a person. One of their most loyal regulars, and not at all part of their usual clientele, Han Jisung had been a scrawny and sullen teenager the first time he came in, ordering and finishing two whole bowls of tofu soup before sheepishly admitting to Minho’s grandmother that he didn’t actually have any money on him. She had taken one look at him — his wide eyes, his defensive stance — and loved him instantly.

The same could not be said for Minho. Jisung was gasoline, and every time he came he carried with him the risk of explosion. They bickered, snippy remarks over insignificant things, until even Minho’s grandmother had to scold them for arguing in front of the customers, yelling at Minho for the first time he could remember. 

His grandmother had always remarked that Jisung felt like her long-lost grandson, which rankled Minho for reasons obvious enough — like Jisung had something he, her actual grandson, didn't. But she had more than enough love to go around, and Minho was nothing if not an obedient grandson. After that, when Jisung picked fights with him, he swallowed his responses, letting his anger dissipate into a wide lake of nothingness. It became clear after a few months of ignoring Jisung that he wasn’t really trying to annoy him as much as he just wanted to get Minho’s attention.

The realization that Jisung was performing the teenage equivalent of tugging on someone’s pigtails in kindergarten was equal parts frustrating and amusing. Jisung must have noticed it as well, in the way Minho’s mouth curled up instead of down when Jisung purposefully switched his knives or hid all the scallions in the freezer. Eventually, they reached a tentative truce, where Jisung stopped bothering him in the kitchen and Minho started saving an extra plate of food for Jisung every day, when he would inevitably stop by before the dinner rush started. Slowly, like water dripping on stone, Jisung wore away at his defenses, until they became reluctant friends. 

Then came the knife incident, when Jisung startled so badly at a spider in the corner that he somehow managed to nick himself shallowly on his palm with one of the cutting knives.

“Idiot,” Minho hissed, flicking the stove to simmer so that the soup wouldn’t spill over, but the underlying current of worry in his voice belied his words. In a flurry of motions, he inspected Jisung’s hand carefully, clicking his tongue while cleaning the wound out, and bandaged it almost tenderly, pausing every time Jisung inhaled sharply.

“Does it hurt?”

Jisung shook his head, but he was looking away, eyes wet, and Minho sighed. Stupid, brave Jisung.

“Go sit outside,” he said sternly, shepherding Jisung into a seat in the corner. “And tell me if it hurts more, okay?”

He waited expectantly until Jisung gave him an aborted nod, and left for the back only then.

“Don’t tell your grandmother,” Jisung’s voice traveled from the corner, small and apologetic.

Minho turned and gave him a look. “As if she needs to worry more.”

“I’m sorry.”

A pause. A deep sigh.

“It’s not your fault,” Minho said finally, voice uncharacteristically soft. “Be more careful back there next time. Those knives are sharp.”

They didn’t tell Minho’s grandmother when they said goodnight, and after they closed her door they went back downstairs. Minho lit a lamp instead of turning the lights back on and checked on the cut again. In the dim light of the kitchen, Jisung sat on the counter, knives and everything else carefully put away beforehand, legs swinging over the counter’s edge as Minho stood in the middle, peeling away the bandage and reapplying an antibiotic ointment to his palm.

“My mom used to kiss my papercuts better,” Jisung said offhandedly, and Minho looked up at him, eyes glimmering with amusement.

“Want me to do the same?” He offered, and Jisung shuddered.

“Ew. No thanks.”

“If you’re sure,” Minho said, but his eyes were smiling even after his smile disappeared.

He worked in silence for a moment or two, before Jisung’s head thunked back against the cupboards with a sigh. “She’s overseas right now, did you know that?” His voice was barely more than a grumble. “I haven’t seen her in a few years. I’m graduating this year, and I don’t even know if she’ll come back for that.”

Minho did not, in fact, know that. Jisung had whined and complained about graduation ever since the school year had started, asking him practically every other day if he would come. Minho had only agreed about a hundred times prior.

He had wondered about Jisung’s family from time to time, but had never asked him outright. It seemed like a sore subject.

“You’re seventeen already?” He asked instead, as he was rebandaging the cut. “I thought you were younger.”

“Sixteen,” Jisung said, closing his eyes. “I moved around a lot when I was younger and ended up skipping a year.”

“Ah.”

“I’m turning seventeen soon, though.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “How soon? My birthday’s soon too.”

Jisung cracked an eye open. “In-a-week soon. When’s yours?”

“In a week?” Minho’s hands paused, and he patted at Jisung’s butt to sit up. “When?”

“I asked first,” Jisung complained, but sat up anyway. “September 14th.”

Minho blinked slowly. “That’s in five days. Were you planning on saying anything to us at all?”

“Of course,” Jisung sputtered, but folded immediately at Minho’s scary expression. “I was. I just might…my dad is coming into town tomorrow so I didn’t want to make any promises. He probably has plans for me for the next few days,” — a grimace from Jisung — “and I might not be able to come until he leaves after my birthday.”

“Oh.”

His disappointment must have sounded loud and clear. “I’m going to try though!” Jisung gripped Minho’s hands, hissing when his injured hand came into contact with Minho’s palm. He let go, but his other hand held on even tighter, as if to make for the fact that it was only one. He shook his head, determined to continue on. “It just might be a bit later.”

“You can come whenever.” Minho frowned, swatting at his arm without any real force. “And be more careful with your hand.”

“Right.” Jisung dropped Minho’s hand sheepishly.

Minho took a few steps back, motioning for Jisung to come down. After Jisung did, he went to put out the lamp, leading Jisung to the front of the restaurant before leaning against the doorframe.

“Get home safe.”

Jisung nodded. In the moonlight, he looked softer, smaller. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I really will try to come on my birthday.”

“You don’t have to,” Minho said belatedly. He felt a little silly for overreacting. “You should spend it with your family.”

Jisung’s eyes were warm. He came closer, close enough to smell the spices on Minho’s clothes.

“Minho,” he said gently. “You two are my family.”

It wasn’t cold outside, yet, but it wasn’t that warm either. Still, Minho’s ears felt hot. “Minho-hyung,” he corrected weakly.

“Minho-hyung,” Jisung said, with a cheeky smile. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Minho got the feeling he was talking about a lot more than his palm. He looked away, embarrassed. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he mumbled. “I’ve just been putting up with you.”

Jisung’s laughter was quiet but pleased. “Thank you for putting up with me then,” he said, leaning up to press a kiss, feather-light and barely there, to Minho’s cheek. In the next second he was running away, already halfway down the alley when Minho blinked, brain catching up with what just happened.

Stunned, he brought a hand up to touch his face. His cheek was still tingling, and he flushed, red crawling from his ears down his neck, body on autopilot as he locked the door behind him and leaned on it, knees a little weak.

Stupid, brave Jisung, he thought again, and covered his mouth with a hand to hide the foolish smile he was sure was forming underneath it.

The next day passed as usual. It was one of his grandmother’s better days, which were now few and far between, and in the lull between lunch and dinner rush, they stood together in the kitchen, his grandmother washing and Minho cutting the vegetables.

“Jisung hasn’t been around in a few days.”

Minho hummed, head down. “He’s probably just busy.” It wasn’t exactly false, but it wasn’t the entire truth either. Minho tried to convince himself that the white lie was meant to spare his grandmother’s feelings instead of his own. 

His grandmother harrumphed. “You really should be nicer to him, you know.”

“I am nice to him,” Minho protested, pausing his mincing to shoot his grandmother an incredulous look. “You should tell him to be nicer to me!”

“He admires you,” his grandmother said, matter-of-fact, and Minho fought to keep his expression neutral. “He just doesn’t always know how to express that. And you know I worry about you being by yourself all the time. How are you going to find a nice girl if you’re in the kitchen all the time, hm?”

“I’m doing fine,” Minho said, feeling his stomach twist. “I’m happy here.”

His grandmother’s eyes were sad.

“I know you are,” she said. “I just don’t want you to be lonely.”

She turned and cleared her throat. “Never mind that. When you’re done preparing that, go ahead and get some more groceries. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow and we should restock before then.”

It was an out. Minho, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, took it.

Later, the groceries. Much of it was routine; mindlessly, Minho gathered everything that they needed. Then the real work began.

Minho had decided, in a late-night fueled fervor, what his gift to Jisung would be. Now, skimming the unfamiliar shelves, he frowned. Full-fat. Low-fat. No-fat. What, he wondered, was the difference?

“Full-fat, full-fat, full-fat,” Minho muttered. That was what the recipe had said. What was the difference between low-fat, full-fat, and no-fat cream cheese, anyway? He took the full-fat, and then hesitated, adding the other two to the cart with a sigh. He supposed he would find out.

The one good thing about Jisung’s newfound busyness, Minho supposed, was that he didn’t have to worry about him finding out about his many, many failed attempts at baking a cheesecake.

With a sigh, he scraped the rest of the crust off of the edge of the pan and tossed it away unceremoniously. Honestly, it was getting embarrassing how many tries this was taking. Every time he tasted the cheesecake after it had cooled and set, there was always something that wasn’t quite right — a bit more sugar, a bit less salt, more cream cheese, less cream cheese — and it was maddening. Really, how hard could it be to perfect the recipe?

It was a good thing he had bought triple of every ingredient he needed. Perhaps after this was all over, they could add the cheesecake to the menu. Then maybe he would find a use for the low-fat and no-fat cream cheeses he had bought, which he had quickly realized were not suitable for the texture he was aiming for. It would certainly be the least he could do, after spending so much time on it.

While he scrubbed at the pan, his thoughts wondered, as they often did, to Jisung’s whereabouts. How was he doing? Was he happy? He didn’t know much about Jisung’s family, only that he lived alone and had an apparently rocky relationship with both of his parents. Nothing else about potential siblings or relatives, though surely he must have had…friends, or at least a caretaker of some sort in the city, right? He thought back to how Jisung had said he hadn’t seen his mom in years, and his heart twinged at the thought of Jisung, barely a teenager, set adrift in the city by himself.

Jisung had called them his family though, and Minho felt the quiet warmth of that acknowledgement spread to the tips of his ears. Jisung, who had managed to make his way past the walls Minho wasn’t even aware he’d put up. Not through force, nor clever maneuvering, armed with nothing but an unbelievably stubborn persistence. He’d knocked and knocked at a door that hadn’t existed until Minho had no choice but to let him in. And now here they were — three days without seeing each other, and Jisung was all he thought about, busy or not. Three days of waking early and sleeping late just to give him the perfect gift.

Minho wasn’t stupid. He knew what this was. But acknowledging meant facing the risk — the danger — of it all, and he wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t brave either.

There were vines crawling up inside of his chest. Whether they would strangle him or bloom and bear fruit was impossible to tell. Maybe neither. Maybe both.

Two days later, Minho pulled the final cheesecake from the oven. He knew before even trying it that this would be the one — he had perfected the proportions the night before, after all. Still, to avoid any surprises, he had portioned out a small bite on the side of the main cake to taste. He transferred the tasting portion to a plate and the rest of the cake to the refrigerator to cool. Then, he sat on the stool next to the counter, pen in one hand and spoon in the other, and jotted down the final recipe while savoring the cheesecake. It was perfect.

Minho watched the sun rise and tried not to hope for much. The cheesecake would taste just as good in a day or so, he told himself. It didn’t really work, but that was okay. He had never been good at lying to himself. What was important, he told himself, was the trying.

There was still no sign of Jisung after the sun had set and his grandmother had gone to bed, and Minho admitted to himself that it might have been a little presumptuous to assume that Jisung would be able to get away on his actual birthday. Still, he lingered downstairs far longer than he usually would have. After he ran out of things to do in the kitchen, he moved on to the dining area, restocking the condiments and tidying the furniture. When he finished, he checked the bathroom for missing toilet paper and paper towels. There was no need to replenish anything, of course, because he had done exactly the same things the day before.

Finally, he straightened from where he had been staring needlessly at the pipes under the sink, ignoring his reflection in the mirror on his way out. He would wait an hour more, he resolved, and then he would go to bed.

Every time Minho heard footsteps or a vehicle pass by, he startled awake from where he had been dozing off against one of the tables. The third time this happened, he huffed out a sigh and marched to the door. The sound of raucous laughter traveled over from the other end of the alley. It was time to lock the outer, gated door for the night, he decided, before some drunk or belligerent wanderers took it upon themselves to spend the night in their restaurant.

A car engine revved, and with it, the sound of laughter faded. Minho was halfway through pulling down the lock when a hand reached through the door and slapped onto his shoulder.

Fear leapt into his throat, and a half-formed curse tumbled out of his mouth.

“What the — oh my god, Jisung, you scared me.”

Jisung looked sheepish. “Sorry,” he panted. “Dinner ran really, really late. I’m glad you’re still awake, though. I was worried you already went to bed.”

“Oh,” Minho said intelligently. The fear had subsided, but his heart was still racing. He felt, absurdly, like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing. They looked at each other through the gate and Jisung’s smile flickered.

“...are you going to let me in?”

The moment thawed. “No,” Minho said briskly, unlocking the gate so they could walk back in together. “Your gift is in the kitchen.”

“My gift?” Jisung repeated. He paused. “Did you really get me — you didn’t have to —”

Minho tried and failed to hide his smile. “There are still fifteen minutes until your birthday ends,” he called over his shoulder, ignoring Jisung’s questions. “Hurry up and get in here. But close your eyes! It’s a surprise.”

It was, in Minho’s opinion, a modest cheesecake. Not too big, nor too loud — he had, in a fit of artistic inspiration, melted a bit of chocolate and intended on writing out happy 17th birthday, but settled for just the 17. That was alright. He wasn’t a baker.

Still, when he lit the candle and told Jisung to open his eyes, the prolonged silence made him sweat a little. He had expected a bit more fanfare — nothing much, but something. Anything.

He cleared his throat.

“I’m going to sing happy birthday, and you don’t get to laugh, okay?” He had, a bit foolishly, rehearsed this, and he was determined to see it through.

Jisung nodded wordlessly, and Minho launched into his rendition of the classic birthday song. It was a bit hushed, since his grandmother was sleeping upstairs, but they made do. Jisung watched him throughout, unusually serious, and although Minho felt like his stomach was doing Olympic-level somersaults, he finished and gestured back to the cake.

“Now you get to make a wish,” he said softly.

One moment, one wish later, the kitchen plummeted into darkness.

Minho felt along the wall until he found the switch. The moon pooled onto the ground by the table, then disappeared when the lights came back on.

Minho cut Jisung a slice, mindful of the knife. Throughout the entire process, Jisung stayed quiet, mumbling a thank you when he was handed his plate and fork. It felt like the calm before the storm. Minho watched him eat the first bite and tried not to think too much of the strangeness of it all. It was late. Maybe, he thought, Jisung was just tired.

Finally, blessedly, Jisung took a deep breath. “You made this? For me?”

Minho swallowed, ears aflame. “Yes,” he said. When Jisung fell quiet again, he cleared his throat. “Well? If it’s terrible, you’ll just have to let me know. I’ll have to keep working on the recipe.”

“How did you know I…”

Jisung gestured towards the cheesecake.

“You mentioned it once,” Minho said begrudgingly. It was only a little bit better than admitting that he was always paying attention to what Jisung said. “I figured I could give it a try.”

Slowly, Jisung met his gaze for what felt like the first time since he sat down. Minho realized, with no small sense of horror, that his eyes were watering.

“It’s perfect,” Jisung choked, and before Minho could offer a napkin, or a towel, he had flung himself forward to hug him, no doubt deciding to use Minho’s shirt as a tissue. That was fine, Minho thought stiffly, arms slowly coming up to hug Jisung back. His shirt was — washable. They had soap.

Jisung was saying something into his shirt.

“It could taste like dirt, and it would still be the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten.” He looked up at Minho and gave him a watery smile. “But it doesn’t. It tastes amazing. Even better than the ones I’ve had before. I didn’t know you could bake.”

Minho’s shoulders relaxed. Anxiety released its grip on him, fading further away with each word Jisung spoke. “I didn’t either,” he admitted, returning the smile. “It took a few tries.”

That was a grave understatement, but Jisung blinked and nodded even as his lips wobbled. “You’re such a perfectionist,” he said, and — oh, there were the tears again. “I know you probably spent a lot of time on it. Thank you, hyung.”

Seeing Jisung cry made Minho feel a bit panicked, even knowing that it wasn’t anything bad. He rushed to get him a few napkins this time, and turned away when Jisung took it gratefully, blowing his nose loudly.

“Don’t thank me,” Minho said, equally embarrassed and pleased. “It was the least I could do.”

Jisung was already shaking his head, back from where he had thrown away the napkins. “You always say that,” he sighed, and gave Minho a proper hug this time. “It was everything.”

Something warm and gooey spread its fingers in his chest and squeezed, little ghost imprints on his heart, his lungs. A soft kiss to his cheek.

Minho blinked, startled, but Jisung had already tucked his head back onto his shoulder, eyes closed again. Something else with wings fluttered violently in his stomach. It hurt. He looked out the window, towards the sky. The moon was bright, its light neither approving or disapproving. It was a cloudless night. The world hadn’t shifted, no matter how much it felt like it had. The metamorphosis had been his alone.

Outside of the ongoing turbulence inside of him, the moment was perfectly still, and he couldn’t bring himself to ruin it. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about the way Jisung’s lips had felt on his cheek. How, he wondered, could something so good hurt so much?

That night, Minho forced Jisung to stay and take the bed. On the floor of his childhood bedroom, he dreamed of butterflies and their fleeting lifespans, of flowers and flight. He woke Jisung early the next morning, as he was preparing for the day, and sent him off with a breakfast sandwich that he had thrown together with their personal stock of food. They didn’t talk about the kiss from the previous night. They didn’t talk about the one Jisung stole with a smile and a wave in between taking the sandwich and running off, either.

Of course things changed after that. How could they not? The vines had flowered, shy little buds that opened with their shy little petals even as the rest of the world slid into autumn.

As if to make up for his brief absence, Jisung was suddenly doubly present — after that night, he started coming by in the mornings, popping in the kitchen to take the sandwich he knew Minho would have prepared for him. And every time, without fail, he would leave Minho with a kiss on the cheek. Minho would stutter through his good mornings and goodbyes, and Jisung would leave with a smile bright enough to rival the sun. Then he would come again at night, sometimes bothering Minho in the kitchen, sometimes settling into a corner of the restaurant to do his own work. After the last customer left, they would eat together in the kitchen, talking about everything and nothing.

Tonight was soup noodles.

“So, let’s say you could have any job you wanted,” Jisung started, slurping his noodles. Minho made a face at the noise. Go on, he gestured with his hand.

“What would it be? Your dream job?”

Minho shrugged. “I guess I’d be here.”

“Really?” Jisung blinked at him. “This is your dream?”

“...I guess.” Minho set his own bowl aside. “I like cooking. Maybe we’d have a bigger restaurant. Serve more people. Cook more things. But in general, I’m happy doing what I’m doing now.”

“Oh.” Jisung looked like he was thinking about his answer, before he nodded. “That’s good, then. I’m gonna be famous.”

Minho snorted. “Your dream is to be famous?”

“I guess not exactly.” Jisung laughed too. “I like music, like, writing and performing it. I want to make good music. I want other people to feel what I feel.”

“That’s cool,” Minho said. “So you want to be a songwriter? Or a singer?”

Jisung nodded.

“Have you written any songs?”

Jisung looked down shyly. “A few,” he said, staring into his bowl. “A lot of them aren’t finished. I think they’re pretty good though.”

“Well,” Minho said, “you’ll have to play them for me one day.”

Jisung gave him a halfhearted smile. “You don’t think it’s stupid? Or unrealistic?”

Minho frowned. “Why would I?”

“That’s what my parents say,” Jisung sighed. “I actually convinced my dad to let me try to, you know, audition and stuff, the last time he was here. That’s why I worked so hard to graduate early. But they said I only get one year after graduating to try, and then…”

He trailed off, forlorn.

“Hey,” Minho said. He nudged Jisung. “I’m sure things will work out. World-famous idol Han Jisung has a nice ring to it. Or maybe you’d have a stage name? Han…some? Ah! Han-dsome!”

Jisung, who had been pushing his noodles around, finally cracked a smile, and the tension dissolved. “Definitely not,” he laughed. “I’d have a cooler stage name than that.”

“That’s what they all say,” Minho said, rolling his eyes. “And then they come up with something ridiculous anyway.”

“I won’t,” Jisung insisted. He narrowed his eyes. “I’ll just have to show you. You’ll see.”

Minho laughed. “I guess I will.”

Another night, another stew, another conversation.

“Cats or dogs?”

Minho leveled an unimpressed look at Jisung. “I hope you know there’s an objective correct answer to this question.”

“Oh, you’re one of those people.” Jisung sat back, a smile playing at his lips. “So…dogs then?”

Minho sniffed. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

Jisung laughed. “Fine, fine. You want cats, right? How many?”

“As many as I can,” Minho said, smiling at the thought. “At least two. Maybe three. I’ve thought about keeping them here, but I’m not sure there’s enough space for that many.”

“You would,” Jisung muttered, then held his hands up as an apology when Minho shot him a heatless glare. “I’m actually allergic to both, but I’ve always wanted a dog. Obviously I can’t get one now, because my parents wouldn’t let me, but…”

He looked contemplative. “Maybe one day,” he finished softly. “They would be okay with it.”

It felt like there was something more to what Jisung had said, and Minho tilted his head, thinking it over. In the meantime, though, he tapped Jisung’s bowl with his own chopsticks. “Eat,” he said simply.

“Oh, right.”

When Jisung started eating, Minho set his own chopsticks down. “You’re allergic?”

Jisung looked up. “Hm? Oh, yeah.”

A running montage of memories surfaced in Minho’s mind — Jisung feeding a stray kitten on his way to the restaurant, Jisung asking if he could pet one of the customer’s dogs — and he frowned. “You always chase after the strays here though?”

Jisung’s expression had cleared, and now, he smiled sheepishly. “They’re just so cute! I know I’m not supposed to, and they can make my eyes water really badly afterwards, but sometimes I just can’t help it.”

“Oh,” Minho said. “Well, they have hypoallergenic dogs. You could always get one of those.”

And just like that, Jisung’s complicated expression had returned.

“I guess.” His face was turning red. “But I’m not old enough, for, uh, you know.” He stumbled through the rest of the sentence. “That. Yet.”

Minho’s eyebrows furrowed. “To adopt? I’m pretty sure you could go soon enough.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jisung laughed, but it sounded forced. “And my parents would definitely not be okay with that. I couldn’t go by myself.”

Minho’s confusion grew. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I could go with you then.”

Jisung, who had just taken a sip of the stew, choked. “What?”

He broke off into a cough, and Minho stood up in alarm, thumping Jisung on the back. After a few seconds, Jisung waved at him, shaking his head.

“I’m okay,” he wheezed, coughing twice more before pushing back. “It’s fine. Wrong pipe.”

Minho frowned, worrying at his lip. “If you say so,” he said hesitantly, pouring Jisung a glass of water before sitting back down. Jisung took it gratefully, gulping down half of the cup before setting it down.

“So…,” Jisung said timidly. His face was definitely red now. “You would…with me? I thought…you said you wanted cats one day, with…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

“Of course I’d go with you if you wanted me to,” Minho said, well and truly confused. “What friend wouldn’t?”

“Not just any friend,” Jisung said, eyes widening. “…right?”

Minho looked at Jisung for a long moment. “I feel like I’m missing something,” he said, finally. “Am I?”

Jisung blinked rapidly. “Well, you know,” he said, eyes flicking around to the door, the window, and the stairs, as if to confirm that nobody would be coming into the kitchen. He leaned in and then said, in a hushed tone, “you have to be married to adopt.”

Minho’s eyes grew as round as Jisung’s. “You definitely don’t,” he said, immediately shaking his head. “It’s not like adopting children — these are just pets — and I don’t even think you need to be married to adopt kids. Right? It might help, but…I mean, these are cats and dogs we’re talking about. You could walk in there tomorrow. They’re not gonna ask you about your — your — wife. Or, I mean…”

He thought of his responses in light of the context of marriage, and groaned. “Or your partner. Uh, legal partner. Whoever that ends up being.”

He paused to breathe, heart thumping in his chest. Jisung’s face had contorted rather impressively during his nervous ramble, and now he was doing a pretty good, if unintentional, job at imitating a tomato. Minho was sure that he wasn’t doing much better. He cleared his throat in an attempt to bring the conversation back on track.

“Anyway,” he said. “So if I wanted to adopt a cat, I could go tomorrow if I wanted. They wouldn’t ask about any of that.”

“Really?” Jisung stared at him.

Minho nodded almost frantically. “Really.”

“Oh,” Jisung croaked. It looked like he was still processing everything. He shot Minho a smile, embarrassed but genuine. “Then…I guess you could get started on your goal of keeping a dozen cats any day now.”

Minho smiled back, small. “Of course. You could come too, if you wanted, although maybe you’d just sneeze all over them.”

“Right,” Jisung said. “No wife needed.”

Minho blinked at him. He couldn’t tell if that was a joke or not. Something about the look in Jisung’s eyes reminded him of the way Jisung had reacted earlier. A flicker of hope, soft and fragile.

He could’ve joked back, well, you never know. Or, no friends needed, either. But he knew Jisung better than that. Jisung, who had pestered him into becoming friends instead of just saying so. Jisung, who had started kissing him on the cheek instead of saying thank you. Jisung, who had always communicated through his actions, and stumbled over his words when he actually needed them.

Jisung, who had begun carefully probing Minho’s feelings, disguising his questions behind dinner banter. He was about as sneaky as a tiptoeing elephant — which was to say, not at all — but at least he was honest to himself, which was more than Minho could say.

Minho looked at Jisung and his vulnerability and decided, in that moment, that he could be both stupid and brave. If he were to drown, he thought, then so be it. Better to be drowned by a siren than a storm.

“No,” he said softly. “I guess not. Just you and me.”

All things accounted for, it could be understood, then, that Minho forgot about his own birthday. It had been a turbulent few days. Every time Jisung came around, tension crackled in the air. It felt like an electric field was growing in anticipation of its final strike.

The morning of his birthday, he awoke to Jisung’s face above his, and he screamed.

“Shh! Shh — hyung, it’s just me!” Jisung slapped a hand on his mouth, eyes wide. “Your grandmother isn’t awake yet.”

When the fog of sleep retreated far enough for Minho’s brain to start working again, he wrestled Jisung’s hands off of his face. “Han Jisung,” he hissed, scrambling to sit up, “that is the second heart attack you’ve given me in a month. What are you doing? And how did you get in?”

“Uh,” Jisung said, looking guilty. “Your grandmother told me where you guys keep the spare key a while ago. But —”

He looked down. Minho realized he was still holding onto both of his hands and instantly dropped them, cheeks turning red.

Jisung beamed at him and waved his hands around in the air. “Happy birthday!”

Minho stared at him before it clicked. He groaned, head dropping back onto his pillow. It was his birthday and he had somehow managed to forget all about it. That explained all the weird comments Jisung had been making the past week about getting older, and all of the questions he had been asked about when he woke up, when he ate breakfast, and what he liked to eat.

Wait.

He shot back up, looking at Jisung suspiciously. “You didn’t cook by yourself, did you?”

Jisung burst into laughter at the look on his face. “That was actually the original idea, but it didn’t exactly…work out. I did a few trial runs, but I’m, uh, actually really bad at cooking, if you didn’t already know. So I came up with an alternative plan.”

Minho blinked, half-horrified and half-fascinated. “What do you mean, trial runs?” He cracked a smile. “Not in my kitchen, right?”

Jisung’s eyes were sparkling. “Would that really be so bad?” He pouted. “But no, it wasn’t here. Let’s just say that my fried eggs…need some work.” He looked at Minho, expression coy. “I think we’ll have to leave the cooking to you, master chef.”

“I think I’d prefer that too,” Minho muttered, and laughed when Jisung swiped at him.

“I wake up at four for your birthday and this is how I’m treated,” Jisung huffed dramatically. “Anyway, since I can’t make you breakfast, I thought maybe we could do it…together?”

A smile curled across Minho’s face. “So your gift to me is to force me to supervise you in the kitchen?”

“Hyung,” Jisung complained. “That’s not my only gift to you! I’ll give you the other ones after I’m done with school.” He tugged on Minho’s hand. “And don’t even pretend like you don’t love the idea, because I know you do. Come on, let’s go downstairs.”

So — two breakfast sandwiches, one for Jisung and one for himself. When he cracked two eggs into the pan, Jisung realized what he was doing, and started complaining about Minho doing more work on his birthday.

“I’m doing the work anyway.” Minho rolled his eyes. “And it’s not that much harder to make an extra one.”

“Fine,” Jisung relented, though he didn’t look happy about it. He plastered himself on Minho’s shoulder as he flipped the eggs. “If you really don’t mind.”

Minho shrugged. “It’s fine. You didn’t eat breakfast before coming here, did you? I bet you weren’t planning on getting breakfast before school, either.”

Silence.

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Exactly.”

Jisung grumbled something unintelligible and acquiesced, going off to get two more slices of bread, but when the sandwiches were done, he made Minho take the first bite. And the second. And the third.

“Jisung,” Minho groaned. “You can eat it now.”

Jisung nodded but didn’t move.

“Is it good?” He asked. It was a silly question. Minho had made the sandwiches the same way he had for the last few weeks. Jisung had eaten a few dozen of the sandwiches himself.

Minho indulged him anyway. “Of course it is,” he said, tapping Jisung’s cheek and smiling gently. “Now eat.”

True to his word, Jisung was back in the early evening. Against his complaints, they had closed early, and even his grandmother had, in a rare burst of energy, come downstairs to shoo him out of the kitchen. Disgruntled, he had sat down at one of the tables, and that was where Jisung found him an hour later when he arrived.

Jisung was carrying something large and lumpy, a piece of cloth thrown haphazardly over it, and he squeaked and disappeared into the kitchen when he saw Minho. He returned a few minutes later with a wide smile and slid into the seat next to Minho.

“Dinner’s ready,” he announced. “I’ve been sent to fetch you.”

“I can tell,” Minho said sulkily, then, as an explanation, “she does this every year. I see you’ve been roped into it too.

Jisung laughed at the expression on Minho’s face. “How do you know it’s not the other way around?”

Minho narrowed his eyes. Jisung’s smile grew wider. “Come on,” he said, and dragged Minho into the kitchen.

Dinner was fish cooked three ways — braised mackerel, broiled snapper, and steamed striped bass. At the sight of the last one, Minho stopped and looked at his grandmother in surprise. “When did you get this?”

“I didn’t,” she said, matter of fact. “He got the last one at the market a few kilometers out.”

Minho turned to look at Jisung, who was grinning unabashedly. “I dropped it off yesterday,” Jisung said, clearly relishing at having caught him so off guard. “You don’t know the half of it. The first two stores I went to were all sold out. I had to take the bus.”

Minho threw his hands up in the air. “Don’t tell me you took the bus back with that fish in your bag,” he cried.

“It wasn’t that bad. I have my ways,” Jisung said mysteriously, wiggling his eyebrows at him. Then he dragged a chair out next to him and gently nudged Minho into it. Minho’s stomach swooped pleasantly. Jisung’s heart-shaped smile was going to give him some serious health complications, he thought to himself. Clearly, exposure therapy was not helping. He would have to figure out a better way to deal with it.

He sat. Jisung’s smile softened, and Minho knew what his next words would be before he even opened his mouth.

“Now,” Jisung said, pushing a bowl over to him, “it’s my turn to tell you to eat.”

Minho ate until he was full, and then he ate some more. Between the three of them, they managed to do some good work on the dishes, and after arguing his way into letting them let him pack up the leftovers and wash the dishes, he leaned back into his seat with a sigh. Jisung’s mischievous smile was back, and he was standing awkwardly next to the counter, clearly hiding something behind him. Minho eyed him warily.

“I hope you saved room for dessert,” Jisung said, and Minho ahh’d in understanding. He raised an eyebrow. “Always.”

Together, like they had coordinated it beforehand — which, Minho considered, they probably had — his grandmother turned the lights off, and Jisung fumbled for something in one of the drawers. A lighter, Minho realized, as he lit the candle on a…

Cheesecake.

“No,” Minho breathed, a wide smile forming on his face. “Where did you buy that?”

“A little birdie told me that you might also like cheesecakes,” Jisung said, setting the cake down, and Minho cast a look at his grandmother. She ignored him, clapping her hands together.

“We’re here today to celebrate my grumpy grandson’s nineteenth birthday,” she announced. “Now, three, two, one. Happy birthday to you…”

Together, she and Jisung began singing the birthday song, and despite his best efforts, Minho felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes. He wiped them away furiously, gaze flickering between the two people he loved the most in the world. When it was time, his wish came to him as naturally as breathing.

I wish for their dreams to come true. I hope they are always as happy as I am right now. 

It only took him one bite. He looked at his grandmother first, eyes wide open.

“Is this my recipe?”

His grandmother smiled secretively. “Maybe.”

“You made this?”

She shook her head but seemed pleased, somehow. “It wasn’t me.”

“But it’s mine?” Minho took another bite. There were subtle differences in the texture, like the cheesecake hadn’t gotten quite enough time to sit and cool, but it was definitely his recipe. He had tasted too many versions of subtle tweaks to the ingredients and ratios to mistake it for another. Minho frowned and turned to Jisung. “You’ve had mine before. What do you…”

Jisung was staring directly at him, but when their eyes met, he looked down immediately. Minho followed his gaze down to his plate, where his slice remained, untouched. His grip on the fork was so tight his knuckles were turning white.

Jisung’s shoulders set, like he was steeling himself, and he looked upwards with a smile. “So,” he said, voice shaky under his false bravado. “What do you think?”

Everything came together all at once, and Minho’s breath left him in one sharp exhale. “No way.”

Jisung’s smile wavered.

“That bad?”

“You,” Minho said, voice shaky, “are going to make me cry twice in an hour. That might honestly be a personal record.”

He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. That wasn’t what he meant to say, but his thoughts were all over the place. “It’s really good,” he said sincerely, trying again, and delighted at the twin spots of pink that bloomed on Jisung’s cheeks. “Have you been hiding your secret talent for baking from me all this time?”

Jisung’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Definitely not,” he said, shy. “Your grandmother helped me a lot. You know I’m terrible in the kitchen.”

“The plan was never to make breakfast, was it?” Minho asked, and when Jisung nodded, he pressed his lips together and blinked uselessly to try and keep the tears at bay. It didn’t help much, and he reached for his napkin afterwards to dab at his eyes. In lieu of a response, because he didn’t trust his voice yet, he gave Jisung the silliest, widest smile, and Jisung immediately returned it.

They must have been quite the sight, Minho thought, both of them smiling like idiots while sniffling over their cake at the same time. It would’ve been utterly mortifying if he wasn’t so happy. As it was, Minho couldn’t bring himself to feel a single ounce of embarrassment. He almost wanted to giggle at the absurdity of it all.

“Happy birthday, hyung,” Jisung choked out, and Minho laughed wetly. It was more of a gasp for air than anything else. No words, he thought, could fully describe the rollercoaster of emotions he was feeling. Still, there were two more he had to say. He closed his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and meant it with every cell in his body.

When his grandmother went upstairs for the night, she came around to hug the both of them. Minho wrapped his arms around her and squeezed tight.

“Nineteen already,” she murmured. “You’re all grown up now. I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday.”

She moved to Jisung, ruffling his hair affectionately. “Don’t stay up too late. Good night, you two.”

And then it was just the two of them again, sitting across from each other at the table like almost every night before. They turned the lights off after cleaning up, but neither of them made any moves to leave, both of them reluctant to let the night end.

Minho leaned his head against his palm. Jisung was looking at him again with a familiar expression, and he let himself look back.

“I have one more gift for you,” Jisung said.

“More?” Minho put his hand on his heart and feigned shock. “You’re going to spoil me.”

“You could hate it.”

Minho smiled. “If it’s anything like your other gifts, I’d have to disagree.”

A shadow of a smile flickered on Jisung’s face. “You have to close your eyes for this one.”

Minho’s heart thumped in his chest.

“Okay,” he whispered, and did.

His first kiss had been with a girl he met in middle school whose name he couldn’t remember. Her lips had been a little sticky with her chapstick, and she had leaned over and kissed him lightly the last night of summer camp. It had only lasted a second, and when she’d asked him how it was, he hadn’t been able to lie to her. Weird, he had said, and then cringed and apologized. They had laughed it off and parted ways.

Kissing Jisung was definitely weird, but that was where the similarities ended. His lips were dry and hovered awkwardly afterwards, like he wasn’t sure what to do after the moment of contact. Hell if Minho knew. Books and movies had it all wrong, Minho was sure, because nobody ever talked about what happened afterwards. Jisung had taken his hand and flung them off the cliff. Now what?

Minho forced his eyes back open.

“Jisung,” he said, trying not to sound as scared as he felt. “Was that your first kiss?”

“Depends,” Jisung whispered back. His eyes were still closed. If Minho was nervous, then Jisung looked petrified. Even his eyelashes trembled. In the moonlight, Minho thought, foolishly, he looked like a statue. A weeping angel.

Minho exhaled slowly, carefully. “On what?”

“If you hate me yet or not.” Jisung’s voice was barely-there, so quiet that Minho almost wondered if he was supposed to hear it. But then again, his heart was pounding so loudly in his ears it was a wonder he could hear anything at all.

He should, Minho thought helplessly. He should push him away, tell him to leave, and lock the door. Jisung would get over it. Wouldn’t he? Being rejected hurt, but people got over their crushes all the time. They could be friends, regular friends who grew up and married other women and lived close to each other to visit occasionally or often.

Minho let himself think of his last year of school. If he pushed Jisung away now, Jisung would never have to know what it was like to stand in the teacher’s office, seventeen and sullen, while another boy’s parents swore up and down that their son must have been seduced and soiled by his promiscuous behavior, even though the other boy had been the one to ask for his number in the first place. He would never have to hear the whispers everywhere he went for weeks afterwards, or know what it was like for crowds to scatter whenever he stepped up. Nicer people would look at him in pity, others with derision. It was a disease for which there was no cure.

He had never even told his grandmother, too afraid to imagine the look in her eyes if she found out. He didn’t want to think of what Jisung’s family would think.

Needless to say, it was one of the reasons why he chose not to continue with school. But Jisung was different — slated to graduate early, with big dreams for being under the spotlight. He was too good to be tainted by them. And still, Minho had ignored what was growing between the two of them.

No, he thought faintly. He hadn’t ignored it. Selfishly, recklessly, he had encouraged it. And now it was too late.

Don’t you understand? Minho wanted to cry. I’m going to ruin your life.

The problem, as always, came down to his inability to lie.

“I could never hate you,” he said, and hated himself because it was true. The depth of his desire horrified him.

Jisung’s eyes opened. He blinked at Minho and then kissed him again, a lightning-fast advance and retreat. It made Minho dizzy.

“What about now?” Jisung asked, voice small. “What if I want to do that again tomorrow?”

Minho shivered. “Just tomorrow?”

Jisung’s face grew to be a lovely shade of red. “Not just tomorrow,” he said, and buried his face in Minho’s chest. “But maybe we can take it day by day,” he mumbled.

Day by day.

Despite himself, despite everything, warmth unfurled in Minho’s chest. Everything was always so simple with Jisung. Hope was stupid and dangerous, but Minho looked at Jisung and felt it flicker in his chest once more.

“Okay,” he whispered back.

So they had fallen. He wanted, he decided, to see where they would land.

“By the way,” Minho whispered into Jisung’s ear before he left, “you’re terrible at kissing.”

It was true, but that wasn’t why he said it. Mostly, he just wanted to see those eyes, bright and guileless, as they turned to look into his own.

“That’s not fair,” Jisung breathed. “You know I’ve never done it before.” He blinked, slow and mesmerizing. “Are you going to teach me?”

Something dark and possessive slithered its way into Minho’s stomach. He was the only person Jisung had ever kissed, and even though it was gross and unreasonable, part of him was deeply satisfied at the thought of keeping it that way.

His answering smile was all teeth.

“Oh, you’ll see.”

Jisung was a fast learner. Minho supposed that he must have been, to be such a good student in school. It made sense that kissing would be no exception, although when Jisung admitted that he had watched videos beforehand to prepare — “for reference, hyung, stop laughing!” — he’d laughed so hard he had been wiping tears from his eyes. They went with a more hands-on learning tactic after that.

It also helped that Jisung was very, very enthusiastic, insisting on practicing at every available moment. He almost always came early in the mornings now, showing up and batting those stupidly long eyelashes at Minho until he got his so-called morning kiss. At the counter, against the wall, sitting side by side, again and again and again…there had been more than a few evenings that Minho had had to forcibly pull himself back, holding Jisung’s hands away from him and laughing at the affronted look on his face.

It got harder and harder, but he always sent Jisung home afterwards, no matter how much he wanted him to stay. Lying in bed, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from remembering Jisung’s sparkling eyes, his heart-shaped lips, the sounds he made…he would fall asleep to thoughts of Jisung, squeezing his pillow tightly. Dreaming about Jisung was nothing new, but waking up and getting to kiss the very same boy good morning certainly was. 

A pinch to his side brought him back to reality. Jisung was pouting.

“You should pay more attention to me,” he said, sulky and adorable. “I waited three whole hours for you to close, and you’re spacing out now?”

Minho smiled and pulled him back. He had been very patient. They had closed later than usual today, with a larger party coming in half an hour before closing time, and when 8 p.m. came and went, he had thrown Jisung an apologetic look as the last few dishes of their order finally went out. It’s okay, Jisung had mouthed, waving him away, and had brought their own dinner bowls to the oven to keep warm.

The bowls were still there now, untouched, while their mouths were a little busy doing something else.

“Alright,” Minho laughed, and nipped at Jisung’s lips. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking about you.”

Jisung blushed but rolled his eyes. “I’m right here.”

In Minho’s opinion, this — flushed, a little dazed — was his best look. “You sure are,” Minho all but purred, fully intending on taking advantage of that fact, and leaned back in.

Jisung’s mouth fell open as he sighed. His lips always opened so beautifully for him, Minho thought greedily, and kissed Jisung like he deserved, like he wanted to devour him, until both of their lips were red and tingling.

Eventually, his stomach betrayed him by growling, and they parted, laughing, to retrieve their dinner. Even then, Jisung managed to sneak in a few surprise attacks, the most ridiculous one being when Minho was eating his watercress. Hurriedly, he slurped up the stem and shoved it to the side of his mouth while Jisung kissed him. When he tried to complain afterwards, Jisung laughed himself silly at the little leaf that had gotten stuck on his teeth, then proceeded to lick it off.

“Are you a dog?” He asked, aghast, and Jisung winked at him and kissed his cheek sloppily. His breath smelled like garlic and sesame oil. It was disgusting. Appalling. Unsanitary. It was the most fun he had had in years.

“Eat your own food,” Minho moaned, and looked warily at Jisung when a wide smile split across his face.

“But I am,” Jisung said, blinking innocently at him, and blew him a kiss. Minho’s ears grew hot as he processed the innuendo, and he punched Jisung weakly. Jisung’s only response was to wink again, lean in, and blast his garlic breath right in front of Minho’s face.

Minho’s nose wrinkled at the smell. He tried to feel annoyed, and knew that he was well and truly done for when all he could muster up was an exasperated fondness.

Kissing Jisung in the kitchen was dangerous because anyone could walk in, so they only kissed there before opening and after closing. Kissing Jisung in his bedroom was dangerous, too, but for an entirely different reason. He had no desk nor chair in his bedroom, just his bed and a small nightstand. Two boys, four long limbs, and one twin-sized mattress — the math spelled out a recipe for disaster.

Sometimes in the mornings, Jisung was there before he went downstairs. Most of those times, Minho managed to relocate them to the kitchen so he could start preparing breakfast before Jisung had to go. On one notable weekend morning, Jisung straddled his lap, pressed him right up against the wall behind his pillow, and kissed him breathless.

“You’re getting way too good at this,” Minho said, raising an eyebrow, and Jisung puffed up his chest and grinned.

“I learned from the best.”

They made out until Minho was achingly hard. Jisung sitting right on top of him, shifting in his lap and letting out the hottest sounds he’d ever heard in his life, definitely didn’t help.

“Baby,” he gasped, resting his head on Jisung’s shoulder. His head was spinning. “Please. Slow down.”

Jisung groaned audibly. “Did you just call me baby?”

“Ah,” Minho said, and tried to will his heart rate to slow down. Had he? He had. “Yes?”

“I liked it,” Jisung said, shy and pink, and Minho pulled back to look at him.

“Yeah?”

Jisung’s blush grew. “Yeah.”

He was adorable. Minho smirked and leaned closer to his ear. “Okay, baby.”

“Hyung,” Jisung whined, kicking out at him in protest. Then, later, softer, “hyung,” a soft plea. It was a true exercise of restraint to keep everything above the waist, and there were moments when Minho truly thought he was going to lose it, but he managed it. Barely.

They ended up skipping breakfast that day.

Later that week, Jisung discovered just how flustered Minho got when he was called any pet name — baby, darling, angel — and gleefully added them to his rotation. Being in the kitchen with Jisung had been bad enough when he was just trying to annoy him, months and months ago. Now, cooking was hell, because all Jisung had to do was slide up while Minho was busy and call him darling in that voice of his, and every time Minho gritted his teeth and pretended like it didn’t affect him as much as it clearly did, Jisung would laugh and do it again.

Eventually, without him realizing, he stopped worrying about what was going to happen to them. Jisung still teased him in the kitchen, and they still had their nonsensical conversations over dinner. He still felt affection, so deep it cut him to the bone, when he looked at Jisung. The difference was that before, he hid his gaze behind flimsy excuses — a particularly funny joke, a prolonged goodbye. Now, he looked as long as he wanted, and when they kissed, he recognized the look in Jisung’s eyes because it was the same as his own.

For a few, fleeting weeks, life was a dream. Time slipped away from him, careless, until he let his guard down and stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He should have known it was too good to be true.

Jisung was fine. Jisung was perfect as always. When the dream ended and he woke up, Jisung was the one that found him in the hospital a week later when his grandmother collapsed outside her room.

He had taken one look at Minho and knew.

“Hyung,” he said gently, kneeling with him and gently shaking his shoulders. “I’m here.”

Minho fell into him, and Jisung held him as he cried.  

Grief wasn’t loud and violent like it was in the movies. Instead, it was quiet, like someone had taken the dial of his life and turned the vibrancy down to zero. Grief was marked by the absence of sound, of emotion.

Jisung had been the one to talk to the doctors afterwards. He was with Minho when they both said their last goodbyes, and comforted him as much as he could when they sat next to each other on the subway. Even then they tried not to touch too much, too afraid of what other people would see. Fear managed to find a place to carve itself amongst all his grief and despair. He sat in his seat and gripped the bar in front of him, back straight and knuckles white. He wanted to hold Jisung’s hand and he wanted his grandmother back, two things he could not have.

The subway car rocked, and the memories flashed in quick succession: the way his fingers had slipped as he tried, desperately, to put his password in to call emergency services. The cool white tile of the hospital floor against his knees. For hours, he had knelt there, feeling numb. He couldn’t remember how long he had been there, only the way Jisung’s voice had filtered through all of the noise.

“Hyung,” Jisung said, and Minho’s head jerked upwards. Memory overlapped with reality. “We’re here.”

Minho took his hand and floated like a ghost all the way home.

Jisung was also the one who took the responsibility of informing everyone that the shop would be closed for a period of time. That meant that when Jisung was at school, Minho was completely and utterly alone for what felt like the first time in his life.

Sleep evaded him, but so did lucidity, and Minho spent the first three days in a haze, stuck in a place where his thoughts and reality bled together. If it weren’t for Jisung, he probably wouldn’t have eaten much either, but the first time Jisung tried to make him some soup it tasted so bad that he laughed until he cried. There, in the kitchen for the first time since his grandmother passed, they remade the soup together, with Jisung moving around the kitchen while Minho sat on a stool and told him how much of everything to put in.

When it was done, they drank it straight from the pot with a ladle, with Jisung insisting on him eating more with every turn. Eventually, so full he could almost burst, Jisung acquiesced, pouring out the remaining bit into a bowl and storing it in the refrigerator. 

Afterwards, Minho leaned his head against his hand, watching as Jisung scrubbed the dishes without complaint.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Jisung whispered when he was done, and disappeared for a few minutes when they were upstairs, reemerging triumphantly with a towel. His eyes were serious, movements slow and gentle, and when he wiped carefully at Minho’s face, the towel was warm. For some reason, that small, insignificant detail — that Jisung had taken care to run the water long enough for it to grow hot — almost made Minho burst into tears again.

Before he left, he hugged Minho for so long that one of Minho’s arms went numb.

“The rest of the soup better be gone by the time I’m here tomorrow,” Jisung threatened jokingly, but he was teary-eyed too. “Or else I’ll cook your best meats tomorrow for dinner and you won’t get to help me not mess it up.”

Minho smiled slightly, but it felt unnatural, like it didn’t belong on his face anymore. Jisung noticed — of course he did — and leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised, squeezing Minho’s hand. He stood at Minho’s door and watched him until his breathing evened, and left only then.

Knowing that it was coming hadn’t made his grandmother’s death any easier to deal with. She wouldn’t have wanted him to let everything fall into disarray, though, and for a while, that was the only thing that kept Minho up and on his feet. It had been her restaurant before he was even born, and Minho resolved that it would be hers still. So he kept going. After allowing himself two weeks to wallow, he squared his shoulders and marched into his grandmother’s room to clean and air it out.

Inside, everything was already neatly folded and arranged. He knew that his grandmother had made her preparations, but the sight of all of her belongings, labeled and packed neatly into two small boxes, still felt like a punch to the gut. Even after death, she found ways to be gracious and generous.

He only allowed himself the initial moment of weakness. As he stripped the sheets off of the bed, he refused to cry.

Jisung was with him, of course. Jisung had been with him every step of the way. He never pointed out the way Minho’s breath hitched sometimes while cleaning up, or his glassy eyes the first time he returned from grocery shopping. He said nothing now, his presence alone comforting enough. When Minho sagged onto his bed after starting the washer, he leaned his head on Minho’s shoulder and continued humming a quiet melody under his breath.

He didn’t deserve him, Minho thought, and his heart lurched painfully. Despite all the extra work he’d had to pick up, Jisung never once complained. When Minho was unresponsive or irritable, he simply took it in stride. He must have been exhausted. And still he came, day after day, to make sure that he was eating and sleeping.

Minho looked up in preparation for what he had to say, because if he looked at Jisung, he really would start crying.

“I know this isn’t what you signed up for,” he started, “and that things couldn’t have been easy for you either.” He took a deep breath. “Thank you. And I’m sorry.”

With his peripheral vision, he could see Jisung staring at him, aghast.

“Are you apologizing for grieving?” He took Minho’s head in his hands, gently, and turned it towards himself. “I want to be here. You aren’t a burden to me.”

“Still,” Minho protested.

“Don’t,” Jisung said sharply, and Minho flinched. “It’s not selfish or irresponsible to grieve. I don’t only want you when you’re happy or carefree. I know who you are. This is my choice.”

His voice softened, and he pressed a kiss to the underside of Minho’s jaw. “I know we’re young and stupid or whatever, but I promise I know what I’m talking about. I don’t feel obligated to do any of this. I do it because I want to. I want to be with you today, and I want to be with you tomorrow. Even now. Especially now.” His eyes were wide and sincere, and sunshine trickled into Minho’s heart, liquid and bright.

Minho bit his lip, hard, to keep the tears at bay. “Okay,” he said quietly. “But I want to be there for you too. It’s not just me that’s hurting. I know you miss her too.”

Jisung sighed. “Of course I miss her. I loved her, but I, um, I mean. You know. I — Ialvoutoo.” He rushed through the last few words, and they all jumbled together as he ducked to hide in Minho’s sweater.

Minho’s breath caught. Inside of him, from the sun, flowers bloomed. They pushed their way upwards, crowding into his airways and making it hard to breathe. That sounded awfully like…

He was seized with the terrible need to hear it again.

“What did you say?”

“Um,” Jisung shifted awkwardly, avoiding his eyes. “I…I care about you a lot too.”

Minho’s hands were shaking. He fought the nervous urge to dig his nails into his palm and took a shaky breath. “I don’t think that’s what you said.”

They both knew what he had said. Jisung turned to look at him, and Minho could tell when Jisung saw that he knew, because his shoulders slumped slightly.

“Say it again,” Minho pleaded.

They stared at each other.

“I love you,” Jisung whispered, finally, and Minho exhaled unsteadily and tried to remember how to breathe.

Jisung kept going. “I didn’t know if this was the right time,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to say it back. I know it’s a lot, and I don’t want to pressure you into thinking you have to be where I am. But that doesn’t change how I feel about you, or that I mean it any less.”

His honesty hurt to hear. Minho closed his eyes and ached with how much he loved this boy. Didn’t Jisung know? He thought, almost hysterically. He had been afraid of drowning for so long he had forgotten how much he loved the ocean. How could he explain its vastness?

How could he describe something that he himself didn’t yet understand?

But he had to try.

“I’m terrified of how much I love you,” he said. He took one of Jisung’s hands into his own and tried not to squeeze too tight. “I’m not good at expressing myself. I don’t know how to let people in. But you —,” his voice broke, and he paused. His eyes were wet again, and he laughed. So much for not letting himself cry. “Goddammit.”

Jisung’s eyes were huge and round. Looking at the change in his expression was like watching the sun rise. “Hyung,” he said. He sounded stunned. Awed.

Minho shook his head. He had to finish. Jisung had to know.

“You see me in ways I don’t understand,” he whispered. “I don’t know how you let yourself in, but now there’s a garden, here,” — he placed Jisung’s hand on his chest — “and everything inside flowers towards you.”

“So I love you too,” he finished, dropping Jisung’s hand with a weak smile. “I think I have for a while. I was just scared. I’m…I’m still scared. But if anything happened to you, I don’t think I could live with myself if you didn’t know just how much I love you. I love you so much it hurts.”

Jisung surged forward to kiss him, hungry and desperate, and Minho whimpered, caught off guard. Then Jisung’s hands came up to frame his jaw as he straightened, guiding their mouths together over and over, and all of Minho’s limbs melted into goo. It was dirty and electrifying. He moaned into Jisung’s mouth, shivering helplessly when he felt Jisung’s hands flex involuntarily at the sound. His world narrowed down into wet and hot. It felt like he would’ve melted into a puddle if it weren’t for Jisung’s steady hold.

The kiss slowed. At some point in the distant future, he tasted salt on Jisung’s tongue and knew that he was crying, too.

“You,” Jisung gasped, “are incredible.” He looked at Minho, painfully adoring. “You really have no idea how other people see you. It’s not just me, baby. Everyone that gets to know you will love you. I’m just lucky enough to be here now.”

“I’m not — mmh —”

Minho whined when Jisung nipped at his lips. “You can’t keep kissing me to shut me up — ah —”

Jisung stroked his cheek smoothly while they kissed. He was smiling when he pulled back, small but genuine. “You love me.”

Minho’s heart pulsed in his chest. “I do,” he said quietly.

“And I love you,” Jisung beamed.

It was impossible and true, Minho thought dizzily. He really, really did love him.

He licked his lips thoughtlessly, and when Jisung’s gaze immediately dropped down, he threw his head back and laughed. He was happy, he realized. He had forgotten what happiness felt like.

“Come back here,” Jisung protested, but he was laughing too. It was harder to kiss when they were both giggling like the teenagers they were, but they managed it anyhow.

Happiness crept back with spring. There would always be hard moments, he knew, but more and more often, Minho could think of his grandmother and feel warmth alongside the sorrow.

And there was so much to celebrate.

“Your parents aren’t coming home for the new year?” Minho asked. “Salt?”

Jisung handed him the salt from where he was perched atop the counter.

“Nope,” he said. Minho searched for any hint of hurt in his voice and found none. Jisung just sounded resigned. “They’ve never really prioritized these holidays. I’m not even sure if they have the new year off since the holidays are different overseas.”

Minho frowned and stirred the pot, already readjusting his plans for the next week. “Well, we’ll just have to celebrate it together then.”

“I guess I could make do with you,” Jisung sniffed, then laughed when Minho reached out blindly to whack him in the stomach. “Kidding! Kidding. I was already planning on spending it with you anyway.”

“You were?”

Jisung scoffed. “Of course I was. I wasn’t gonna leave you alone on new year’s, babe.”

“Oh.” Minho’s ears warmed, and stayed warm, even as he turned the flame off and stepped away from the stove.

He really, really wanted to kiss Jisung right now.

Jisung caught his eye and grinned. “Later,” he said, and winked. “You have customers that need your attention right now.”

Minho’s cheeks flushed at how obvious he apparently was. “Shut up,” he grumbled, and rolled his eyes. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Jisung sang, and Minho could hear his laughter even as he walked away to serve the food.

As was customary for new year’s, the restaurant closed for three days. With Jisung also on holiday break from school, they had three whole uninterrupted days to spend together. It felt like an eternity. Together, they made rice cakes from scratch in the kitchen for their soup — well, Minho made them from scratch, and Jisung helped — with his grandmother’s recipe. It wasn’t his first year making them by himself, and he wasn’t even alone, but he still felt her absence keenly. When he taught Jisung how to mix the flour and knead the dough, it was almost like he could see himself in the kitchen, learning from his grandmother, so many years ago. When Jisung presented him with his lopsided rolls of dough, he thought of her and the way she used to lovingly tease him for his rice cakes, even after his skills had far surpassed hers.

It made him smile. He missed her.

The kitchen was a mess after Jisung was done, and Minho shooed him away from the rest of the foodwork, relegating him to cleanup duty as he cooked the rest of the dishes. Later, they ate together, and Jisung insisted on feeding him the first rice cake, lady and the tramp style.

“It’s not long enough,” Minho protested, and laughed when Jisung put the corner of the disk-shaped rice cake in his mouth anyway, looking at Minho expectantly until he gave in.

It should have been a logistical nightmare. But Jisung bit it in half decisively after Minho leaned in, and gave him a peck on the lips after they’d both swallowed. Dazedly, Minho remembered thinking that the rice cake was soft, but not as soft as Jisung’s lips. It was the alcohol, he thought, that was making him feel lightheaded. They’d poured themselves a glass each, just a little to celebrate.

“You’re corrupting the youth,” Jisung said with a smile, when Minho pulled out two glasses instead of one. Minho rolled his eyes and knocked his shoulder with his own.

He leaned in and kissed Jisung, for real this time. “Happy new year.”

“Happy new year,” Jisung said back to him, softly, and Minho smiled at him.

It was a happy new year, indeed.

Jisung graduated a few weeks later. Minho closed the restaurant extra-early so he had enough time to change and bus to his school. It was his first time going, and although Jisung had given him extensive instructions, he was still afraid he would somehow be late.

The forty-minute bus ride gave him plenty of time to think. He hadn’t brought flowers or a gift with him, but this had been discussed with Jisung beforehand. Neither of them were particularly interested in fueling any unsavory rumors, even if they were technically true. That didn’t mean that he hadn’t gotten them, though. The flowers were at home, a lovely mix of roses, tulips, and hibiscuses in his room. He already knew that Jisung would love them. The gift — which was more of an offer — was what worried him. 

He thought through it again. Jisung was already spending most of his time at the restaurant, and they ate two out of three meals together every day. Some of his belongings had already migrated over. The restaurant was located closer to the center of the city, where many of the audition centers were. They had an extra bedroom. He had slept over before.

There was no reason to think that Jisung would turn down the offer to stay with him, but it still made Minho nervous. Mostly, he was afraid it would look weird to others. There was no one in his life that would care, but when it came to Jisung, he didn’t really know what to expect.

No one would automatically assume the worst, he tried to reassure himself. Even if Jisung wanted to bring others back, friends rented two-bedroom apartments together all the time.

If only he knew how to just be Jisung’s friend.

Good thing there was a multi-hour ceremony coming up, he thought dryly. Perfect for practice.

As it turned out, he had nothing to worry about.

The second the ceremony was over, Jisung was running over to him and jumping into his arms gleefully. Minho tensed, only for a second, before relaxing and hugging him back. Around them, everyone was celebrating. No one was looking at him strangely. It felt nothing like his high school — different city, different people. He hadn’t even attended his own graduation. Still, it was hard to ignore the instinctive fear he felt, being with Jisung in front of such a large crowd.

“You came! I knew you would be here, but I couldn’t find you in the crowd until after we stood up. Did you see me?”

“Of course I came,” Minho said, baffled. It was almost all they had discussed in the past few days. He narrowed his eyes and punched Jisung in the shoulder. “You never told me you were ranked third in your grade!”

“Wanna know a secret?” Jisung leaned in closer, breath tickling Minho’s ear. “I could’ve been first, but I didn’t want to give a speech. Also, you get your name printed on that,” — he pointed at a row of plaques along the wall — “if you’re first or second, and I didn’t want that either.”

Minho rolled his eyes so hard his head hurt. “Whatever you say, superstar,” he said, and Jisung laughed and bumped their shoulders together, passing it off as a friendly gesture, before rocking backwards on his feet. They smiled at each other for a few seconds, before Minho looked down and coughed, feeling a little self-conscious as the other students ran around them, gathering to take pictures or exchange contact information. “Don’t you want to, um, greet other people? I can wait here while you do.”

Jisung blinked at him. “No…?” He said, as he gave Minho an awkward smile. “Honestly, hyung, I was with them all morning. The person I was looking for was you.”

Minho tried to fight his blush down. “Well, I don’t want to stop you from —”

“Jisung!”

The voice had come from behind him. Jisung’s eyes lit up, and Minho turned to see someone — she had been announced as the second-ranked student, his brain supplied helpfully — waving at them. When Jisung waved back, she made her way over and smiled at them. “We were looking for you! I think some of the others are back there. It’s really too bad that your family couldn’t come. I was worried you’d be by yourself.”

She turned her eyes onto Minho, large and inquisitive. “This is…?”

“This is a family friend,” Jisung laughed easily, and something in Minho’s chest lurched. “He’s been taking care of me.”

“Oh, that’s good,” she said, relieved. “Are you coming with us to karaoke?” She lowered her voice and put her hand on his arm, looking up at him coyly. “I think we’re getting a discount on soju.”

Jisung shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said, but he was still smiling. “I think it’s going to get a little rowdy, and you know I can get a little claustrophobic, so I think I’m going to pass. Plus, it takes me a while to get home.”

Minho’s heart sank. Jisung was ranked third in his grade. He had friends. He could have more than that — Minho could recognize the signs of flirting just as well as the next person, and this girl was clearly interested. In a few hours, Jisung could be going out with the rest of them and celebrating their newfound freedom. Have a few drinks, sing a few songs — maybe he’d even receive a confession or two.

Instead, Jisung was going to sit on the bus for an hour and then spend the rest of the day in his apartment.

Not for the first time, Minho wondered what the hell Jisung was doing with him.

“That’s too bad,” she frowned. Thankfully, she took a step back, and Minho felt like he could breathe again. “Well, you have my contact info. Reach out whenever!”

Before she could leave, Jisung reached out. “Wait —”

He held out his phone sheepishly. “Do you think you can get a photo of the two of us?”

Minho realized, belatedly, that Jisung was talking about him.

“Photo — oh!” She smiled brightly. “Yes, of course!” She took the phone and leaned back a little, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. Minho shifted closer to Jisung nervously.

“Smile! Three, two, one — yes, perfect! Hold on, another angle…done!”

Minho hoped that his smile didn’t look as awkward as he felt. “Thank you,” he said softly, echoing Jisung, and she turned to him, still smiling.

“No problem! See you around!”

With a wave and a turn, she was gone.

“Come here and look at the photos she took,” Jisung said, and pulled him in by the arm. Under his breath while he held his phone out, he murmured, “I already know what you’re thinking, and trust me, the best way I can imagine spending the rest of my day is going home and being with you.”

Minho swallowed, throat tight with emotion.

“So don’t even go there, okay?” Jisung swiped to the first picture, and Minho heard his quiet exhale. “Oh.”

She had taken a lot of photos that looked mostly the same, but this was the only one where they were looking at each other instead of the camera. It had clearly been taken before they were ready, almost like a candid shot. In it, Minho was halfway to a smile, shifting into his position. Jisung wasn’t smiling at all, just looking at Minho. His face looked open, soft. He didn’t look expectant, like he was waiting for Minho to come over. He was just — looking. His expression was serene, almost. Like he had found what he had been looking for. Like he could have waited a million years.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar expression. Jisung wore it every time he was around him. He had seen it so often that he’d forgotten how it looked. But the photo was ordinary, unbiased. It didn’t leave room for interpretation. There was only one word to describe Jisung’s expression, Minho thought faintly, and it wasn’t one that they could say out loud where they currently were.

Jisung wasn’t even looking at the photo anymore. Instead, Minho realized, he was looking at him.

It was the same look.

Whatever Minho couldn’t say, Jisung could read from his eyes. “I know,” Jisung said, voice barely a whisper. He cleared his throat and put his phone away with a small smile. “Let’s go back?”

Minho nodded, and together, they left.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten you said you had a gift for me,” Jisung said later, when they were on the bus. During the day, there weren’t as many passengers, and they were tucked away in one of the back corners, out of view from the bus driver and the few other people in the front. Minho was sitting in the window seat, with Jisung right next to him, and when Jisung’s hand crept over to his, he smiled and laced their fingers together.

On every bump, Jisung smushed himself a little further into Minho’s side, until eventually, his head was on his shoulder. Minho tilted his head to the side to look at him. “Do you want it now?”

“Now?” Jisung looked more alert. “You brought it with you?”

“It’s not a real gift,” Minho said, shrugging. “I can tell you now if you want.”

Jisung looked conflicted, like he couldn’t decide if hearing it now would ruin the surprise. His knee bobbed up and down as emotions flitted over his face. He really was an open book, Minho thought affectionately. Eventually, impatience won over, and he tugged on Minho’s hand. “Okay, then I want to know now.”

Minho’s fingers tightened unconsciously. “It’s just a question,” he said, and leaned over to whisper it into Jisung’s ear.

“Move in with me?”

Jisung’s knee stilled.

“Obviously you’ll still have your apartment, since your parents are paying for it, but you don’t have to travel back and forth so often,” Minho rambled quietly, nervous. “You can stay in my room or the other one, since it’s all cleared out now. And I’m basically cooking for you already. It’ll be easier for your auditions, too. You don’t have to stay every day if you don’t want to, but you could.”

He paused, holding his breath.

“Hyung,” Jisung whispered, and buried his face back in his shoulder. “Of course I want to. Are you kidding? What do you mean, not a real gift? This is the best gift you could’ve given me.”

Minho let out a huge exhale, relieved. Happiness bubbled in his chest, and he brought up his other hand to brush through Jisung’s hair.

“I don’t know,” he said, laughing quietly when Jisung batted at him weakly. “It’s not a physical gift or anything.”

“You have to stop doing this,” Jisung moaned, looking back up at him. He continued, hushed but earnest. “You always say things aren’t a big deal when they are. You don’t know how long I’ve thought about living with you. You’re the one that always tells me to go home! We could’ve spent all those nights together!”

“You were still a student,” Minho emphasized, mouth dropping open. “Don’t put it like that! You’re gonna make me sound like I stole you away.”

“You kind of did,” Jisung said, raising his hand to defend himself when Minho swatted at him. “Okay, okay! Sorry. It was all me.”

“It really was,” Minho muttered. “I didn’t even like you at first. You just kept coming back.”

“You were the cutest guy I’d ever seen,” Jisung said, under his breath. He sat up when the bus announced their stop coming up next. “Of course I kept coming back.”

Minho grinned at him. “You thought I was the cutest guy you’d ever seen?”

“I — well, yes,” Jisung sputtered. When Minho’s grin only widened, he huffed and crossed his arms. “You’re objectively very cute. I just noticed.”

“I can’t believe you liked me before you even got to know me,” Minho said, still smiling. “I could have been a terrible person.”

“I didn’t say I liked you back then,” Jisung grumbled, but he didn’t deny it. He eyed Minho curiously. “If you really thought I was that annoying at first, what made you change your mind?”

Minho thought back to when they met. When did he start to change his mind? Was it Jisung’s birthday, when he had spent days trying to perfect one of Jisung’s favorite foods? He had known then, for sure. Earlier, then, at the knife incident? But surely his mind had already changed by the time Jisung first kissed him on the cheek. Then, it had been even earlier, which meant —

“You were just being you,” he admitted, ears growing hot. “I don’t know. It didn’t take me very long either.”

The bus slowed to a stop. They made their way to the exit and got off.

“I knew it,” Jisung said with a proud expression, when they were on the sidewalk. “Nobody can resist — ow.”

Minho stepped on his foot mercilessly. “Shut up and walk,” he said briskly, and sped on ahead. His ears were still hot, but he was smiling, and he knew without looking back that Jisung was smiling, too.

(Jisung loved the flowers. Minho knew he would, and gave himself a pat on the back for choosing to get them anyway.)

Planning surprises got much more difficult after Jisung moved in, but Minho wasn’t the type to give up when things got hard. In the days leading up to Valentine’s, Jisung tried relentlessly to coax his plans out of him. It was all he would talk about — in the kitchen while Minho was working, in the bathroom as they brushed their teeth before bed, and once even in the middle of a makeout session that was getting heated, whining petulantly when Minho still refused to give away any of the details.

“Just keep your evening open,” he always said with a smile, to which Jisung would groan.

“Who else would I make plans with on Valentine’s?”

Some of his methods were more creative. Jisung had taken an interest in his grocery shopping list, like he would be able to derive a menu out of minor alterations to the pounds of food they purchased for the restaurant. When trying to talk him out of it didn’t work, Minho let him tag along when he visited various stores and vendors.

“It’ll be boring,” Minho said, for what felt like the hundredth time. He sighed. “These are all routine orders for the restaurant.”

Jisung crossed his arms. He had a copy of the list that he had scribbled over in his hand, circling certain items and crossing out other ones. “I don’t care.”

So they went. Five hours later, Jisung collapsed onto one of the tables in the front of the restaurant. “Why do you need so many onions?” He moaned. “How many onions can a person eat in a week?”

“And the pork,” Jisung continued, dismayed. “How many pounds of pork was that?”

Minho snorted from where he was sorting through everything in his notes. “I told you it was a regular grocery run,” he said. Unable to stop himself, he teased, “maybe if you look hard enough at six months’ worth of orders you’ll find the secret pattern.”

Jisung went quiet for a while, and when Minho looked up again, the paper pile in front of him had doubled in size. His heart twinged.

“You do realize that the list varies based on seasonality, right?” He said, making his way over to Jisung. “Hey.”

Gently, he pushed the papers to the side. “I was just kidding earlier. I’m not planning something that you can find out from these.”

Jisung sighed, looking back at the papers. It was, quite frankly, a mess, but Minho held himself back from saying that.

“Promise?”

Minho nodded. “I promise.”

Jisung’s shoulders slumped. “Okay,” he said quietly. “You’re just already doing so much every day. I don’t want you to feel like you have to prepare anything fancy for me.”

“I am busy,” Minho allowed, “but I like cooking for you too. Besides, you don’t have to worry about that this time.” He tilted Jisung’s chin up with his finger and smiled. “I promise it’ll be something equally enjoyable for the both of us.”

So maybe he had intentionally misled Jisung into thinking that he would be cooking for Valentine’s. It was worth the expression on Jisung’s face when he realized where they would be going, though.

“Sushi?” Jisung hissed at him, as the waiter led them to a booth in the back. He had been looking around ever since they got off the subway, eyes wide as he scanned each restaurant on the street. When Minho had slowed in front of a sushi restaurant, opening the door and dipping his head, his eyes had grown to the size of twin moons.

They sat, and Minho tried not to laugh as Jisung visibly held himself back from speaking. There was a long list of specials, and he nodded along almost frantically as the waiter listed them all off.

As soon as they were out of earshot, though, it all came spilling out.

“You should have said something about going to a nice restaurant,” Jisung bemoaned. “I did wonder why you were wearing your nice boots.” He opened the menu and let out a tiny sob when he saw the prices. “I’m at the most expensive restaurant I’ve ever been to, and I’m wearing sweatpants. My mom would cry.”

“Obviously I’m paying,” Minho rolled his eyes and hid a smile. “So that’s a non-issue. And it wouldn’t matter if you were wearing a suit or pajamas. I wouldn’t take us to that kind of restaurant.”

Jisung gave him a dubious look. “Is there some kind of internal restaurant network you have access to that I don’t know about? Because everyone here looks like they would care.”

Minho looked around. It was true that everyone else there was a little older than them, but he dismissed Jisung’s concerns with a wave. He had done his research beforehand and knew what type of restaurant they were in — a little more high-end, yes, but also more discreet.

“This is known for being a good place for privacy,” Minho said, “which is perfect. Nobody is going to be paying attention to us. I promise no one is looking at your sweatpants.”

“Except me,” he added, with a smirk. “And I think that they make your butt look very cute.”

Jisung covered his face with the menu and coughed, embarrassed. “Hyung,” he whispered, peeking at him from over the pages. “You can’t just say that in public.”

Minho shrugged and opened the menu. “Later then,” he said, smiling, and relished in the sound Jisung let out. “Do you know what you want to order?”

The sushi was delicious. Expensive, but rightly so, Minho thought. He snatched up the bill when it arrived, ignoring Jisung’s complaints as he paid.

“At least tell me how much it was,” Jisung said afterwards, on their way home, and Minho shook his head with a smile.

“More than you can afford.”

“Hey!”

Jisung looked around sheepishly, and relaxed when no one turned to look at them. “Hey,” he repeated, softer this time. “Well, I’ll just have to pay next time.”

“I’m not going to let you pay until you get a job,” Minho said. “Consider this your graduation gift.”

“Fine,” Jisung grumbled. “When I’m world-famous I’ll buy the both of us a house. Multiple houses. As many houses as we want.”

Minho’s heart jumped, like it always did whenever Jisung referenced a future with both of them in it. He was so confident, he thought wistfully, and so naive. Jisung had the impressive ability to simply believe that things were going to work out. Minho wanted to wrap him up and protect him from anything and anyone that would hurt him, but he was sort of the problem, too.

The world could be so cruel. Sometimes, he didn’t know if Jisung’s blind faith was a blessing or a curse.

Jisung had been right about everything so far, though. Minho exhaled slowly. There was no reason to worry about things that were out of his control, he told himself. This was something that Jisung was teaching him.

“I want at least four,” he said, and gave Jisung a small smile. “And a few vacation homes, too.”

“I’ll buy us one on each continent,” Jisung said immediately. He sounded so confident it made Minho giggle.

“Deal.”

Time, Minho realized, passed quickly these days. As the days went by, his photo album filled with pictures of Jisung. April was the small cluster of cherry trees near their alleyway. When they bloomed in the spring, petals drifted around them when they walked under it. July was nights warm enough to spend outside and the bus they took to the river. As the city slept, they sat in the riverfront park, talking about aliens and cake. Jisung liked finding constellations in the sky, and Minho liked watching the stars in his eyes.

September was the month of cheesecakes. It had become something of a tradition to bake a cheesecake for every occasion, special or not, and in the two weeks leading up to Jisung’s birthday, they taste-tested a cheesecake a day. Some were a hit — the raspberry-chocolate swirl was a favorite, and the one they ended up going with — and some were better left behind, like the spicy cheesecake they experimented with when Minho had too much leftover red pepper.

Jisung took one bite before bringing the napkin back up to his mouth and delicately relocating the remainder of the cheesecake into it. He was laughing even before his mouth was free. “Why did we think this would be a good idea?”

Minho wasn’t faring much better. “You —,” he paused, stomach hurting from laughter, “were the one that asked if there was a cheesecake I could make that wouldn’t taste good.”

This reignited another fit of giggles from Jisung. “Well,” he gasped, “we’ve definitely answered that one.”

There was an alarming amount of photos taken that month of Jisung eating cheesecake. He had a habit of squirreling food away in his cheeks while he chewed, and it was easy to sneak in a photo or ten when he was concentrating on something he really liked, like cheesecake. It was adorable. Minho briefly considered creating a new photo album just for pictures of him eating, then decided against it. It didn’t stop him from trying to take as many pictures as he could, though.

By the time October rolled around, Jisung had become exceptionally jumpy. He had a notebook that Minho knew he used to jot down small things — emotions, inspiration, lyrics and the like. Tiny bits here and there. He had taken to writing in it more often lately, which Minho probably wouldn’t have thought as much of had he also not been so…absent, in both the metaphorical and literal sense of the word.

Jisung didn’t always tell him where he went during the day, not that Minho needed or wanted him to. Sometimes, he was more forthcoming about his day — he was at the library, he was downtown, he was in the entertainment district to learn more about the timeline of a certain audition process. Other days, he was more tight-lipped about his activities.

“It’s a surprise,” he would say mysteriously, and Minho would roll his eyes and ask about something else.

This went on for a good few weeks. The day before his birthday, Minho stood in the kitchen, frowning into the sink. When Jisung came down, he kissed him mindlessly on the cheek in lieu of a good morning. There was nothing out of the ordinary — it was what they always did — but Minho still felt oddly empty as Jisung moved away.

He caught Jisung’s arm and tugged him back in. Jisung came easily, bracketing him against the counter, and they kissed again, soft and slow.

“Good morning,” Jisung said, after a minute, with a quirk to his lips.

Minho hummed and tried to appear nonchalant. “Any plans for the day?”

Jisung’s smile faded, concern shining in his eyes, and Minho sighed. He was terrible at subtlety. It really wasn’t his thing.

“I know you can tell I’ve been busy,” Jisung started, and brushed some of Minho’s hair back. It was getting long, Minho thought distantly. He needed a haircut. Jisung looked at him earnestly, and Minho felt his heart flutter.

“I promise it’s all for you. For tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Minho said quietly. He had figured, anyway. Feeling a bit silly, he added, “I don’t know why, because you’re literally here right now, but I miss you. Just a little bit.”

“Oh, baby,” Jisung said. “Have I told you how much I love you recently?”

Minho flushed. “I — you — yes?”

He had, in fact, done exactly that, less than twenty-four hours ago.

Last night, while brushing his teeth, Jisung had appeared in the doorway of their bedroom and asked him, very seriously, “ou-roh-owur-i-ouru-rah?” To which Minho had gaped at him and said, “sorry, what?”

Jisung had held up a finger and jogged away. Minho had heard the sound of running water for half a minute before Jisung came back and jumped into bed with him. He had tucked his arms around Minho’s waist and repeated into his ear, “you know how much I love you, right?”

Minho had blushed — probably as much as he was blushing right now — and said, “I think so.”

“Even if I get you a terrible gift?”

Minho had turned around to look at Jisung. “I don’t care what the gift is,” he had said, maybe a little too honestly. “I care about you.”

Jisung had given him the same look he was giving him now.

“I’m so used to people liking me for being good at things,” Jisung said quietly, “that sometimes I forget that you don’t care about all of that. Especially because you make me so nervous I can’t think straight.” A hint of a smile crossed his face. “I want to impress you so bad, and I’m also such a procrastinator. It’s a terrible combination. I’m sorry I made you feel that way.” 

Minho’s heart swelled up like a balloon. If he wasn’t careful, he thought, he was going to float through the ceiling and into the sky. He reached out to hold onto Jisung’s hand. What Jisung was saying made sense, though it was baffling that he hadn’t realized yet that he didn’t have to be anything extraordinary for him. Minho loved Jisung and all of his normal, ordinary self.

He told him so and Jisung ducked his head with a smile, small and genuine.

“You better think so tomorrow too,” he fake-threatened.

“Oh, well in that case,” Minho replied, pretending to consider it, and Jisung yelped in protest.

“Hyung — you just said —”

Minho laughed and let him go.

Regrettably, having one year to prepare didn’t stop him from screaming when he woke up to Jisung’s face hovering over his the next morning.

“Nothing like a warm welcome,” Jisung said, but his eyes were dancing with amusement. “It’s just me. You know, the guy you’ve been living with for half a year?”

Minho squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said faintly. “That one. I know who you are, I guess.”

He felt Jisung’s laughter as a soft puff of air against his neck. “Any more boys I should know about?”

“Just the one,” Minho said, cracking his eyes open to see Jisung’s teasing smile. He pushed himself up with one arm to kiss the smug expression off of Jisung’s face. “Might want to keep an eye out for him. He — mmh — has a thing for scaring me on my birthdays, apparently.”

“And morning breath,” Minho added, wrinkling his nose.

Jisung snorted. “I’ll be sure to look out for him.” He shuffled around into more of a sitting position, suddenly looking serious.

“Happy birthday, hyung,” Jisung intoned. “You’re not a teenager anymore. How does twenty feel?”

“Terrifying so far,” Minho muttered.

“Great,” Jisung said, grinning. “That means it can only get better.”

To tell the truth, Minho had already been feeling a little emotional before Jisung pulled out the guitar. After they’d finished dinner, Jisung had pulled out a cheesecake out of nowhere — “surprise,” he’d said, laughing at Minho’s expression — and given him the sweetest mini-speech about being two birthdays down in his grand plan to be with Minho for the rest of his life.

The cheesecake tasted much better than last year’s, and Minho knew that he must have been practicing, secretly. So that was the first thing. Then the guitar came out, and all hopes he’d had about not crying had gone down the drain.

His mouth fell open. “Where did you get that?”

Jisung had settled on the seat in front of him. His smile was bashful. “It’s mine.”

“You play the guitar?”

Jisung nodded, not meeting his gaze.

Minho’s head spun. “Since when?”

“Since middle school,” Jisung laughed, but his hands were shaking. He propped his notebook up in front of him, then cleared his throat once, twice. “Hah, okay. Ready for your, um. Your gift?”

He was so nervous, Minho thought, and was overcome with a wave of affection. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m ready.”

It didn’t take long. The tears started the second Minho realized what the song was about and didn’t stop coming.

Tell me about you. Name, age, where do you live? …too many questions, I know I’m being rude. I’ll cross the line just a little. I know I’m rambling. It’s my first time feeling like this.

My heart is trembling. Even if I try my best to stay calm, my voice shakes. My gestures are awkward. I’m loud without meaning to be. This is all I can say.

You shine through the crowd. Bit by bit, your form becomes clear. Now you’re all I see. I’m reaching out to touch you, hoping it’s not just me, hoping I’m not getting ahead of myself. I’ll get to know you slowly and steadily, even if it takes a long time.

In my empty heart there’s the warmth of spring for the first time. A flower bloomed right in the center. If you think I’m too much, I’m sorry, I’m just scared of letting you pass me by.

All of this is new to me. The emotions I’m feeling right now — they’re all here for the first time.

I just want to know you. Can you tell me, now?

I just want to know more about you. Can you tell me, now?

By the time the song ended, Minho was crying in earnest. The last note lingered, broken up by his sniffling, and he could see Jisung’s conflicted face through his tears.

“Uh,” Jisung said, setting the guitar down and scrambling over. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Minho sobbed. The distance between them was unbearable. He threw his arms around Jisung. He wanted to crawl inside Jisung and never leave, but settled for the next feasible alternative, which was being held.

Jisung could play the guitar. He could sing and rap. He had written, composed, and arranged an entire song by himself. He was cute and talented as hell. Minho knew then, instantly, that Jisung would have what it took to make it.

“What,” —  Minho landed a punch to Jisung’s arm — “the,” — another punch — “fuck?” He hiccupped. “I can’t believe you wrote a song about me.”

“You…liked it?” Jisung bit his lip, looking so unsure that it made another round of tears well up in Minho’s eyes. He nodded furiously. 

Jisung’s hands kept shifting around nervously, like he wasn’t sure where they should go. They settled eventually, one on Minho’s hip to hold him up and another wiping his cheeks one by one.

“We need to get you to those auditions,” Minho rasped, and Jisung laughed, startled. “You’re way too talented to be hanging around here. You could make me fall in love with a dictionary or something.”

In my empty heart there’s the warmth of spring for the first time. God.

Jisung shrugged. “I’m not that good. Sometimes I sit there for hours and get nothing down. It was actually getting really bad a year or two ago.” He lowered his eyes, shy. “But I’ve been pretty inspired lately.”

“Because of me,” Minho whispered, awed. “This song — is that really how you feel about me?”

Jisung’s expression had gone from damage-control awkward to happy-and-pleased awkward. “When we first met, yeah,” he admitted. “I didn’t love you then, but I think I knew I could. Now?”

He gestured towards the notebook, looking a bit shy. “I can write way more songs about the way I feel about you now. A lot of the stuff in there is about you.”

Minho’s mind flitted from one thought to the next. There was so much to listen to, so much to marvel over. So much Jisung had given him. He opened his mouth and nothing came out. Jisung had just poured his heart out in song, and here he was, struggling to manage a single coherent thought.

“I don’t even know what to say,” he whispered. He smiled helplessly. “You’re much better with words than I am. I wish I could write you the love songs you deserve.”

Jisung shook his head. “I don’t need any of that.” He laughed softly. “You’re my love song. That’s all I want. Just you.”

Words weren’t enough, Minho thought. Nothing would ever be enough to express how he felt. His heart was a bottomless pit inside of his chest. There was no limit to how much it could expand with what he felt, even as Jisung seemed determined to coax in torrential downpours. 

“You have me,” he sighed. “You have all of me.”

An uncountable, unfathomable infinity. Somehow, incredibly, Jisung understood.

I’m reaching out to touch you, hoping it’s not just me, hoping I’m not getting ahead of myself. I’ll get to know you slowly and steadily, even if it takes a long time.

He had his answer, Minho realized. He would never land. He was falling and he would fall forever, because there was no end. That was how infinities were. Limitless.

November was waking up to frost on the leaves outside and swapping out their wind jackets for thicker, warmer coats. It was unclear whether Jisung was motivated by the positive reception Minho had for his song or just the colder weather, but whatever it was, he began preparing in earnest for auditions after registering for a handful of companies. There was a small music store a few kilometers away that had mostly-empty display rooms, and Jisung would bus there and back on weekdays to practice.

Minho counted down the days to the first audition silently. Three weeks, two weeks, ten days. Then five, then two, then one.

They were in bed when Jisung turned over and took his hand. “I’m nervous,” Jisung whispered. “What if they don’t like me?”

Minho cracked his eyes open. “Then you’ll try again,” he said. “And again and again if you have to.”

“Right,” Jisung said. He sighed. “I’m not even scared of messing up. I can just make something up. I’m scared of them seeing exactly who I am and deciding I’m not good enough.”

Minho knew that was impossible. But that was the thing with fears — they were often irrational. He could tell Jisung how everyone that really saw him would love him. He could wax poetry about his voice, his talent. It would go in one ear and out the other. So he didn’t say any of that.

He yawned. “You could also get horrible food poisoning and throw up in front of everyone. You won’t. But just worry about that instead, since you know it’s not going to happen. Then you won’t have time to think about the rest of it.”

It was silent for a long while, so long that Minho wondered if Jisung had fallen asleep. He was halfway there himself.

“…hyung,” Jisung said eventually. “You’re so weird.”

Minho fought to stay awake. “I’m not,” he protested. “I’m just helping you come up with ideas.”

“You are,” Jisung said, but he sounded more fond than anything else. “I like it though. I like the way you are.”

“Well, in that case,” Minho said, eyelids drifting shut. “I guess I am.”

The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was Jisung’s soft laugh.

The next morning, it was Minho’s turn to be anxious.

“You’ll be back for dinner,” he repeated, and Jisung nodded. “Will they tell you immediately if you passed or not?”

Jisung tilted his head. “I don’t know. I think it can go either way. They could pull you out and keep you for another round, or they might call you later.”

Minho sighed. That was so complicated. “So you could miss lunch?”

Jisung’s audition was at noon.

“Uh, maybe?” Jisung sounded unsure. “But it’s fine either way. I’ll find something to eat if that happens.”

“Hmm,” Minho said, frowning, but he forced himself to take a step back. “Okay. Go. Don’t let me make you late.”

Jisung pouted. “Not without my good luck kiss.”

Minho huffed disbelievingly. “Get over here,” he said, rolling his eyes and pecking Jisung on the lips. “Good luck. Break a leg.”

“Now I can go.” Jisung smiled. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Famous last words, Minho thought.

When 6 p.m. rolled around, four whole hours after Jisung should have gotten home, Minho told himself not to worry. Being late was a good thing. It meant that they had wanted to keep him longer than usual, and anything out of the ordinary was good when it came to auditions.

Still, without Jisung and without work to keep him busy — the restaurant closed early on Sundays — he hovered, restless, around the apartment. They had started watching a show, something dramatic and silly with a love triangle, which was what he would usually be doing on a late Sunday afternoon, but the thought of watching it by myself wasn’t quite as appealing. Jisung was rooting for the character who was very clearly the second male lead, and half the fun came out of teasing him every time things went wrong between him and the love interest.

He had just cleaned on Saturday. He had finished preparing for dinner already. There was nothing to do inside the house, and he didn’t want to leave in case Jisung got back soon, so that left him where he was — on his bed, pretending like he wasn’t moping. He really needed some hobbies, he thought listlessly.

He hauled himself out of bed and went to check on the mail. It was a Sunday, he knew, but they didn’t get much mail, so he hadn’t checked in a few weeks.

He took the stack inside with him and started filtering through the letters. Half he threw away without opening. The other half he sorted into categories of “important” (bills), “wrong address” (with their restaurant being across the street from an apartment complex, this was an unfortunately common occurrence), and “other”. Setting aside the bills and letters to return, he went through the last category. They were mostly neighborhood flyers, which he skimmed through quickly. A few new stores were opening down the road. Something called “restaurant week” was happening — Minho checked the date — a month ago. Well.

He shrugged and kept going.

A few minutes later, he heard the door open. He stood, putting everything to the side as Jisung’s head poked into the kitchen.

“Thought you’d be here,” he said. He was practically vibrating with excitement. “Guess what?”

Minho blinked. “Good news?”

A grin stretched across Jisung’s face. “You will never believe what happened today.”

His stomach grumbled, and he paused, giving Minho a nervous smile. “Oops. I may or may not have not had lunch.”

Minho’s eyebrows scrunched together at that tongue-twister. It wasn’t that hard to decipher its meaning when Jisung’s expression gave everything away. “So you didn’t eat,” he said flatly, and ignored Jisung’s aborted attempts at explanation. “Then sit. Eat first, then talk.”

Jisung shoved the rice into his mouth and talked. Minho watched him, exasperated but fond.

“There were probably a hundred people there,” he emphasized, gesturing with his chopsticks. “And that was just how many I saw while I was there. I got there, got my number. 83rd. I’m looking at the people going into the room, and they’re in and out in like, forty seconds, tops. It’s moving really fast. And then when it’s my turn, I introduce myself, perform, all that good stuff. They say thanks but don’t spend any extra time on me, so when I come out, I’m thinking it’s over. I’m walking to the elevators when someone comes up behind me and taps me on the shoulder. They’re like — Han Jisung? I say that’s me, and they ask me to come with them.”

He paused, words jumbling together. Minho smiled. His excitement was contagious.

“Jisung,” Minho said gently. “Breathe.”

“Right,” Jisung takes a deep breath. “Okay. They take me up the stairs to another room with some of the same people and they tell me they really liked what they saw and ask if I mind staying a bit. Obviously I say yes. So I’m there for half an hour just chatting with them, and they’re a lot more engaged this time, asking me about everything from school to songwriting. Then they bring in two new people around my age and have me perform again.”

“Turns out,” Jisung continued, “those two are trainees, and the company’s been looking for someone to debut with them as a group of three. They called the two of them there because they wanted to test our chemistry together. So we just go back and forth for an hour or two talking about their vision and how all the pieces would fit together. It was…”

He trailed off, looking almost wistful. “Magical,” he finished. “We kind of lost track of time and they had to go, but they asked me to come by tomorrow. And,” he added meaningfully, lowering his voice, “I heard that they’ve been looking for a while, and they told me I was the first one they’ve really liked.”

Minho took a deep breath. Of course Jisung would pass on his first try, he thought. Not that he’d ever doubted him.

“Should I cancel your other auditions?” He asked, a smile playing on his lips. “It kind of sounds like you’ve already bagged this one.”

When Jisung groaned, telling him not to jinx anything, he laughed. “Congratulations,” he said earnestly. “I mean it. I always knew you’d be okay.”

“You really believed this would happen?” Jisung asked doubtfully. “Because I can’t even — I feel like this can’t actually be real. Like I hit my head and hallucinated the entire afternoon. When we were just brainstorming and playing off each other’s ideas…it just made so much sense. We all kind of have different approaches to music, but they all complement each other. Half of me still thinks I’m dreaming.”

“Han Jisung.” Minho held up a finger and Jisung stopped talking. “Listen to me. I have always believed that you would get what you deserved. So yes. There’s no way I could’ve known for sure what would’ve happened, but I’m not surprised at all that they liked you. If it could happen to anyone it would be you.”

Jisung stared at him. Seconds passed by. “I don’t deserve you,” he said quietly.

“Clearly what you think you deserve and what I think you deserve are very different,” Minho said. He narrowed his eyes and reached over in an attempt to knock some sense into Jisung’s head — literally.

He smiled, beatific. “And it’s a good thing that it’s not up to you.”

Jisung returned his smile somewhat helplessly. “Guess not.”

They did, in fact, end up having to cancel the rest of Jisung’s auditions. It was done and settled by the end of the year. Jisung was the newest and final member of what Minho had taken to calling “three peas in a pod,” since they were under strict orders not to reveal what their official team name would be.

Jisung complained whenever the nickname came up.

“Can you at least come up with a better name?” He sighed. “Three peas in a pod makes it sound like we’re a baby clothing store or something.”

“You were the one that said it had to do with food and started with a three,” Minho said primly. He raised an eyebrow. “What else am I supposed to call it?”

Jisung groaned. “I should’ve never told you that in the first place.”

Minho snorted. He wasn’t going to argue with that.

It was New Year’s Eve. They were sitting in front of the TV, with a few minutes left in the year, watching live footage of the city and waiting for the fireworks to start.

Spring, summer, fall, winter — despite everything that had happened close to a year ago, it had been, without a doubt, the best year of Minho’s life. That thought was much easier to swallow tonight than it had been, but it was hard not to feel guilty to some extent. He looked at Jisung and saw all the ways their lives had intertwined. He had Jisung’s favorite chopsticks set to the side in the kitchen. His other pillow was finally getting some consistent use. He had never been a sandwich type of person, but now he ate sandwiches together every morning with Jisung without ever getting sick of them. They had found a way to live between the lines, hide their love in plain sight. It was almost too easy. He hadn’t ever imagined allowing himself to have this kind of love, effortless and real.

They turned towards each other when the countdown from ten seconds started, eyes meeting before Minho smiled and closed his. He kissed Jisung throughout the countdown and into the new year, and he didn’t open his eyes again until he heard fireworks going off in the distance.

He smiled and tapped his glass against Jisung’s. “Last year of no drinking,” he said teasingly. “To the new year?”

Jisung was smiling too. “To us,” he added, and that, Minho could toast to.

Would it still be illegal, Minho wondered, if Jisung was tasting the champagne off of his tongue? And then Jisung was there, champagne-flavored kisses and warmth fizzing up inside of him like those golden bubbles, and he decided that it wasn’t all that important of a question, anyway.

After Jisung joined his company, everything seemed to accelerate. They were working towards a debut within the year, Jisung told Minho, and that meant long hours practicing and practicing and practicing. There were nights when Jisung got back late, later than Minho could wait. He had even taken to bringing his toothbrush with him, just so he could brush his teeth regularly regardless of where he was. It was apparently important, Minho thought dryly, that idols didn’t have bad breath. And although Jisung had his own keys and always let him know beforehand if he wasn’t going to be back for dinner, going to bed alone and hugging his pillow to sleep wasn’t half as satisfying as having the real thing.

Sometimes, by the time Jisung got back, it was practically time for Minho to get up. The first time that Minho woke up to Jisung crawling into bed around four or five was just a few weeks later.

“Just a few more minutes,” Jisung had mumbled, when Minho tried to shift his arm off of him. Minho pressed his lips together and stayed until Jisung’s breath evened.

It happened more frequently after that. Usually, Minho tried to stay until Jisung fell asleep, at least. Once, he woke up alone, and stared at the ceiling in silence. When Jisung got back that morning, looking dead on his feet, Minho had felt such a strong wave of anger that it left him breathless. He looked at Jisung and saw his dark circles. The weight he’d lost. Wordlessly, he let Jisung rest against the side of his body as he took him back upstairs to bed. Then, alone downstairs as the sun rose, he crouched on the floor and cried and cried.

He hadn’t wanted to bring any of it up, cognizant of the fact that a grueling lifestyle was all but required in the industry, but the strength of his anger had surprised, then scared him. Not all of it was directed towards Jisung, sure, but what he couldn’t bear was Jisung risking his health recklessly night after night. He hadn’t been eating properly, either, but Minho had overlooked that. Then the sleeping. Jisung was back downstairs just a few hours later, and Minho felt almost nauseous knowing just how much rest he had gotten. Virtually none.

When Jisung kissed him good morning, he held his shoulders back. “We should talk,” he said softly. “Not now, but later. Or if you’re busy tonight, then whenever you get a break.”

Jisung’s eyes widened. He looked scared. And so young, Minho thought. His heart ached.

“I love you,” Minho reassured him. “And I know you’re working hard because there’s a lot that needs to get done. But that doesn’t mean I’m not upset. I’m worried. You know why.” He sighed. “I don’t want to get into it now. You have to go.”

“Okay,” Jisung whispered. “I’ll try to come back tonight.”

He pressed his lips together. “No, I will,” he said, correcting himself. “I’ll — I’ll be back.”

Minho gave him a smile. “Okay.”

“I love you,” Jisung said, a bit timidly, before he turned to leave.

Minho’s smile turned wistful. “I know, baby,” he said. “I love you too. So much.”

True to his word, Jisung was back before midnight. Since he didn’t eat dinner at home anymore — something about a stupid diet the company was putting them on — they skipped the kitchen and went straight upstairs.

Even though he’d had the entire day to think about how he wanted to phrase things, he hadn’t exactly been prepared to look at Jisung’s expression the entire time, stricken and ashamed. Minho looked up and tried to remember what he had wanted to say.

“I’ve come to realize that I love you,” he said slowly, “so much more than you love yourself.”

Jisung flinched.

“And that’s okay,” Minho continued, throat feeling tight. “I want what you want. But I have to draw the line somewhere. And when you go to bed near 7 in the morning and have to be back down by 8:30, and you’re shaking because you haven’t slept enough or eaten enough in months —”

He inhaled shakily. “I’m not asking you to get eight hours of sleep, even though I wish you would,” he said pleadingly. “I just want to know that you won’t collapse in the middle of the day because you’re not even drinking enough water to meet some bullshit weight goal. I want you to be able to look me in the eyes and tell me, honestly, that you aren’t sacrificing your health in a way that’s irreversible.”

“Please,” he begged, looking back at Jisung, “if you won’t do it for you, do it for me.”

Jisung’s eyes were red. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry. I know you’ve noticed. I was just handling things, probably more poorly than I should’ve been, but you’re right. I didn’t think about how you felt and I —”

He choked up. “I hurt you. I really —”

Jisung blinked, eyes wet, and Minho made a hurt noise, reaching over to brush them away.

“I love you,” Jisung said, voice trembling. “Hyung, I can’t — I love you so much. You know that, right?” He reached up to hold Minho’s hands. “I’ll do better. Promise me you’ll always be honest with me, even if it’s bad. I can’t hurt you. I can’t.”

When Minho tried to flex his fingers, Jisung held on tighter. His eyes shone with tears. “Promise me you will.”

“I promise,” Minho said. He kissed him gently. “I’m telling you now and we’re talking through it. Just because I’m upset doesn’t mean I love you any less. I don’t even think I know how.” He gave Jisung a small smile. “I feel it too, baby. It only hurts this much when you love enough.”

Jisung smiled shakily back. “I guess we both love each other a lot, huh?”

“Now and forever,” Minho swore. “And don’t you forget it.”

They fell asleep holding onto each other, and when Jisung woke him up earlier the next morning and told him, sheepishly, that he had to go, Minho sighed and said, “at least promise me you’ll have breakfast that’s not just one fruit. Something with an egg.”

Jisung bit his lip. “I promise,” he said eventually, and Minho nodded and chose to believe him.

Later, he sat and ate his breakfast sandwich at the counter and tried not to feel so alone.

Life couldn’t always be picture-perfect. But there was good in the bad, and bad in the good. Of course there was. And the good was so good.

It had been a good week. Their debut date had been decided, Jisung told him excitedly, and they were getting the weekend off — a two-day break. They were sitting in the kitchen, and Minho was cooking dinner for the both of them for what felt like the first time in months. Maybe it really had been months, Minho thought dazedly.

But more importantly, their managers had given them the green light on their pre-release singles. The plan was to release individual singles, one after the other. According to Jisung, this would build visibility around the three of them before their debut. It was also a way for the company to assess the public’s reaction to each of them, while highlighting their songwriting and producing abilities. Apparently, the other two members had submitted their songs a few weeks ago and had them approved, while Jisung had been working on his. And his song was none other than…

“I mean, I didn’t even realize that his computer still had your song on it. I thought I’d deleted it after I fiddled around with producing it months and months ago. But then they say, this is the best one you’ve brought,” Jisung said disbelievingly. “Hyung, can you believe it? All those songs we worked on, week after week, and when I play the wrong song by accident, that’s the one they like.”

Minho paused his chopping, turning to look at him. “The one you sang to me?”

Jisung nodded, his excitement obvious. “They said they really liked it, and,” he paused, eyes sparkling, “we’ll release mine first.”

A rush of emotions passed through him. The first thing he thought was — two whole days. It had been such a long time since they’d had that kind of time. Then there was the song.

“That’s amazing,” Minho breathed. “Congratulations —”

He yelped as Jisung pulled him into a hug, dropping what he was holding onto the cutting board with a clatter.

“Watch the hands — watch the knife — baby, at least let me take my gloves off,” Minho laughed, trying and failing to push Jisung away. They spun around the kitchen, with Minho giving up eventually and propping his elbows up on Jisung’s back. His happiness was contagious, and they were both grinning widely by the time they paused, pressed up against the counter after awkwardly waddling there, arms hooked around each other. Minho took the opportunity to take his gloves off, throwing them haphazardly to the side while Jisung held onto him.

Jisung was humming the song happily, and they swayed side to side. “Now I guess the world’s gonna hear your song,” His grin turned small, secretive. “They’ll never guess what it’s about.”

“Let me guess,” Minho said. He made a show of looking around. “It couldn’t be about food.”

Jisung’s widened his eyes, playing along. “No, it wouldn’t be about that.”

“Hmm.” Minho tilted his head. “About your fans?”

“I guess so.” Jisung’s eyes glimmered as he mirrored Minho’s position, head turned to one side. “Maybe one fan in particular.”

“They must be very lucky,” Minho said, eyes dropping to Jisung’s lips.

“Believe me,” Jisung said, breath fanning across Minho’s face, “I’m the lucky one.”

Their lips met, and they kissed slowly and sweetly, savoring the moment as it was. The excitement had dimmed into a softer sort of satisfaction, like a simmer instead of a boil. Minho had never been so proud, so disgustingly in love. It was dizzying.

“I always knew you could do it,” Minho murmured, in between breaths, and felt the curve of Jisung’s smile against his. “My superstar.”

“Mm,” Jisung agreed, and nipped at his lips playfully. “All yours.”

“What was it, again…your heart trembles?” Minho teased. “Your voice shakes? Do I still make you nervous?”

Jisung looked at him, eyes so warm it felt like he was melting. “Always.”

Minho’s cheeks pinkened at his sincerity, and he brought his hands up to cup Jisung’s face.

“Come here, you,” he said tenderly, bringing Jisung’s face back so he could kiss him again. He sighed. It felt like his heart was going to overflow and spill everywhere on the floor, like he would drown right then and there if he wasn’t breathing the same air as Jisung for even a single second.

“I’m so proud of you,” Minho whispered.

“This is all because of you,” Jisung said. “Without you, the song wouldn’t exist.”

Minho shook his head. “It didn’t have to be me. You could’ve written the song about someone else.”

Jisung gave him a wry smile.

“I don’t think you realize how many songs we had to write for them,” he said. “Dozens. Maybe hundreds. And they were all rejected, one by one, week after week. They kept saying that something was missing. I didn’t know what they meant, but I get it now.”

His eyes softened, and Minho just knew he was about to say something that would make him cringe or cry. Maybe both.

“Loving you is the truest thing I know how to do,” Jisung said quietly. “The version of me you see is the best person I can be. People will hear your song and know that I felt so much, so deeply, that I had to make it permanent through art.”

There it was, Minho thought. He sniffed, already feeling a little teary.

“It couldn’t be anyone else,” Jisung said, and kissed his eyelids, one by one, before kissing him, so soft and gentle that it almost broke him. “It could only be you.”

If it were up to him, Minho thought, Jisung would have spent his mini-break doing nothing but sleeping and lazing around. He’d updated their hours as soon as he’d heard and put up a sign that they’d be closed over the weekend. Truthfully, his only plan had been to let them sleep in. Maybe breakfast in bed.

But it was Jisung that woke him up early the next morning just before the sun rose.

It took him a few seconds to take everything in, during which he was poked at least three more times. On the fourth poke, he groaned and rolled over to see Jisung sitting next to him, already fully dressed. 

“Are you out of your mind?” Minho rubbed his eyes in disbelief. “It’s not even seven.”

“Baby,” Jisung coaxed. “The weather is so nice right now. Don’t you want to go outside?”

Minho gave him a deadpan stare. “Not at six in the morning, no.”

Jisung pouted. “But there’s so many things I’ve wanted to do for a while,” he said. “I haven’t had the time in so long.”

His voice grew quiet. “I want to go with you, hyung.”

Any of Minho’s remaining resistance melted away like ice under the sun. What else was he supposed to say to that?

Minho looked to the left. Then to the right. Then he did a full, 360-degree sweep, just to be sure.

“You dragged me into the subway at seven,” he said slowly, “just to take me…here?”

Here was a small coffee shop tucked away on the fourth floor of a building in the middle of a relatively slow street. They were the only two people inside. Even the employee, who had handed the two of them their coffees at the front, had disappeared into the back. With the way Jisung had kept checking each stop on the train, Minho had thought that they were going somewhere…bigger. He honestly had no idea where they were.

Jisung nodded, sipping at his coffee. “How is it?”

Minho mirrored his actions, also drinking a bit of his coffee. It tasted fine, but it wasn’t anything extraordinary. It was just…an iced americano.

Jisung was looking at him expectantly. Minho gave him a tentative smile.

“…good?”

He exhaled silently in relief when Jisung’s expression turned pleased. “I think so too. I heard it was pretty good.”

Minho despaired a bit, internally, at the mediocre coffee that Jisung must have been drinking. Compared to the coffee machines that office buildings typically had, he supposed that this would be considered more high-quality. To be fair, the coffee really wasn’t bad, although if he had to guess, it was probably overpriced. Jisung had insisted on paying, so he didn’t know for sure.

Jisung seemed to be waiting for something. A few minutes later, he made an aha sound. When Minho looked at him, curious, Jisung pointed behind him, eyes bright. “Look.”

His eyes were literally bright, Minho realized. Behind them, they had a perfect view of the sunrise.

“Wanna go out onto the balcony?”

Obviously the answer was yes. Checking that the employee was still in the back, Minho took Jisung’s hand instead of responding and pushed open the sliding door to the balcony. It was a little breezy outside, just enough for it to feel cool but not chilly. And the way the sunshine was peeking over the clouds, spilling across the city — there was nothing like it.

They drank their coffee in relative silence. It was nice, if a bit quiet, but that was part of the charm. The city was still sleeping. The sky was beautiful and golden.

Jisung was right, Minho thought. The coffee wasn’t bad at all.

“What’s this place called again?”

“Um,” Jisung said. “I’m not sure.”

Minho laughed, surprised. “Didn’t you want to come here?”

“I forgot, okay?” Jisung shrugged and waved it off. “We’ll look at the sign on the way out.”

Jisung got to pick the coffee, so Minho insisted on choosing where they ate breakfast. Forget being a good boyfriend, he thought grimly. He would’ve utterly failed at being a good friend if he didn’t at least get some warm soup inside Jisung for breakfast. They finished around ten, and when Jisung checked the time, he gasped.

“Perfect timing!”

Perfect timing for what?

“Wait,” Minho said, eyes widening as Jisung stood up to go. “Wait, Jisung, we still have to pay  —”

“Oh, we’re good,” Jisung said. “I paid when we got here.”

Minho blinked, startled. “You…why? You already paid earlier.”

“Why not?” Jisung gave him a disarming smile. “You’re always treating me. Let me return the favor.”

So this was Jisung’s secret plan, Minho thought hysterically. To trick him with a nice and relaxing start to the day, before plotting his murder.

“It’s just a roller coaster,” Jisung said, but his voice was shaky too. “We just have to get up there.”

They weren’t even on the ride. To get there, they’d have to make it to the top floor first. They had already gone up five flights of stairs, with only one left, but Jisung might as well have asked Minho to ascend all the way to the heavens above.

The people on the ground beneath them looked so small. Minho’s stomach swirled.

“I’m gonna throw up,” he muttered.

Jisung snorted. “I didn’t even know you were scared of heights.”

“Being scared of heights is a perfectly normal fear to have,” Minho retorted. His knees wobbled, and he doubled down on his grip on the handrail. “I don’t see you doing much better.”

He really wasn’t. At least he was still standing, Minho thought. Jisung was hunched over, panting, with his hands on his knees. He looked like he was two seconds from getting on his hands and knees and crawling the rest of the way up.

“I never said I wasn’t afraid of heights.” Jisung’s voice was comically high-pitched. He shivered. “Okay. Come on. We can do this.”

Slowly, he took one step forward. Then another. He looked back at Minho with a tight smile. “Are you coming?”

There was no way he was about to let Jisung beat him to the top. Minho took a deep breath and put one foot in front of the other. Don’t look down, he told himself, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Eight hours and way too many near-death experiences later, they stumbled out of the park. Somewhere in between the third and fourth hour, Minho’s voice had gone hoarse from all the screaming. The worst ride, he thought, had been the one that dropped them straight down. Because the line for it had stayed relatively short, Jisung, who had clearly also been scared to death, made them ride it not once, not twice, but three times. Minho shivered at the memory. The ride that flipped them upside down and rightside up again over and over was a close second. There was a trash bin right next to the ride, and Minho had been convinced that its strategic placement was due to how likely the ride was to make everyone sick.

He had experienced enough roller coasters to last him for the next year, at least. Maybe the rest of his life.

Now, they sat on a bench together while waiting for the subway to come. It was pretty crowded inside of the station, which gave them a good excuse to squeeze together, for which Minho was glad. He was still waiting for his heartbeat to return to a normal tempo.

“Aren’t you glad we came?” Jisung asked, then burst into laughter at the look on Minho’s face. “Wow. I can really tell you had the time of your life today.”

“I genuinely thought I was going to die,” Minho deadpanned. “You might be talking to my ghost right now.”

“Hi, Minho’s ghost,” Jisung said, with a sly smile. “Not sure if your body’s gonna find its way here before the train arrives. He could still be stuck somewhere on the top floor of some tower. We might have to leave him here.”

“Oh, shut up,” Minho laughed. “Like you were any better. It took us fifteen minutes to get to the top of the first ride.”

“I won’t deny that,” Jisung said, shuddering. “That first one was killer. I think it might’ve been the tallest one in the whole park.”

Another person sat down on the bench, and Jisung scooted even closer to him. Their bodies were pressed together now, shoulder to thigh, and Jisung put his hand down near Minho’s discreetly so that their fingertips were touching.

“I can’t believe you’ve never been to an amusement park,” he mused. “What did you think?”

“Really,” he added, rolling his eyes good-naturedly when he correctly predicted Minho’s joking answer. “Did you actually have fun?”

Minho thought about it. There were very few rides that he hadn’t been terrified of, but most of them had been fun too. It had been an enjoyable experience overall, and of course had been made better by the fact that he had been with Jisung.

They had split a shitty pizza for lunch and walked around for a bit without buying anything. There were so many other people there that nobody had looked twice at how close together they were. Now, sitting side by side, he could almost pretend like they were any other couple.

“Yeah,” he said honestly, and Jisung’s face lit up. “I did. Did you?”

Jisung looked up. One of the lights on the ceiling was flickering, and its reflection glimmered in his eyes. “Of course,” he said softly. “Today was the kind of day I want to remember forever.”

The sound of wind in the train tunnel grew louder as the overhead speakers announced the arrival of the train. Jisung stood and grinned at Minho. “Ready to do it all again tomorrow?”

“You can’t be serious,” Minho groaned.

Jisung winked at him. “Oh, you’ll see.”

To Minho’s despair, Jisung hadn’t been kidding. Their second day started just as early as the first. Minho sorted through his clothes with a sigh. He had wanted to wear the hoodie that Jisung had on.

“You always do this,” Minho groused. Jisung had the terrible habit of forgetting his hoodies at the company, and had started wearing Minho’s whenever he came home. Worse yet, he had left one of Minho’s favorites at the company too. He had searched for that one for a few weeks before he realized what had happened.

“Yours are softer,” Jisung blinked at him. “I’ll give it back to you tomorrow..”

Lies, Minho thought fondly. He really should have made Jisung pay him back. Instead, he sighed and went back to closet-hunting, making a note to do laundry. Surely there was something he could wear.

When a painfully familiar subway stop approached, Minho looked at Jisung in horror.

“There’s no way you’re getting me on those rides again.”

Jisung laughed. “We’re not going to the amusement park this time. I swear,” he said, holding out his pinky. Reluctantly, Minho held out his own and locked the two of them together. “No rides this time.”

Despite what Jisung said, he didn’t relax until they had bypassed the entrance to the amusement park. After that, though, it didn’t take him long to realize where they were going. When the ice rink came into view, Minho felt himself get excited, and Jisung shot him an amused glance as they lined up to get their rentals. When he finished lacing up his skates, he got up and skated a slow, easy circle around the bench Jisung was sitting on.

“How did you know?”

Jisung was still tying his shoes, and looked up at Minho when he asked.

“…I didn’t,” he said, gulping audibly. Even while sitting, he was holding onto the bench to balance himself. “Um…I just thought it’d be a good excuse to hold your hand, honestly.”

Minho giggled and took his hand, helping him stand. “I guess I could do that.”

When they were at the edge of the rink, he smirked and let go.

“Or I could just leave you here.”

“Wait,” Jisung protested, and Minho laughed and zipped away. “Hyung? Hyung! Come back!”

Minho turned around to see Jisung stumbling after him. Long-limbed and gangly, he looked like a fawn learning to walk for the first time, wobbling precariously with each step. Jisung could manage for a few seconds, Minho thought to himself, and sped up.

By the time he had skated a lap around the rink, Jisung was leaning against the wall close to where they started. Minho skated up to him and purposefully didn’t slow down enough when he got closer, bumping into Jisung gently and reaching out to hold his waist so they both stayed upright.

“Hey, handsome,” he whispered. He pretended to flail a little, just enough to keep the hug going for a while longer. He drew back a few seconds later. “Having fun?”

Jisung pouted. “I should’ve known you would be good at this.”

“I’ll teach you,” Minho smiled and held his hands again. “Come with me?”

He started skating backwards, letting Jisung go forward slowly. After a couple meters passed by and Jisung still looked tense, he squeezed Jisung’s hands.

“I’m not going to let you fall,” he said, soft. “Do you trust me?”

Jisung nodded stiffly.

“Don’t think about it as much,” Minho murmured. “Push forward with your feet instead of stepping down. You’re not walking. You’re trying to glide. It’s about the momentum, not the balance.”

They skated a few laps together just like that, with Minho reassuring Jisung quietly and holding onto his hands extra-tight to keep him from falling. They practiced starting and stopping, too, and Minho tried to demonstrate how to fall so that he wouldn’t injure himself. Slowly, Jisung got more and more confident, and eventually, Minho let go of one hand to skate beside him. After another lap of that, where they sped up a little, they paused by the side of the rink.

Jisung took a deep breath. When he pushed off by himself, skating in slow, small circles, Minho raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jisung gave him a smile. “Can we try?”

“Of course,” Minho said. He skated forward towards Jisung. “Ready when you are.”

It hadn’t taken him long at all, Minho thought proudly, as they skated together around the rink. Jisung did end up falling a few times — who didn’t? So did he — but they were both smiling throughout it all. Getting to spin in literal circles around Jisung wasn’t half bad either. He hadn’t been skating in a few years, but muscle memory came through on most of his old tricks, and he performed them all with a flourish, laughing and bowing when Jisung clapped for him.

Secretly, he thought, he wouldn’t have minded if Jisung had played up needing to hold onto his hands the entire time, although that would have been less fun for Jisung. But judging by the way they just coincidentally managed to slowly collide with each other every few minutes, making it so that Jisung just had to hold onto him to stay upright, Jisung probably felt the same way.

In the afternoon, they traveled back to the river they had always visited last summer. Sitting on a park bench with their corn dogs in hand, they ate next to the river and rehashed their year-old argument about who had deserved to get the girl.

“He treated her better,” Jisung argued. “The only reason they didn’t end up together was because he was selfless enough to let her go.”

“But the other guy was there when he wasn’t,” Minho interjected. “He was her best friend, yeah, but you said it yourself. He let her go! How is it her fault for choosing the one that stayed?”

“He obviously wanted to stay,” Jisung said. He waved his half-eaten corn dog around passionately. “But he knew it wouldn’t have been right. They would’ve always wondered what if, you know? What if he had gone overseas? He was absolutely the right guy. It just wasn’t the right time.”

Minho rolled his eyes. “But then he left and she met someone else. So he was left wondering what if anyway.” He chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t know if right person, wrong time is the right way to describe them. If he was the right guy, then it would have been the right time.”

“I’m just saying that he didn’t have it easy either,” Jisung emphasized. He sighed. “If only they made a sequel. I can see it now. One of them gets amnesia…and calls up the other person!” He turned to Minho, sighing dreamily. “They meet up five years later and realize that the other person was always the one. Then they get to live happily ever after.”

Minho smiled. “Want me to call up the producers and tell them about your suggestion?” He teased. “Maybe they have an email address for suggestions and complaints. You could try your luck there.”

“Maybe I will,” Jisung countered. “You’ll see.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Minho said, stifling a laugh. He took another bite of his corn dog. “These are pretty good.”

“I know, right? Better than last time.”

The wind ruffled the branches of the tree they were sitting under, and its leaves swayed gently in the breeze. Minho almost wished they could take a nap there. When he said so, Jisung tilted his head.

“Sure. Why not?”

“I thought you had plans for the rest of the day?”

Jisung shook his head. “Nothing until tonight. We could nap if you really want to.”

Minho blinked slowly, considering it. A few hundred meters away, sunlight was shimmering over the river, while the tree branches cast a little pocket of shade around them. The temperature was perfectly mild. It was such a nice day. Perfect for napping.

He would rather not, he decided. He could nap when the weekend was over.

He shook his head and turned back to Jisung with a soft smile. “Got any more ideas for the sequel?”

“Well, since you asked,” Jisung began, and launched into a rendition of what, according to him, should have happened.

There was a food stall that Jisung had really wanted to try for dinner, but by the time they got there, there was a line halfway down the street.

“Still want it?” Minho asked, and sighed when Jisung nodded. There were at least a hundred people in front of them. “Okay.”

It began raining thirty minutes later — just a light mist, not a downpour — and they sighed and huddled closer together. They managed to order their rice bowls a little over an hour later. It took another twenty minutes for their order to come out, and after Jisung grabbed them, they jogged into a nearby grocery store.

Minho went to buy two bottles of water while Jisung sat down at one of the tables. Finally, sitting down and out of the rain, he picked up his bowl and took a bite.

…only to put it back down.

“Jisung,” he said slowly. “I usually try to be nice about the restaurants we go to, because I know I can be picky with food. But —,” he took a deep breath, “I genuinely think this is the worst food we’ve had.”

Jisung was staring at him, lips pressed tightly together. His body twitched, and for a second Minho was afraid he’d really hurt his feelings. Then Jisung cracked, snorting with laughter.

“It really does suck, doesn’t it?” He moaned, and covered his face with his hands. “Oh my god, it’s so bad. I can’t believe we waited two hours for this.”

“I don’t know why this is so funny,” Jisung sighed. “Wow.” He leaned back and wiped away a few tears with his hands. “I just don’t think I’ve ever had shitty food with you before.”

Minho smiled, amused and a little relieved. “There’s a first for everything, I guess.” He grimaced. Sometimes, though, once was enough.

When they went down to the platform for the train headed in the opposite direction of their apartment, Minho looked at Jisung questioningly.

“How early do you have to be up tomorrow?”

“It’s only eight,” Jisung said. “We’ll be back before it’s too late. There’s just one more place I want to go.”

“Alright,” Minho said doubtfully. He supposed they had time for one more destination.

Really, Minho should have known.

“Jisung…”

They had found an emptier stretch of the fence to loiter in front of. Sheepishly, Jisung had told him to close his eyes, then produced a lock out of the back of his pocket and placed it in Minho’s hands. It was the kind that didn’t have a key. Once it locked, it would stay locked forever.

“I didn’t write anything on it, since I figured it’ll fade away with time anyway,” Jisung said, sounding shy. “But I wanted us to have one.”

Minho inhaled sharply. It was dark enough that he felt safe reaching for Jisung’s hand. The cafe, the amusement park, the ice skating rink, the river, and now here, at the love lock bridge. Jisung’s weekend agenda had been so obvious. Minho didn’t know how he had managed to miss it.

“You’ve been taking us to all the top date spots, haven’t you?” It wasn’t much of a question if he already knew the answer. He sighed. “Oh, darling. What am I going to do with you?”

“It was a good two days, right?” Jisung asked, voice small. “There’s so much we haven’t really gotten the opportunity to do. I wanted us to at least have one good weekend to ourselves.”

It was so cheesy. Minho’s heart ached. He loved it. He loved him.

“The best,” he said quietly, and Jisung smiled shakily at him. “Come on. Let’s find a place to put this.”

They crouched down together, fingers combing through the chainlinks for an empty spot. When they found one, Minho looped the lock through it carefully.

“Want to close it together?”

The lock slid into place with a soft click under both of their hands. It felt final. Monumental.

“There,” Jisung whispered. “Something that’ll last forever.”

They both decided that they didn’t have to go up the tower. Although it was supposed to have one of the best night views of the city, with the two of them both afraid of heights, it just didn’t make much sense for them to go. Plus, Minho thought, he had the best part of the city right next to him.

“Maybe next time,” Minho said, shivering, and Jisung gave him an equally apprehensive smile.

On nights like these, even forever didn’t feel long enough. Minho supposed he would have to take what he could get.