Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Rock is dead, everyone made sure to tell Jisung when he said he had a band.

Yes, that was the point, he would reply. It wouldn't be nearly as fun if he lived in the 80s or the 90s, when there was a band on every street, fighting for dominance in the same territory. He liked the fact that it was 2024 and all of those who thrived in the last century were now too old to take his scene.

He liked being the only one, the center of attention, basking in every sinful look girls would send his way or the proud smiles from rocker guys as he walked past the red crowd of Bad Decisions to reach the backstage.

At this point, everyone knew them. Rock is dead, they called themselves, and this was their cemetery, all of them widows mourning the death of their loved one.

Maybe there was something dead indeed, between the grime and the stink clinging to the scribbled walls of the place, worthy of its name. 

For Jisung though, this was always a good decision. It was a good decision that he started a band with his two best friends, Chan and Changbin, and met Felix and Jeongin along the way. It was a good decision he convinced his dad’s old bandmate to reopen the doors of his club so they could make sure rock wasn't so dead.

The owner knew them since they were kids and he was happy to pretend he didn't see when they brought girls along with them through the tiny corridor that led to the room backstage. All in favor of taking rock out of its grave every Friday night and letting it zombie around for a few hours.

And even though they were paving their own way, years after rock's funeral, Jisung still wanted more, expected more. He couldn't live a whole life in Bad Decisions’ crumpled room, the five of them fighting for one broken mirror to get ready before the show.

Jisung was the first to give up, deeming he was handsome enough as it is to not need touch ups. His band muscle tee, combat boots and eyeliner would have to be enough.

“Jisung, please, no drinking before our gig.” Felix looked at him through the mirror, his glittery eyes turning into a puppy dog expression. Jisung sighed.

They knew each other long enough to know Jisung had hidden a bottle of whisky in Felix's bass case. He wasn't an alcoholic, but he performed better like this, relying on the freedom of the alcohol to release all his demons. 

However, along with his demons, came his lust and his anger. And, although they looked beautiful combined on the stage, it was dangerous when he was out of it. His bandmates were tired of defending him from fights with guys bigger than him, an occasional knife here and there. Most of the time, he wasn’t the one to blame, their girlfriends came to him first, but nobody wanted to hear that.

Felix could only roll his eyes back at him in answer, not in the mood to say he was old enough to do as he pleased.

“You're gonna fuck up your voice.” It was Chan's turn, tuning his guitar on the futon near the door, his judging eyes following the younger taking a pack of cigarettes out of the same bass case.

Changbin and Jeongin paid them no mind, competing to see how long they could roll drumsticks between their fingers.

“Oh my God, you guys are especially annoying this evening.” He sighed deeply, paying them no mind as he made his way to the back door. They were lucky he was decent enough to smoke outside, intoxicating only himself with nicotine.

“Well, you've seen what happened to those singers who smoke like chimneys in the last century,” the older said before he could boot.

Jisung tsked. “If there's someone here who has to fear old age, it isn't me.”

He wasn't proud of the way he acted towards Chan, slamming the heavy metal door behind himself, taking his unresolved feelings out on the poor thing, but nothing worked. His blood boiled and his skin itched all the same as he rested his back on the cool material, his trembling hands making their way towards his pants for his cigarettes and lighter.

Jisung was an addict – for cigarettes, for adrenaline, for the rush of violence coursing through his veins. Maybe one of them would kill him, but wouldn't that be badass? All of his idols died of overdose anyways.

There wasn't an ounce of bad fear inside of him, lighting up fire too close to his lip ring just to feel it heat up his skin, bordering on painful before actually igniting the reason why he was there.

Inhaling the first bitter puff of smoke, he was in heaven, lungs singing in pure bliss as he finally gave in to his addiction. Those fuckers enjoyed the pain as much as he did, knowing this could kill him, slowly, in a few years.

Don't take him wrong though, his ego was too big to leave this world without marking it his. And, with his head thrown back on the door, slightly beneath bold letters that read ‘Bad Decisions’, looking up at the starry night sky, he thought of how poetic it was, about how he was the Bad Decision itself.

“Did your dad never tell you smoke causes cancer?” Jisung’s head lolled to the side, a rebellious strand of his longish hair falling on his face.

His fingers didn't stop the guiding of the stick to his lips once again, eyeing the guy who was talking to him.

He had never seen him around here, he would’ve remembered. There weren't a lot of stuck up business guys in dress shirts and ties where he played. Rock wasn't for pretty people like him.

“No, man, he was too busy fucking your mom.” Clearly, Jisung had no self-preservation as the guy was taller than him, bulkier, crazier.

The last thing he discovered when the other was already too close, soundlessly moving like a feline to wrap a hand around his neck. 

Delicate, cold fingers squeezed his jugular, his cigarette falling from his lips in a feeble gasp to expel the smoke out of lungs before he actually died. 

Death didn't sound so poetic when sharp eyes were aimed at him, long eyelashes fanning his cheeks as he blinked slowly, enjoying every second of Jisung's fading oxygen, the younger letting out small pitiful coughs.

A smirk colored his face, a reflection of the dark evil residing in him. He looked ethereal like this, like no human should, American Psycho style.

“You should watch the way you speak.” Jisung almost didn't hear past the quick pace of his heart, fear licking at his stomach, adrenaline eating him alive.

Would it be weird if he said it turned him on?

The stranger let go of his neck, seeing as Jisung's round cheeks were going from red to blue. “Or what?” He braced himself on his knees, coughing, dizzy, seeing stars framing the beautiful psycho smiling wider at him.

“Or I'm gonna kiss you.” This took Jisung aback, breaking out of his violent addiction, his eyes widening as a strong hand bunched up the fabric on his chest, forcing him to stand up properly, eyeing him past his personal space.

“Sorry, dude, but I’m no homo.” His act returned in a second, smirking at the guy, knowing he wouldn't harm him as he had the chance and didn't.

“Does it matter?” His back was harshly pushed to the door, head hitting the metal with the same intensity, the stranger chuckling when Jisung winced in pain. 

His head throbbed, his dick throbbed. What was happening to him?

“You’re enjoying it enough.” 

The guy used his hold as leverage to pin him there, useless, cornered. Jisung’s dick throbbed again, fully hard as bunny front teeth peeked out to bite his bottom lip, desire building between them and the smashed cigarette under his shiny black Oxfords.

“Don’t fool yourself, I'm an adrenaline junkie. I get hard at fights.” Well, it was only fair he kept making bad decisions as he was once again beneath the sign, looking at the fire glinting in his eyes instead of the stars above them.

A knee was shoved between his legs, carefully not to hit his balls in the way, but pressing against them, rubbing further on his taint, making its way back deliciously slow, caressing his sensitive bits in an iron grip. Jisung was breathless for a second time, a groan escaping through his lips against his will. 

What the fuck was happening?

“Okay, okay.” Jisung cleared his mind, trying not to think about the pre-cum dripping in his underwear in pearly confused drops, his cock red with want. “Fun's over.” His hand stopped the guy's thick thigh from grinding on him, fingers digging in the squishy but firm flesh, once again ignoring how his dick throbbed at the contact. He had no idea what was going on.

“Fun's just begun, Jisung.” Goosebumps rose on the back of his neck upon hearing his name, knowing he wasn't a stranger to the guy like he was to himself.

He wanted to punch the smirk out of his pretty face, to see his sharp sculpted nose dripping in blood, covering his plump upper lip in red viscous liquid…

He almost did, his fist forming on his side before raising his arm, aiming it square at his face. However, it hit air as the guy dodged his blow and used his unoccupied hand to hold his wrist, a mean giggle shaking his torso in pure delight.

“Did you think you could hit me? You're funny, Jisungie.” It stung his ego, but apparently the head in his pants had a mind of its own, taking this as a cue to grow harder, needier.

What the actual fuck?!

“Well, I think that’s enough torture for now. You have a concert to perform, don't you?” The fake pout and the condescending tone did things to him, the expected anger but with a pinch of something more, kinkier, primal. “You can go now. Play Welcome To The Jungle for me.” He winked. Jisung gulped.

He wasn't one to obey when commanded, but he had no control over himself as the guy let go of his shirt, his own hand finding the door knob quicker than lightning, fleeing the situation with a slap on his ass and one last incredulous look past his shoulder.

“Already back?” Felix's inquisitive gaze found him red cheeked against the metal door, trembling knees a second away from giving out, his mind a mess of sensations he couldn't describe.

“Yeah.” He rasped out through the puffs of breath he occasionally let out of his parted lips. “Funnily enough, I didn't get the chance to smoke.”

“Good for your health then.” Although curious, Felix didn't ask further, offering a wicked smile before leaving him there to deal with whatever that was.

Patting his back pockets for his cigarettes and lighter, the only way he knew how to deal with things, he realized none of them were there.

“Fucker,” Jisung snickered, not believing the guy stole him.

He thought maybe he dreamed the whole thing, but his mind wasn't creative enough to make up that guy or the hard-on in his pants that took a while to go down.

Still incredulous, Jisung got up from his spot by the door, making his way to the mirror, unoccupied this time. His neck was still slightly pink, but nothing more, not a trace of the guy's vanilla perfume or the sadistic smiles sent his way.

What the fuck happened in that alley?

He would have to make do without nicotine or alcohol, which wasn't very rockstar of him, but he believed in his own charisma to rock the world anyways. And of course, his appearance – he knew how people loved his toned arms and the tattoos adorning them.

“Ready?” Changbin’s head peeked from the black door that led to the stage.

“Born ready.” He smirked back at him, fixing his overgrown bangs before making his way to him, mood improved, although his hands still trembled without giving in to any of his addictions.

Honestly, he didn't need to. There wasn't alcohol or nicotine or any high compared to stepping on the creaky floorboards of the stage and passing a thousand and one cables to reach his microphone, in the middle, the center of everyone's attention.

Being the guitarist was badass, but being the lead singer was like ruling over a kingdom, every pair of eyes drawn to him, worshiping him. And there was no addiction like this.

He clapped his hands a few times in the rhythm of the first song, testing the sound of his mic, and he smirked when everyone was doing the same, clapping back at him. Changbin followed the rhythm, hyping up the crowd and Jisung let out a few ‘oh's, motioning for them to repeat.

It wasn't their first time playing that song and their followers were loyal enough to know it by heart, screaming when Chan and Jeongin played the first chords on their guitars.

“Be careful making wishes in dark, dark…” 

In the red lights of Bad Decisions, he was king, and, in his kingdom, everything remained the same. His voice didn't waver as he sang to a crowd of black and red little ants beneath his feet, drinking in their attention.

By the end of the song, rock's heartbeat was strong, a Frankenstein driven by their music and the wild cheers shaking the walls of the small, crumpled club.

“Good evening, widows!” Jisung's lips curved into a smirk while he talked to the public, more cheers sent his way as his chest heaved from the exertion. “Isn't it a lovely evening to make Bad Decisions?” Sweat dripped from his forehead and he knew he looked hotter like this. “We're here to guide you through it and make sure you guys remember: we are Rock is dead!” 

It was hard to hear himself past the hollering crowd and he waited a moment for them to calm down, the rest of the band expecting the command to start the next song.

They had a setlist, made different for every concert to keep the mass entertained, but as soon as his wandering eyes found black blazer and a wicked smile, he knew what he had to do.

As he said before, he wasn't one to obey, but fuck it, what is rock if it isn't breaking his own rules?

“Can you guys play Welcome to the Jungle?” He left his place by the microphone to gather around the band.

Confused glances followed his question. “Why?” Jeongin asked.

“I just felt like it.” He lied, there was no way in hell he would tell the reason. “Can you?”

Chan looked around before sighing. “Yeah, it's easy enough. Let's do it.”

“Thanks, guys, I owe you one.” He patted Chan in the shoulder and returned to his original spot.

The crowd cheered when he was back and the screaming intensified when he purposely lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face, revealing his abs in the process. He looked for the stranger he’d met earlier, finding him easily between faceless rockers, wearing a suit and combed hair. Jisung winked at him.

“The next song isn't one of our usual ones, but I hope you'll like it all the same. Chan, please, give it your all.”

Maybe he wasn't the only narcissistic asshole in there, the oldest of them walking to Jisung's side while playing the beginning of the song, a good ten seconds of show-off before Changbin joined him with the drums.

It was an instant hit, their public screaming when they recognized Guns N’ Roses. They were all in their twenties, but this was an anthem beyond time and Jisung made sure to do Axl’s signature body waves before his part began.

“Welcome to the jungle. We got fun and games. We got everything you want. Honey, we know the names…”

Maybe his stuck up friend was right and Welcome to the Jungle was perfect for him, his tone easily matching Axl's moans throughout the song, looking directly at him before rolling his eyes back, performing the breathless dirty sounds he made too close to the mic.

He wasn't gay, in fact, he enjoyed boobs and pussy like every other rockstar. But his ego wanted revenge. In here, the stranger could do nothing but admire him from afar, to sink his bunny teeth on his bottom lip and rot in the pit of his own desire. 

Jisung liked him better like this, beneath his feet, worshiping him like the rest of their fans.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

By the end, Jisung couldn't see him anymore. Maybe he scared him away. Good. 

And with a last smirk, he spoke to his beloved public:

“This was our last song, widows.” The sounds from beneath his feet were unhappy while Jisung's sweat threatened to fall on his eyes. “Rock is dead, but the night's still young, perfect to make some bad decisions.” They soon turned into cheers, most of his crowd drunk by now, content to hear anything that came from his wicked lips.

He was drenching in sweat when they stepped off stage, his shirt clinging to torso like second skin and his balls steam cooking inside his tight black jeans. The rest of the band was in the same state, all of them uncomfortable in their own bodies as they made their way to the cramped room in the back.

Jisung felt like he was too big for Bad Decisions now. Almost a year ago, it was the best decision, to rise the club from its ashes so they could undead the rock inside their youth. And now they were sharks in a fish tank, fighting for a spot on the smelly couch they had there. 

Rock wasn't dead anymore, it was more like half-dead, the whole city coming every weekend to enjoy their scene, inspiring them to make bands of their own, none of them good enough as they were for the sake of his ego.

“Good job up there.” Chan praised them when the door closed, Jisung pulling the shirt over his head in the same instant, grossed out by his nipples touching the cold damp fabric.

“Yeah, good job to us all.” Changbin was hyped, jumping up and down, trying to run out the leftover energy. “I have no idea why you suggested we played Welcome to the Jungle, but I want it on the setlist now.”

He wasn't even thinking about the guy anymore, but Changbin had to remind him. Great.

“Yeah, they loved it! I had no idea you could moan like that?” Felix was equally as giddy, leg frenetic against the floor as he couldn't sit still on the couch next to Jeongin, mouth open in awe. Jisung didn't know either where those sounds came from, maybe he was still turned on from the previous events. He shivered at the thought.

“I liked it as well. We should keep it.” Innie added in, already on his phone, cool and collected, the least sweaty of them all. He envied the guy, Jisung's balls calling for mercy inside his pants.

A sigh escaped his lips when he opened his zipper. He had nothing to say to them, his mood sour now that he remembered his stuck up business friend and how his song choice was better than Jisung's. His blood boiled inside of him.

“Do you guys have any spare cigarettes?” He had to ask, the trembling of his hands worse now that he remembered he hadn't smoked earlier.

“You know none of us smoke, Jisung.” Felix's voice was softer seeing the irritation of his tone.

Past the anger and the violence, Jisung was just another troubled young adult and he hated the pitiful eyes of his friends around the room. Except for Jeongin, who said nobody would like Rock is dead! if Jisung wasn't so fucked in the head, the three of them treaded carefully around him, afraid he would finally explode and shatter.

He needed to be away from them.

Buttoning back his pants and trying to wipe the remaining sweat from his face with his equally wet shirt, he was ready to bolt. There was no way nobody had a cigarette in a sea of drunk rockers.

“Did you guys see my new roommate around?” Chan’s question was almost white noise to Jisung’s ringing ears before he continued. “He said he would drop by right after work. Maybe he didn't, because it wouldn't be hard to spot a guy wearing a full suit here. Maybe he thought this was too much of a bad decision.” He froze upon hearing those words.

“Your new roommate?” He couldn't help but ask, trying to look confused instead of full on panicking.

“Yeah, the art dealer, Minho. I told you guys about him at work this week.” Chan was helpful and Jisung hated him for it. “I think you would like him, he's an interesting character. Very funny when he wants to be.” 

“Why would I like some stuck up business guy?” His voice was an octave higher. He wished he didn't sound so defensive. Maybe Chan wouldn't notice the panic undertone.

“He's not. He's just like us, trying to make the world better, making some rich old folks pay a lot of money for talented but struggling twenty-year-olds’ art.” It wasn't what Jisung wanted to hear, he hated even more the fact that he wasn't an office guy, but a thoughtful art guy instead.

His tongue itched to tell Chan what he did in his spare time, how he liked to intimidate band members in dark alleys.

Instead, he scoffed, annoyed, but at this point his friends didn't question why anymore. He was always in some stage of anger, this time from hurt ego and abstinence, his mind fuming for something he could take it out on.

The answer knocked on the backstage door, some of them, including himself, jolting from surprise. Big eyes greeted them all, not sharp like he was expecting or by any means masculine. These eyes had eyeliner and mascara on, almost innocent looking as the girl became shy under the attention.

“Hi!” She cleared her throat before continuing. “Jisung, can we have a word?” Although seeming nervous, she was confident in what she wanted, whatever that might be. He appreciated it.

“Of course.” His sour mood was set aside for a second, a husky tone coming out and a lip bite as she revealed herself further, getting inside the room, waiting for him to come all the way to her.

He did it gladly. There weren't many things he wouldn't do for a pretty face, especially ones that called him so politely and didn't choke him in an alley.

She was even prettier up close, black bob cut, leather pants and a cute crop top. Her posture didn’t waver as they were both illuminated by Bad Decisions’ red lights, standing in the corridor together, the backstage room door gently shut by charming Jisung.

“Do you have any spare cigarettes?” He was charming, but he wasn't a gentleman.

“Sure.” Her smirk told everything Jisung wanted to hear: she was smarter than she looked. Before she handed him a cig and a lighter, she continued. “Aren't you gonna say I'm pretty?” 

“Are you looking for reassurance? Not my thing, baby.” He took the items from her, quickly realizing they couldn't smoke inside. It was time to get right to business anyway.

Jisung wouldn't be a rockstar if he wasn't a complete dick to everybody who looked up to him. And, although the world would hate to admit, everybody liked the bad boys better.

“You’re a dick.” A scoff came from her pretty lips, but her features remained the same. She was expecting it.

“And you want me because of it.” He could only shrug in answer, fingers trembling from abstinence, nerves tickling under his skin, watching as she bit her lip to refrain from saying what she actually thought of him. “How about a blowjob while I smoke?”

“You’re so full of yourself, it’s gross.” An eye roll this time. Jisung didn't blink at that, only opening the door backstage and motioning for her to go on.

“Ladies first.” His words were mocking. None of them took any of that personally.

He didn't know if she followed to retrieve her lighter later or he did land an orgasm by being a fuck-up. But they both passed his members’ curious eyes and reached the chilling air outside, heavy metal and bad decisions shutting them out.

“You're always a dick to everybody?” She crossed her arms while she stood a few inches shorter than Jisung did earlier, under the sign on the door.

Thinking of the moments shared with that guy, Minho, he now learned his name, gave him chills. So he did what every asshole would do:

“Some more than others.” Lighting the cigarette and filling himself with bitter and hot smoke, like his soul, didn't help with anything. “What about that blowjob?”

Just like himself a couple hours ago, she was ready to make a bad decision. Maybe the club was cursed by its name, but he wasn't going to complain when it was working in his favor.

Without a word, she backed him against the sign, for the second time that day, but he wasn't complaining now, matching her furious gaze with everything wrong inside of him, including the toxic smoke he purposely put in every day.

He was so full of himself that the pride he took in scoring a hot girl, although he treated her like shit, was enough to get him half-hard by the time she was undoing his belt. As said before, this was his kingdom and he very much liked having his balls sucked every once in a while.

A puff of smoke into his lungs and a tongue equally as hot was blissful to take at the same time and, for a second, he didn't want to see the world burn anymore. His mind stopped, his breath was cut and, suddenly, his fluttering eyes were seeing more than he should, sharp eyes and black blazer at the end of the alley.

He came before he could question what was happening, closing his eyes as he moaned through his high. But Minho was already tattooed there, behind his lashes, haunting every one of his thoughts.

When he opened his eyes again, there was nobody there beyond them. Perhaps it was just karma finally catching up to him after the amount of bad decisions he made in his life.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Before then, he never questioned his sexuality. And now he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Past the mask of a spoiled rich kid who likes to play the rebel, he had no idea what was going on inside his brain.

“Come on, Jisung, get your shit together!” He slapped himself on the face, harsher than necessary, wincing in pain at his own stupidity. What the fuck that guy had done to him?

It was late already. The guys called out an early night because everybody had stuff to do on Saturday morning. Any other day, Jisung would have gone after-partying by himself, but he wasn't in the mood.

Now wearing only his black boxers, his shaking hands opened a drawer, a thousand and one things in there, stuff he didn't even know he owned, a mess similar to his mind. Luckily, his fingers soon found a half full pack of cigarettes and he sighed in relief.

He had no spare lighter, which was odd since he smoked since he remembered living. Sighing once more, this one in irritation, he climbed down the stairs to reach the kitchen. The light was already on and he immediately regretted it.

“I can see you, Jisung.” His mom stated before he could turn around and leave.

“Hi, mom.” He wasn't a monster, but the stiffness in his steps towards the kitchen showed how much he dreaded this conversation. “What are you doing up?”

“I couldn't sleep.” His shoulders slumped as he looked at her, the same tiny boba eyes he had reflecting sadness back at him. 

It was like looking at the mirror, the same skin color, small lips squished by full cheeks, a mole on the corner. The only thing that differed was the glint in their eyes, Jisung's was fire while hers were just gloom. He hated to see her like this, but there wasn't a lot he could do.

“Feeling lonely?” He tried to play it cool, going past the lady in an expensive satin cream robe to fetch a matchbox for the pack in his hand.

They were both late-nighters, always had been, sharing secrets in the dead of the night, but something changed in her when his father died. The light-hearted stories about her job at the hospital turned into silence, into heavy angst they both shared between cigarettes and regrets.

“Yeah, the usual.” They didn't need to elaborate on their feelings to understand each other, so he just showed the pack in his hands and the matches in the other, a ghost of a smile dancing on her lips, sadder than he would've liked.

Their bare feet against the cold tiles were as soundless as the night and as themselves, the same route they've been making since he was a little kid, sitting on the edge of the pool and sinking their feet in although it was still winter outside, the yellow flowers of the ipê trees fallen across the water and the crisp wind blowing in.

“You should've brought a jacket.” His mom nagged, seeing how his teeth clattered and his arms were covered in goosebumps.

“Nonsense. The smoke will make me warm.” He brushed her off, taking one stick from the pack and lighting it.

The instant relief he felt at every first intake of nicotine, burning his lungs, was something he couldn't describe with words, with chords or any mundane instruments. He sighed after it, offering the pack and the matchbox to his mom. Maybe she could feel it too, even if it didn't last forever.

“You remind me so much of your dad.” Clearly, it didn't work and she still thought about it all, the pain of losing her soulmate.

“That’s not what I'd like to hear at 3AM, mom.” He couldn't feel the sadness she had, only anger as he moved his feet rhythmically in the pool.

With cold water up to his ankles and the warmth of the smoke running over his body, they washed away the dirt inside and out of him. He was so young to be this angry and he knew it. But did it matter when he couldn't fix himself, fix his mom, this fucked up world?

“Well, it's a compliment. He was a great person, with big dreams and a troubled mind just like you.” He watched her lift her chin and slowly let out her puff of smoke, her nose red, probably from the cold, definitely from the tears she shed earlier.

“Aren't we all a little fucked in the head?” He tsked, taking a drag of his own stick, enjoying the silence that hovered over them again.

Jisung braced his arms on his thighs so he could look at his own reflection in the water. He couldn't see his dad when he stared at himself like this, the dark overgrown hair, the piercing on his eyebrow or his septum or his lip. His dad didn't have the courage to keep his band, to face good and bad to live off music like Jisung does.

Maybe Jisung insisted on rock because of him, because he could live a life his dad couldn't, to feel closer to him, to put a stop to the anger inside for a little moment when he was on stage, singing Arctic Monkeys or Fall Out Boy. 

Rock wasn't actually dead, but his dad was.

“I wish we weren't,” she said after a while, trying to shake off everything to show him a tight-lip smile, but it couldn't wipe the sadness from her eyes. “How was the concert?”

“Can I really call it a concert if we play every Friday night there?” he joked.

“You guys practice so hard to be the best, so it is a concert, even if the people there are the same every week.” 

Every shared sentence was clouded by the smoke between them. It felt like an acid trip to be honest, the lights outside reflecting specks of yellow in the water, along with the flowers scattered in there, and the cold and the gray fog.

“You know what I wish for? For a chance to play somewhere else, to record an album, to relive rock.”

“If you guys are meant to relive rock, it will happen eventually. You just have to be patient, sweetie.” She put her hand on his bare shoulder, caressing it to show him support.

Sometimes he forgot how down to earth and caring his mom was, that although his dad passed away in his late teens, she was a rock for him. But being sad made her human, not the hotshot surgeon she was in her everyday life or the wife of a politician or his mother, just a woman with feelings just like his.

“Thanks, mom.” He put his hand on top of hers, enjoying the moment, glad that he wasn't alone in this big fucked up world.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Back to his hurt ego and pool of self-pity, he thought that bad decisions would hardly be the same after Minho and that alley.

He could see him past his eyelashes when he went to sleep that night. Devious lips curving in a wicked smile, followed by vanilla perfume and of course the calm violence spilling like honey on his ears.

He woke up hard, his boner a latent annoyance he wanted to chop off his own body. 

Once, in the stupor of his boiling feelings, he threw a punch at the lamp on his bedside table and the delicate porcelain shattered in small pieces near the door, hurting his feet each time he entered the chaos of his bedroom and forgot they were there. 

He wished he could do the same to the memories of last night. The guy didn't even show up after that, Jisung’s eyes wandering through the crowd of casual rockers every time they were there and missing a tailored blazer and combed hair.

This time, it wasn't different. As soon as his fluttering eyelashes blinked some consciousness into his sleepy brain, he realized he was humping his mattress, his dick pathetically twitching for more stimulation, for the American Psycho pretty guy.

“Dude, can’t you chill?!” He rolled onto his back, lifting his blanket to curse at his dick. It didn't work and he groaned in frustration.

Defeated, he went searching for his phone among the one hundred and one things scattered on his bedside table, minus the lamp that now had the floor as its permanent residence. Without thinking, he opened an incognito tab.

Usually, he knew what to look for. Hentai of whiny, big-boobed girls. That was his thing since was a teenager, maybe a tentacle here and there, but definitely not gay porn. And he wasn't ready to start that because of an art guy who choked him in an alley.

However, as soon as he started the video and had a hand around his dick, he didn't feel anything. His lust was an addict, wanting to relive that moment and get off only to the thought of that, to search it further, to venture into the line between violence and pleasure.

He let his phone fall on cigarette-scented sheets, wrapping his own hand around his neck, chasing the fire of the adrenaline he felt, the confusion, the crazy hunger. It wasn't the same, he needed to be caught by surprise, edged beyond his limits, beyond his huge-ass ego…

Going further, pressing down on his neck with more force, was a barrier he didn't know he was willing to collapse, all in favor of the flames licking in his guts, faster, stronger, needing more, so much more.

The mocking tone, the chilled darkness of Minho's voice saying he couldn't fight him, the ‘oh, Jisungie, you thought you could hit me?’ almost sweet on his ears, tipped him over and he came, harder than expected, onto his hand, trembling, shaking, gasping for much needed air.

Sharp eyes and a vile smirk were there again, etched to his brain, to his heartbeat, to his skin.

Gladly, Jisung didn't have time to ponder over the subject of his brain's craving, because his phone was vibrating near his foggy head and he could only mutter a soft, breathless ‘hello’, not even checking who was the person on the other side.

“Jisung, were you sleeping?” Chan sighed, seemingly annoyed. “You promised to help me organize my stuff in the new apartment.” He was waiting for a disappointed tone that never came.

Maybe Chan knew him for so long that there was no hopes and expectations for him anymore, he just accepted that Jisung was a fuck-up. Good for him.

Groaning in answer, a little embarrassed for having forgotten but no remorse whatsoever inside of him remaining, he weighed his options. “I can show up in an hour. I just need to shower. Trust me, you don't wanna smell me right now.” 

“Jesus, Jisung. Get a grip.” He wasn't disappointed, but he was disgusted by the implications of his sentence. “Okay then, see you in an hour.”

Out of all his friends, Chan had to be the most patient one, maybe because he was the longest friend he had. Chan used to call his dad ‘uncle’ when they were young, and his death affected him just as much. Jisung hated the empathy shown to him, though.

He didn't want to think of what was dead, besides rock of course. He didn't want to think of what happened years ago, the night before or what happened just now. He just didn't want to think.

The thunderstorm of his brain made his body itch for a puff of smoke, so he did, ignoring that he had promised Chan to be at his house soon, ignoring any other thing in life. He was a fuck-up anyway.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

“Damn, you take showers and the smell of nicotine still clings to you like a second skin.” Jisung was greeted by a nagging Chan as soon as he opened the door. “Who the fuck smokes so much in 2024?”

“Rockstars.” Jisung was a witty fuck-up, smirking as he entered the place.

It was his first time there, with his hands clutching the pack of cigarettes inside his jean-jacket pocket, looking at the sixties wood floorboard pattern and the green nature past the full-wall window in the back of the living room. The classic look of every building of the neighborhood, idealized by a pompous architect more than 50 years ago.

There wasn't much to see, they didn't have a lot of furniture besides a couch and a dining table and still Jisung let his eyes wander on cream walls while he walked around.

“So what do you need help with?” His gaze returned to his friend, realizing his face was no longer swollen with sleep; in fact, he looked like he'd been up for too long, blue bags adorning the underside of his small eyes. “Did you manage to catch some sleep last night?”

Jisung wasn't as cold as he let on. He was a fuck-up, but he still cared a lot about his friends, heart aching even before the answer he knew the other would give. Chan had trouble sleeping for as long as they were friends and, although he couldn't help himself, he tried to convince the older to seek professional help.

Cigarettes kill, but so does lack of sleep.

“Let’s not talk about it, Ji.” He sighed, reaching for the younger to rub his shoulders. Jisung didn't know why Chan was trying to comfort him when he was the one who had been suffering for a lifetime. “I need help organizing my closet. My clothes are all in boxes.”

Jisung sighed along with him, trying to put aside the invisible dark cloud of feelings growing between them, nothing they were both willing to talk about.

In times like this, he was reminded that he wasn't the only one troubled in the world. People were just much better at hiding than he was.

His stomach twisted at the thought, Chan gently pushing him to the corridor that led to the bedrooms to help him change focus. And then it dawned on him when he saw the two bedrooms…

Chan had a roommate. 

American Psycho pretty guy was Chan's roommate.

Jisung was so self-centered, having his head so up his butt, in problems that weren't real, that he forgot about the danger sleeping one door away from his best friend. He froze.

“I-is your roommate home?” With his shoulders tensed and his body taut in the middle of the crumpled corridor, Jisung's attempt to hide his homoerotic secret was a joke as bitter as the pack of cigarettes he crushed inside his pocket.

He wasn't scared of Minho per se, but he dreaded the lack of control he seemed to have around the guy, reduced to only weak limbs and a very hard cock. An obedient, pathetic little shit. Not very rockstar of him.

“Not yet. He's working. Why?” Chan's suspicious tone made Jisung start sweating and his eyes widen.

What was he supposed to say? The truth was too humiliating.

Swallowing his panic, he replied, his tone bored. “I don't feel like being nice to anyone today.”

“Do you ever?” Jisung turned to look at the amused snicker Chan let out. He didn't take it personally. “Don't worry, Ji. Minho is ready to face your demons.”

This was something Jisung did take personally. In fact, it gave him chills, because, deep down, he knew Minho did exactly that: looked his demons in the eye, challenged them, crushed them, left them to be as dead as rock on the floor before returning Jisung to the world of living.

He didn't want to feel that again.

“Cut the crap. We have clothes to organize.” 

He let Chan lead the way this time, feeling safer to be behind him while cream-colored walls and old wood engulfed the both of them, silently judging Jisung for using his best friend as a distraction.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Chan's room was like swimming in an inkwell. From the dark sheets to dark curtains to even darker clothes, they were lost in an endless pool of black fabric. And maybe Jisung wasn't the best help in the world, seeing as his own room has been a mess since he reached fourteen.

Folding shirts wasn't his best ability, but he was all Chan had at the moment. The other boys were working, teaching music lessons to wealthy mid-aged women and their kids. If Jisung didn't grow up equally filthy rich, he would too.

“You're doing a good job, I'm impressed.” Chan's dimples were showing as he kindly mocked Jisung's clueless hands when he was faced with a dress shirt.

“Speak for yourself. Your pile is all messy.” Jisung showed him his tongue and Chan gave in, laughing at his childish behavior. He threw the garment at the older, his lips threatening to stretch on a smile as well.

For a second, it felt like they were kids again, poking fun at each other, relying on the freedom of their minds to be happy and spontaneous. Jisung missed those times, when life wasn't so dense that he instinctively refrained from showing feelings that weren't anger and resentment.

When did life become so dark? A funeral of his own self.

His lungs were aching for a puff of smoke again.

“I think this is a sign that we should take a break.” He let himself feel lighter, smile weakly, as much as his self-restraint allowed and Chan’s dimples were in full view again.

His heart was warm, but it wasn't a wild fire, it was a cozy fireplace that reminded him that he was more than just the fuck-up rockstar wannabe everyone expected him to be. He was the one making Chan smile, he was the one comforting his mom after a round of hopeless crying, he was the one bringing rock out of its grave…

“I agree. How about I make us lunch? I bet you haven't eaten anything yet.” Jisung was ashamed to say it was true, but Chan was an angel, he understood him past everything. “Besides, it's time for Minho to arrive.”

His blood turned into ice and anxiety was once again spiking up his throat. His urge to flee was big and he coughed, trying not to make Chan aware there was something wrong.

“I-I'll go downstairs to smoke then.” At that, Chan rolled his eyes, silently disagreeing with his bad habits. He couldn’t care less about it, though.

Instead, he saw himself out, climbing the stairs to the entrance of the building, arriving on the first floor to be greeted by the cold gust of wind, trying not to think of anything while doing so.

The days were more beautiful during winter. A clear blue sky, a warm sun that didn't reach the shadow spots, the dead grass and the colorful fallen flowers of the ipês.

What people didn't realize about smokers was that they were more grounded in the world. They had to take their asses out of their homes to smoke, watch the nature change during passing days, watch the people hurriedly go on with their lives, sometimes meet a fellow smoker and chat about everything and nothing at all.

Taking his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, glad to find them intact although he clutched them until it became a little sad and crooked, and lighting a stick was Jisung taking a step back from a planet that spun too fast. A moment to slow down and breathe a kind of relief that only nicotine could provide.

He knew it was bad for his health, but honestly what wasn't? He preferred to live a great life than a long one.

“Tsk. You don't learn, do you?” His mind was so out of its axis that for a second he didn't recognize the voice that haunted his dreams, but his eyes were quick to find him.

Jisung couldn't mutter a word at first, tongue heavy in his mouth as he just stared back at him, heart beating up his throat, shocked.

It was weird seeing him in daylight. The sharp edges of his face weren't so menacing when more than the moon illuminated his face; or the fact that his hair wasn't styled, but fluffed up on top of his head, a rich sunny blonde color; even his clothes didn't give him the American Psycho aura, a soft yellow and blue cardigan slumped over his broad shoulders. He looked cozy at most.

His body was giving him different signals, confused about what to feel, but Jisung was the best at wearing his fuck-up suit when he needed.

“What are you, my dad?” The stick was back at his lips and, just out of spite, he exhaled the smoke in Minho's direction.

His smirk looked the same as last night, slowly curving, warning Jisung that he wasn't fazed by his retort. It showed him Minho was crazier than he was, a controlled level of insane that should be scary. It was unfortunate that Jisung got off on the feeling alone.

“So that’s what you’re into?” Although Jisung wasn't anticipating his movements, he couldn't help but jump when pale fingers reached his cheek, cold and soft like he presented himself, caressing his face when Jisung was expecting to be cornered and choked again.

The skin under Minho’s hand was turning pink, he knew by how heated it was, confused, surprised. He didn't know if it was from the implication of a daddy kink (that he didn't have!) or the weirdly intimate gesture, but he was flustered, unexpected heat crawling into his pelvis.

… And distracted enough for that fucker to pick the cigarette from his fingers and toss it onto the ground, stepping on it.

Jisung was shocked again, but now it snapped him out of his trance, face flushing a deeper color, out of hate this time, his dick following suit, hardening at the prospect of a fight.

“Dude, what the fuck?” His tongue couldn't form a witty response as it too was surprised by how insane Minho was. “What’s your problem?”

“Definitely these cancer sticks.” His grimace was laced with disgust and then he was taking a step closer, ignoring that Jisung was fuming, choosing to grab the collar of his jacket and making him stare into his eyes, his smirk so fucking presumptuous. He wanted to chop his cock off from leaking at that. “I don't want to taste them when I kiss you.”

Jisung scoffed, surprised that a human being could have so much arrogance. “What makes you think I want to kiss you?” It was hard controlling the urge to punch this motherfucker in broad daylight.

Minho didn't care about morals though, giving a careless once over around them before pushing even closer to Jisung, their bodies pressing everywhere, one of his hands dropping to cup him between his legs.

It was the first time his limbs obeyed him and actually backed off from that psycho, his traitor dick twitching, mourning the lack of contact.

“Pff. Didn't I tell you I get hard at fights?” His ego was hurt, but his dignity didn't let him lose without fighting back. “You’re not special.”

“Let's see then. But don't expect me to show up every time a girl is sucking your dick so you can cum.” 

If Jisung's ego was hurt then, now it was reduced to ashes, his cheeks wanting to color from the embarrassment. He didn't expect Minho to actually be in the alley the day before, he thought it was a product of his own imagination.

Seeing how he managed to affect the younger, Minho's smirk turned softer and he backed off for real. Maybe he sensed that if he prodded any harder, Jisung would fucking explode into the air.

“Well, Chan's making lunch. You're invited to join us if you want.” He put his hands in his cardigan's pockets as a sign of truce, but Jisung didn't trust it for a second.

Minho left him there, with his unresolved feelings to fend for himself. 

Jisung ran away.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Jisung was impressed he was never out of breath although he was always running. Running on stage, running to arrive at something he promised and forgot, running from the people who cared about him, running from his feelings. And yet he didn't reach any goal.

This was part of being a fuck-up, he guessed. Just like arriving late at band practice on Sunday after he left Chan to organize his room by himself and never answered his messages asking if he was okay.

He wasn't okay, Chan knew that much, and so did his other bandmates, all of them ignoring the fact that Jisung was constantly dying as he tried to pull rock out of its death. A satanic pact that he was the only one willing to self-sacrifice.

“Good, Jisung is here,” Jeongin stated from his place on the couch, body sprawled coolly, his guitar sitting across his lap while he fidgeted with the knobs to tune it.

Everyone was busy with their instruments, paying their quick hello's without glancing his way.

Out of the members, Jisung probably liked Jeongin the most. He had a mystery attached to his soul, not letting anyone pry their curious eyes inside, but suddenly, when the moment was right, he poured an amazing story about himself or told the truth the way it was, no beating around the bushes.

Maybe this was Jisung's aim from the start, to show a mysterious, interesting character. But instead, he built Han Jisung, the big rockstar in a small tank, the asshole, the irresponsible motherfucker driven by basic desires.

“Where's Chan?” In order to run away again, his eyes scanned the room, looking for a distraction, finding the older nowhere to be seen.

This should have been the first thing he noticed while entering Changbin's underground practice room (in his parents’ home because rock in that city could only be made by filthy rich kids with influential parents). Yet, he struggled to see other things that weren't himself.

“He's upstairs with Minho, showing him where the bathroom is.” 

Come on, not again.

Jisung's urge to groan was strong, and his urge to run was stronger.

“What is he doing here?” The pettiness in his tone was a pill hard to swallow, staying clogged in his throat during his question, making Changbin's eyebrow raise inquisitively.

“Well, we didn’t get to meet him that day at the club.” Changbin never called it by its name, saying it jinxed the place. “And they said they had some news for us.” He was smarter than he let on, pretending he didn't notice the other’s shift in tone while he stayed behind his drum set, messing with the cymbals.

This time, Jisung groaned for real, not caring anymore about looking annoyed at Minho's presence. They could interpret it any way they wanted. He was tired of it all.

“What is this, porn? Are you guys recording a band themed porn here?” Minho came down the stairs giggling, the others joining in at his funny retort.

Of course American Psycho pretty guy was different around people he wasn't actively targeting. He was all soft smiles and long lashes that swooshed against his high cheekbones while he laughed. In a cream colored cardigan and golden rimmed glasses. The perfect good boy. 

“It's just Jisung being an ass, don't worry.” Changbin was clearly smitten with the guy, all of them were, seeing as he was nice and funny and good looking. 

Tsk. If only Jisung didn't know better.

“I guess you weren't properly introduced yet.” Chan was right behind him, beaming that their friends could finally meet. Jisung honestly pitied him, he lived with the enemy. “Jisung, this is Minho. Minho, this is Jisung. He’s scowling, but he’s like a puppy, all bark and no bite.” 

Ouch.

His eyes widened at the betrayal, deeping his scowl, now aimed at Chan. He had bite, yes! He just didn't bite his friends, because that’s a dumb move and even a fuck-up understood it. 

But given the opportunity, he would bite Minho, deep enough to leave him bleeding, hoping it would be enough to kill him.

Jisung preferred to stay silent though, in order to ignore Minho's presence, walking to the amp to plug in his mic, his ego stinging while doing so. He was getting used to it, in the past three days his poor image was constantly challenged by that psycho.

“Now that everybody is here, we can finally tell you guys what's happening.” Chan sounded so excited, more than his normal proud dad tone. It caught everybody's attention.

“I think Chan told you guys that I work for an art dealer.” Minho began and Jisung instantly hated that whatever good news they were about to have were related to him. “I met with a guy last month to show him some art pieces, bassist of that one local band that broke records during the nineties. He vaguely told me that they planned to reunite for a tour and the first concert would be here, where the band was born.”

“No way! My dad loved that band. He'll be so thrilled to know.” Felix, the ever excited sunshine that he was, was beaming already. The rest of them waited for him to continue.

“That’s not even the best part.” Chan almost couldn't contain himself while speaking and Jisung's interest was back. He honestly couldn't care less about those oldies wanting to bring a sense of nostalgia by doing concerts to equally old people. “They are looking for a band, new and youthful, to come along with them.”

Holy fuck.

Jisung’s eyebrows shot up, surprised beyond belief, eyeing them both, waiting for the punchline. But it was no joke, Chan confirmed in his next sentence.

“It’s not going to be rainbows and flowers. Bands from all over the country will apply and the requirement is to have at least 3 songs recorded, which we don't have yet.” Not even the reality check was enough to kill Jisung's good mood now.

Everything he wanted in life was to make rock his living and he couldn't believe they had a chance to finally do it. This was the confirmation that yes, they would be the ones to relive rock like he dreamed, like his dad dreamed.

Not even Minho's smug smile sent his way while Felix and Changbin tackled him in hugs and thank you's was enough to wipe the happiness from his soul. This was his moment.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Chapter Text

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Jisung concluded that indeed, Bad Decisions was not the same. Not the walls littered in ink, the red lights, the tiny room backstage or the mystical aura that conjured the worst ideas inside everybody's mind. Minho changed it all when he stepped his foot there.

Maybe the blonde was the worst of all decisions, the devil himself offering a parchment paper for them to sell their souls to rock once again.

Jisung didn't like him, because he could see the evil emanating from him like the one inside of himself, not cowering when he saw the darkness inside the younger’s eyes; instead, he challenged him.

And he was doing it again, causing Jisung’s self-defense instincts to fire all alarms in his head as he smiled at him, different from the ones he shared in the privacy of their brief one-on-one encounters. This one meant he was claiming Bad Decisions as his own, offering his hand to a short-breathed, late Jisung to seal the deal.

He would never fall for it, intentionally ignoring his hand and rolling his eyes. Instead, he chose to take a seat at the table the boys were sharing in the empty hall of the club. 

They agreed to meet here to discuss songs that would go into the demo, because Bad Decisions was the start of it all for them and, although Changbin disliked the heavy weight that came with the name, there’s nothing like a terrible choice in life to get the creative juices flowing.

“Okay, how should we start this?” Chan was clearly nervous, taking the role as the leader to guide them through the hell of a process that this would be.

“Why is he here?” Jisung tried to be nonchalant, but his tone had an underpitch that screamed pettiness. He didn't hate it, he wanted Minho to know he was disliked.

“Can you stop?” Changbin raised an eyebrow at him, being serious. He was hardly like this so Jisung swallowed his answer. “Minho is also a musician, so he's gonna help us.” 

Of course American psycho guy had to be a fancy art connoisseur and a musician. Jisung wasn't impressed, but he was oh-so-tired of him.

And to make his annoying point, Minho sat right across from him and, if every single one of Jisung’s nerves wasn’t on edge, he would definitely laugh at how the guy stood like a sore thumb among them.

Everybody had heavy silver jewelry on their hands as they placed their notes on the dark wooden table, a few tattoos on their forearms, with Jisung having the most of them all. The 2000 inked across his knuckles and the snake crawled up his arm, prominent against the crumpled paper.

In comparison, Minho’s hands were pale and soft looking, a single golden ring adorning the right middle finger. His arms were hidden by a light wash jean-jacket, a white plain shirt underneath. He looked like he had crawled from a photoshoot of a fancy magazine, trying for casual fit wear.

“My thoughts on the three songs are: one has to be super catchy and mainstream, one of them heavier for people to bang their heads, and the other slow for people to dedicate to their loved ones,.” Jisung hated how bossy he was.

He could play it cool, soft hair and cute giggles, but it was clear in his speech how assertive and strict he was, going straight for the kill. Maybe this time Jisung would be the one playing dead instead of rock .

“Nonsense.” He would never play dead though, disagreeing just to watch Minho raise an incredulous eyebrow at him. He never said he didn't like the challenge. “There's no recipe for success. We can't know what they will like best, especially because the main band has mostly soft ballads. Old folks don't bang their heads.” He raised his eyebrow in return, smug as fuck because he was right.

“ I thought you guys were trying to bring rock to a younger audience, not let it stay dead, stuck forever in the nostalgia of men who can't get it up anymore. ” Ouch. Jisung wasn't used to being rivaled by someone who had good arguments.

“Still. This concert isn't held in Bad Decisions, for people who have known us forever. We will get booed.” And yet his comebacks were just as good. “Plus, this isn't a k-pop group, set on what is trending and getting played on social media over and over until everyone forgets. I want our band to last.” It was getting heated, Jisung's words coming out more aggressively, his arms crossing over his chest as his scowl deepened.

“I never said I was trying to make you guys into a k-pop group. You're twisting my words. I'm basing my opinion on your own concerts, of how it attracts a crowd even when they don't know the band.” Minho's nose crinkled when he was getting mad for real, Jisung noticed. “You're arguing because you don't have a better idea and your ego gets hurt when someone outsmarts you on anything.”

His eyes widened instantly as it left his mouth. Jisung’s eyes widened back in shock. The rest of the band could only watch, equally surprised, equally speechless.

Nobody talked to him like that, because deep down everyone knew he had sensitive feelings and he didn't like them being prodded in front of people. 

His chest was constricting and his throat was closing. He couldn't argue anymore or be there, completely humiliated. This time, not in a good way.

Harshly, he got up from the table, shaking it on its way up, the poor wood screeching, ending the deafening silence among them. He couldn't look anyone in the eye as he marched past the narrow corridor, the room backstage and finally the heavy metal door.

A big sigh left his lips as he closed his eyes and rested his head below the sign of the club.

He needed to smoke.

How long would he resort to smoking as a way to run from every difficult situation he encountered? He didn't know.

With trembling fingers and an inexplicable lump in his throat, he fetched the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, belatedly realizing he forgot his lighter. 

“Rough day?” His eyes fluttered open to find the bartender on the wall opposite to him, a stick between her fingers and smoke framing her image like a halo, like she was an angel sent to save him.

“Definitely.” His facial expression matched how tired he was of everything, drawing a half smile in acknowledgement from the girl. “Can I borrow your lighter?”

Maybe she was in fact an angel, angel of death, he thought as she offered the object to Jisung, their fingers brushing while doing so. 

Everything after that went wrong, from the first inhale of nicotine that filled his lungs in an artificial relief that wouldn't solve any of his problems, to the wicked glances they shared in their little cloud of bad decisions.

Nothing good entered that club, let alone that alley. Rock wasn't made out of sunshine and rainbows, but the devil and his demons. Who was Jisung to deny it?

And that was how he ended up cornered against the sign, not for the first time and not for the last, with plump red lips attached to his own and a pair of boobs pinning him there.

Jisung usually didn't hook up with workers from the club, well aware he shouldn't shit where he ate, but there was so much inside of him ready to unload, anger, confusion, desire… None of them had been sated ever since Minho landed in his life.

A grunt escaped him, the taste of smoke getting more bitter than it should just thinking about that psycho. Gladly, it didn't last long, the girl biting his bottom lip, pulling it by the ring on the corner, driving a more pleasured sound out of him.

He wished things could be simple, a smoke and a blowjob in his favorite alley, but trouble built his rockstar reputation, kept the girls coming his way and the dudes jealous as fuck…

The last thing became evident when the door rattled behind them and forced their bodies apart. It opened to reveal the bouncer, with a shocked expression that quickly turned into anger, going for Jisung’s neck.

Still dazed from the kiss, he didn't see it coming, just felt the thud of his body hitting the wall forcefully, without any reflexes to protect his head or his poor eye, which got punched right away.

Well, this also helped build his rockstar persona, although it hurt like a motherfucker.

“You know, punching me won't solve anything.” With a smug grin, lips still wet and swollen from the previous events, Jisung's face said it all: he liked it.

The rush of a fight, the sting of his eye, the fingers on his neck — Jisung gave in to his addiction. But what pushed him further was the look on the bouncer’s eyes, hating Jisung for being what every girl wanted. That lookIt fed his ego.

He was ready for the next blow, holding his gaze, never cowering while expecting to get hit, brow raised in challenge. The guy, whatever his name was, could never win, because everybody liked the bad boys better.

The second punch never came. The creaking of the heavy metal followed them again, revealing next who would be Jisung's savior…

And of course it was Minho. The universe mocked him and he accepted the joke, snickering in his uncomfortable place on the wall, a hand still pressing his throat.

“What’s happening here?” Beneath his sunny-blonde fluffy hair, his eyes blinked rapidly, not believing the scene before him.

Jisung was a little ashamed to be caught in such a position, but he would never let it show, especially after that little stunt Minho pulled earlier.

“This scum was kissing my girlfriend.” 

Eh, he had been called worse.

“Did he force himself on her?”

He would never. But he couldn't speak with someone physically clogging his windpipe.

“He didn't.” The girl spoke for the first time, and he was honestly surprised she didn't try to push him under the bus.

“Why would you do that?!” He asked his… girlfriend, his hold around Jisung's throat tightening. He coughed in a feeble attempt to breathe again, drawing the attention back to himself.

“Then it isn't Jisung you should be having a heated conversation with.” Minho looked so calm and well-collected as he rested his shoulder on the door frame. “After all, he wasn't the one who cheated.”

The way Minho was always reasonable and logical made Jisung roll his eyes. The bouncer probably thought the same, torn between suffocating Jisung to death and listening to what the blonde had to say.

“I also wouldn't try to kill him under a surveillance camera.” His eyes left his perfect nails to lazily point towards the object above the sign of Bad Decisions. “But, you know, it's your choice.” 

And just like that, Jisung was being tossed again, away from the wall, into Minho's chest. Everything happened too fast and the older just watched him slide to the ground at his feet, arms crossed.

He didn't try to catch him or offer a hand to help him stand up. Instead, he gave him space so he could get up on wobbly knees and burning lungs.

If kissing someone's girlfriend and getting punched for it fueled his ego, getting treated like a cockroach reduced it into ashes, stinging in his sore throat as Minho closed the door behind them, leaving the couple outside.

“Come on, let's put some ice on your eye before it gets all swollen.” It was the only thing he said, not caring if Jisung was well after almost dying.

Minho was so odd and Jisung got headaches from trying to understand him.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

The club didn't have a kitchen, but a storage room full of fridges to keep all the booze people consumed on the weekends. Jisung had never been there before, and once again he thought about how Minho rocked his world… In the worst way.

It was Minho's fault he got punched in the eye in the first place. If he hadn't humiliated him like that, Jisung would never have been in the wrong time and place, ready to make a bad decision.

“Stop sulking and come here.” Minho’s tone was commanding and Jisung had to fight the toddler in his brain that told him to never do something Minho ordered.

But this was a critical situation, the vision of his eye already compromised with how swollen his lid was.

“See? Was that so difficult?” 

Looking closer at him, with one eye available, Minho didn't seem so mean, the ghost of a soft smile wanting to break his serious features.

In his hand, he had improvised an ice bag with the cut ice from the drinks and a plastic bag that was lying around. 

He hesitated to put it directly on the sensitive skin of his eye and, before Jisung knew it, he was pulling on the hem of his Cannibal Corpse shirt with his freezing fingers and applying the thing on his wound.

Jisung couldn't see anything past the black fabric of his shirt, but still hissed at the contact.

“Don't be a baby.” The ice pressed harder and he swore loudly so Minho could hear his complaints.

Although the older couldn't see him, he was scowling, hating every second of it. “Then don't be so rough on my eye.”

“It's a pity I know you like it rough.” The motherfucker had the audacity to laugh, adjusting the bag while doing so. 

Jisung wished he wasn't so focused on the sting of his eye to form a better response. But the only comeback was the pained groan he let out.

Jisung loved his body and loved an excuse to show it to horny fangirls who ogled him like dogs. But when it was Minho, he felt exposed, like he was baring more than his stomach and a few tattoos, like his soul was there for him to take.

It was uncomfortable and awkward and ended in neither of them saying a word as they waited for the twenty-minute timer Minho put on his phone, both completely still, not knowing what to say.

In the meantime they indulged in their weird silence., Jisung's bitterness dissipated a bit to think of how soft Minho’s fingers were, trying to divert his brain from the situation they put themselves into.

The same fingers that once choked him in a similar position, but in a completely different context.

He was the savior and the executioner, the devil and the angel, the right and the wrong… Jisung’s head ached once more with how confusing it was.

“Look…” Minho shifted from side to side, causing the ice pack to follow his movements, hurting his eye. 

He wasn't sure if he was glad for the quiet to be over, always on edge near him, expecting a blow that would sting more than his eye could.

“I’m sorry for earlier. It wasn't nice of me to say that.”

Surprised wasn't enough to describe what Jisung felt, clearly not expecting the older to ever say something like this when it was his intention from the beginning to tease him endlessly, bordering on Jisung's limits for his own amusement.

So of course he didn't know what to say, cheeks heating up, mouth opening and closing in shock. 

For his luck, he didn't need to. The timer went off, and Minho retrieved the ice pack and dropped his shirt.

The gray and blue room was revealed before his eyes again, so different from the aesthetic of the rest of the club, no bad decisions speaking through him. 

He would have to make his own decisions. He hated it.

Therefore, he made the decision he was used to making: walking away from whatever sort of truce Minho wanted to put between them, also walking away from his friends without muttering a word, as if he didn't give a single fuck.

But everybody knew it wasn't true. He gave all the fucks possible.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Jisung wished he could get all the fucks he gave and lock them in a closet, forgetting the key forever in the process. If so, he wouldn't have to run anymore.

Oftentimes he relied on his emotional baggage to feel alive, to feel like a true rockstar, because there was no great musician without a sad story.

But everything has been consuming him. It was like Minho opened the barrier that kept the dam intact, and now his emotions were all over the place, impossible to grasp, impossible to solve.

And it impacted his day-to-day life, blonde hair and devil eyes present in his talk with Chan and Changbin at the gym, trying to convince him that Minho’s idea was their best shot.

He hated to be stressed when lifting a sixty-kilogram barbell above his head, scowling at his friend while putting the weight back on the holder.

“Fine,” was his only answer, tired of having to think of Minho when all his recent thoughts already revolved around him.

“Will you write the love song we need?” Chan was fighting against his urge to smirk, knowing damn well he despised them.

“Why me? I’m sure you would do way better.” Jisung was back at lifting the weight from the holder to do his repetitions, trying to end the conversation.

Chan wasn't having it, spotting Jisung by adding his hovering hands under the barbell and continuing his talk. “All of my love songs turn sexual and we want a soft ballad to bring tears to people’s eyes.” 

“You’re saying my songs bring tears to people’s eyes?” He made sure to look extra offended.

“I’m saying you write with more feelings than me and Changbin combined.” He leaned in to look Jisung in the eye, his facial features softening while saying it.

He meant well and it was true. Jisung had to sigh in partial defeat. “I’ll think about it.” 

It wasn't a yes, but it got Chan smiling with his dimples on full display. And, although Jisung was an asshole, he wasn't that cruel.

So he tried. Alone in his room, watching the day being born outside his window, the wind cold on the cusp of winter, the sun making the yellow ipê flowers more vivid, the birds singing, his eyes dry from the restless night.

What was love for Jisung anyway? 

He had a hard time thinking of what it meant to love and be loved.

Not the way Chan loved him, trying to solve all of his problems without saying a word directly at him, afraid of hurting his feelings; not the way his mom loved him, saddening eyes as she remembered his dad when they looked at each other, also afraid of hurting him.

Romantic love. Nothing he ever felt for the girls he touched. Not for any of the people he had known.

The guitar on his lap cried as his fingers moved aimlessly, no amp, no pedal, just Jisung, the antithesis of himself and the early morning.

Was he not good enough to be loved?

A wave of dark thoughts came in along with the wind, hitting his bare chest inside and out, his tousled hair, the rough pads of his fingers.

To get rid of them, he lit a cigarette, hugging the guitar closer to him, not wanting it to spread the news that he wasn't the heartless fuck-up the world saw.

It didn't work, the new-acquired insecurity following him every time he needed to pluck for inspiration for the song, resulting in a great pile of nothing.

He was ashamed to admit that he hadn't made any progress when they all met in Changbin's practice room to fill the form for the band trials.

“It's getting there.” A lie coming through his teeth as four pairs of eyes expected his answer.

Minho had not come, for the sake of his shattering but still intact mental health. He didn't think he would have survived the humiliation of this day otherwise.

“See? I told you, of course you can write a love song.” Jisung's heart sank as Chan ruffled his hair like a kid. He honestly wanted to be Rock, dead, buried, deceived.

“Let's get this over with.” It was best to change the subject, his nicotine-smelling fingers grabbing the edges of the laptop, arranging it on his lap for the moment their lives would be changed forever.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

While rock remained dead, they made sure people knew enough about it. The songs, the poetics, the fashion, the way of living… It all came back from the grave just as the sun went down to rock Bad Decisions.

Past red lights and grime that coated the walls, they danced in the forever funeral of their loved one.

With booze and cigarettes and drugs, the torpid crowd howled to whatever song played, anticipating the main attraction: Rock is dead.

The pleas for the band to come already was a nice fuel for Jisung's ego, bruised from the difficult week he had, but doing better when he stepped in his rightful place.

Here, Jisung wasn't a sad excuse of a human, shattering through the cracks of the persona he created. He was a god, the only one able to spread the word that rock would be back.

And he took his mission very seriously, making his longish hair look even more tousled and his eyeliner extra dark, the bruise from last week still there. He looked rockstar enough, leaving quickly so Felix could glam himself up.

“Is Minho coming? I missed him this week. He works too much.” Their bassist pouted.

Jisung dreaded the answer. He already had enough to deal with. Just as he came to terms with what happened in that alley… Twice.

“Yeah, he'll come right after work.” Chan smiled at Felix, probably happy that his new friend was being welcomed so warmly by everyone. 

The urge to groan was strong. This time, he chose not to control it.

“What is your problem with Minho?” Changbin's eyes were judging as he scanned Jisung from head to toe.

For lack of better words, Jisung said dumbly, “Everything. He's so full of himself.” 

They all snickered at his comment. He couldn't blame them, but heat still made its way to his cheeks as he scratched the back of his head sheepishly.

“Look, it's worse than me, because he pretends he's nice.” He was being whiny and he hated the sound of it. A huff escaped his lips. “It doesn't matter anyway.”

Sensing his frustration, Felix started talking about the setlist, and Jisung decided it was the perfect time to fetch the bottle he always hid in the blonde's bass case, nobody paying attention to him as he chugged a few ounces of pure vodka. 

He preferred to smoke before concerts, but there was no way he would survive bumping into Minho again. So he chose alcohol instead.

It had been a while, his eyes glazing over and his head becoming hazy while pure fire crawled up his throat. He didn't need it to perform or to make bad decisions, but that was the easiest way he knew how to relax.

And, oh, how he needed to relax. Between freaking out over getting hard twice because of Minho, the band trials and not being able to write a fucking love song, Jisung's head was a mess worse than normal. This time, not even his ego would be enough.

Waiting for midnight to come, the poetic time they chose to perform every Friday night, Jisung watched the members, feeling the weight of the alcohol kicking in.

Felix by the mirror doing his heavy makeup; Changbin pressing his shoulder to Felix's to look at his outfit in the mirror; Chan bouncing his foot and his head as he looked over his phone in what was probably his attempt of writing his own song; and Jeongin sat by his side on the couch, watching cat videos.

Maybe none of them had the same reasons as Jisung, but they were all there giving their all to bring rock back. He didn't think of it often, but he was glad to have them, to share and support his dream.

“Your thoughts are loud.” Jeongin's way of showing he cared was funny and Jisung let out a smile at their youngest.

“You're cute when you're worried. But there's no need to, I was just thinking how much I love you guys.” Nobody would believe him, not even Jisung if he didn't have access to the hell inside his mind.

“You shouldn't worry so much. Have some faith. We will drag this motherfucker right out its coffin.” His wicked smile was weirdly reassuring and Jisung opened his palm to high five him.

“Well, we have a long way to go.”

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Stepping on creaky floorboards, dodging wires and swiftly getting to his place by the mic while the members already played the beginning of the song. Jisung knew it all by heart, rehearsed over and over.

The crowd loved him, screaming his name here and there to boost his ego until there was no other thought in his head aside from how fucking amazing he was.

Rocker Jisung, in his combat boots and band muscle tee, the main attraction of the night, gave a smirk and a wink to the horde of fangirls pressed to the bottom of the stage.

“Stop makin’ the eyes at me and I'll stop makin’ my eyes at you…”

He began, full of himself, keeping eye contact, knowing damn well their panties would be soaked by the end of the song, dragging each word, letting his body play with the pedestal of his mic…

There wasn't an eye in that hall that wasn't directed at Jisung and it felt good, more than the vodka running on his bloodstream, more than a puff of smoke, more than sex ever could. It was something primal in the depths of human nature that called to be wanted, to be worshiped.

“I bet you look good at the dance floor. I don't know if you're looking for romance or… I don't know what you're looking for.” 

The pace grew and so did Jisung's bold movements, a bite on his ringed lip and naughty hands that caressed his mic so suggestively.

By the end of the song, he could feel the arousal in the air, from himself, already sweating in the stuffy club, and the buzzing crowd under his feet. So it wasn't a surprise when his voice came extra husky as he started to introduce the band:

“Good evening, widows.” Followed by the same smirk he gave every friday night that didn't fail in bringing the loudest of their frequent crowd. “Isn't it a lovely evening to make some bad decisions?” A chuckle left his lips at seeing their fans so pleased. “We're here to guide you through and make sure you remember: Rock is dead!” 

More cheers resounded through the room, Jisung drinking them all in like the addict that he was, ready to make the best of his night.

And, just as he was about to begin the next song, he saw Minho, at the very end, distinguished in his creamy blazer and pastel blue shirt, impossible to miss as he didn't fit the aesthetic of red lights and scribbled walls.

If Jisung didn't have alcohol in his body or a hyped crowd to put a distance between them, he would've stopped himself from making a bad decision.

Maybe he should've, because he knew how they all turned out for him, but who would Jisung be if he didn't love the fire of adrenaline licking through his core… 

“Can you guys play Welcome to the Jungle again?” He motioned for the members to gather around Changbin's drums before he said it. 

“Yeah. It was a crowd pleaser last time.” Chan backed him up, getting a few nods from the other boys.

Jisung was the happiest little devil as he went back to his place with a wicked grin etched to his face.

Was he doing it for Minho? Partly yes, because he wanted to drive him past insanity just like he did to Jisung, but also for his lovely fans, who enjoyed seeing him moaning just as much.

And, as the first chords of the song started playing, the screams were back, a bunch of heads banging under them, Jisung's body rolling along with the classic beat. 

“Welcome to the jungle, we got fun and games. We got everything you want. Honey, we know the names…”

Jisung’s cocky smirk was aimed at the end of the club, where Minho stayed pressed against the wall with hands in his pockets, wanting him from afar. And, when he moaned, he made sure to look straight into his eyes before rolling them back on his head so he would know he could never have him.

On stage, Jisung was power, a kind that Machiavelli would never see coming, because kings were big, but rockstars were everlasting.

“I'm gonna watch you bleed.”  

Once again, it was sung directly at Minho, a wink following. The statement a bold promise Jisung would love to fulfill.

“You know where you are? You're in the jungle, baby. You're gonna die.”

Because it was true. Bad Decisions would forever be Jisung's. No encounters in dark alleys or injury-assisting in the kitchen would change the fact that this was his kingdom and Minho was just an intruder.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

There was so much lust and desire creeping through the hot air of the club by the time the concert was over, every droplet of sweat an agonizing reminder of how much they all needed to get laid.

Jisung wasn't the god of rock, seeing as there was a century of genius musicians before his turn at the genre, but his gift was definitely making people horny.

The music, the body language, the infinite moans and the one time he used the hem of his shirt to wipe his forehead gave their crowd a latent want that couldn't be contained.

But like every round of good sex, he needed to finish:

“This is all, widows.” His voice was so husky that he could as well been rolling around in a bed with each one of them. But, by the sad sounds under him, it wasn't the case. He chuckled. “Don't worry. Rock is dead, buthowever, the night's still young, perfect to make some bad decisions.” 

And they were cheering again, knowing that they would be back next Friday, knowing that rock would forever live because of Jisung.

He took the pleased screams like a drug, getting light-headed in the process of saying their final goodbyes and making their way back to the crumpled room behind the stage. 

It was hard to leave when this was when he felt best, so he lingered a little more, stalling as the boys all went before him.

Because Jisung knew that as soon as he stepped out, the power would be gone, and the universe never failed to prove him right.

As he was making his way past the dark, narrow corridor, a hand grabbed him, pinning him against the wall, fingers crawling up his throat to squeeze his windpipe.

It was different from before, the hand was delicate and the choking was slow and sensual, hitting all the nice spots while feeling the pulse of his heart underneath.

Jisung didn't need to blink the haze from his eyes to know it was Minho, but he still did it, searching sharp eyes through the dark and finding them sparkling at him, the crazy glint he had when he was after Jisung's soul.

“Love the little stunt you pulled for me. I guess you're finally caving in to your desires.” 

Minho was feeling smug and Jisung's faint snort said all the words his mouth couldn't: he found him pathetic.

Soft fingers left his neck, but he made no move to get out of Jisung’s personal space. So the younger was able to say right at his face:

“You wish. You’re dying to have me, but I hope you know you’re never gonna fulfill your dirty little gay dreams. I would rather die.”

Maybe it was the vodka pumping in his blood or the post-concert courage, but Jisung was feeling brave, fueled by his anger of the turmoil Minho caused in his life in the short period he existed there.

He chuckled. “I've seen so many like you, Jisungie. And let me tell you how it goes…” His thumb made its way to his cheek to gently caress it. Jisung let him, but his bored face remained. “They all come crawling back to me. I will wait for this moment, I will drive you fucking insane until I give what you really want.” 

No word from his mouth fazed Jisung, but his dick twitched repeatedly at the surge of adrenaline that the situation caused, not able to predict Minho's next moves but still waiting for it.

He wasn't ashamed anymore of getting hard at Minho's calculated retorts. Because if Minho was a psycho, Jisung was three times worse, his body physically craving a fight to get off.

“Until then, you'll have to find a way to get rid of this.” The cupping of his crotch while he said it was unexpected, Jisung's eyes widening for a second, his control faltering and he almost couldn't stop a moan from escaping.

Although quick and light, Jisung could feel it after he removed his hand and stepped away, walking back to the main area to blend with the crowd of casual rockers.

Once again, Minho left him with shaky legs and a million questions in his head as to why he never punched this motherfucker right at his pretty face whenever he got close like that.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

The answer never came to him during the night, and neither did Minho. He knew about the probability of the members having him backstage, having fun without Jisung, but he was too horny to care.

Jisung needed alcohol, a random girl and a smoke, his fingers already trembling from the amount of time he was going without it. All three of them would be easy to get since he ruled Bad Decisions. 

The moment he went to the bar, awkwardly getting a glass of whisky from the winking bartender he kissed the other day, a girl approached him.

She was cute, with a Guns N’ Roses tee and a high-waisted skirt. Thankfully, shorter than him so his ego could bathe in the fact that he could tower over her.

“I-I loved the concert.” The red lights did nothing to hide the blush coloring her full cheeks, her nervousness clear as she tried to make conversation.

A charming smirk pulled at his lips, trying to ignore the presence of the bartender nearby to rizz the girl up.

“Thank you. We work hard to please you guys.” He had to lean in next to her ear so she could hear him, the girl visibly shuddering at the sudden contact. “Wanna get out of here?” 

Pulling away momentarily from her, he watched her shocked features, using the time to down his drink in one gulp, feeling it burn his throat and the terrible woody taste linger on his tongue.

It wasn't the best decision of the night, seeing as he was already buzzed, but oh how it made him look like a rockstar.

And the girl, whatever her name was, thought the same, the answer not taking long to come, a small yes getting a devious smile in return from Jisung.

Fuck the right decisions, he thought as he placed his fingers on the girl’s wrist and guided her away from the red lights, reaching the dark corridor that lead backstage. The worst decisions were way more fun.

Minho was indeed there, pressed on the couch between Felix and Changbin, laughing until his eyes met Jisung’s dizzy figure and the girl following behind him. His lips instantly closed, quivering, but not showing the satisfaction he felt to know it was true, Jisung found someone to finish what he started.

Maybe Jisung would have felt more affected if he didn't love how the situation made him look, wanted by everybody – the act of sucking his dick while he smoked was a privilege not many could have.

He was getting drunk by the second, head spinning in heavier circles, so he quickly pulled the girl past the door to reside where all the bad decisions happened, not bothering to introduce her to the band because it didn't matter, she didn't matter.

“Do you smoke pot?” She timidly asked, a joyful glint in her eyes.

Well, that impressed him. The girl definitely didn't look or smell like a pothead. “Yeah.”

Weed wasn't something he had often, he usually preferred the more tame buzz of the nicotine in his body, but he was stressed enough to need the extra pull.

“Good.” Full cheeks and big eyes smiled as she retrieved two joints from her pocket. “Do you happen to have a lighter?”

“Let me light it up for you.” He was oddly polite today, feeling on top of the world, no bad strikes at his big fucking ego, instead, they all indulged it.

With a smirk pressing the joint between her lips, she waited for Jisung to retrieve his lighter from his back pocket and get overly touchy as he put fire so close to her face just to get a kick out of it.

She was also an adrenaline junkie, giggling at the almost burning sensation it caused before pressing the other joint to Jisung's lips. He took it gladly, doing the same to himself, heating his lip ring, hissing when it got hot enough.

“You're an interesting character.” The girl was less nervous as her puff of smoke hit Jisung right in the face, the both of them almost shotgunning from how close they were.

“I get that a lot.” A smug shrug of shoulders followed his words, but he didn't reciprocate her compliment. Rockstars didn't need to.

“I bet you do.” She knew the implications of his words, that she wasn't the first there, a clear warning that she should know where she was getting herself into.

Crazy as he was, she accepted the challenge, the cloud of smoke surrounding them. Not a word muttered but they kept their gazes connected, flirting with wicked grins and burning eyes, a dance so intense he thought he was about to get hard just from it.

The buzzing of his head intensified as the effect of the weed kicked in, making his limbs extra heavy and his thoughts syrupy slow. He was trusting it would make the blowjob feel even better.

He decided to test his theory, tilting his head and leaning in to capture her lips in a kiss. There was smoke in their shared breath, the earthy notes of weed mingling on their tongues, getting a groan to escape his mouth.

Without Minho tattooed behind his lids, just his insane addiction, Jisung felt at peace. Like nothing he ever felt since that demon landed in his life.

Everything felt so good, his heart pumping faster, ringing in his ears as he properly touched the girl in front of him. Too good, almost like he was floating, his feet leaving the ground as their combined spit dripped on his chin.

Maybe Jisung could write the fucking song about weed, because he felt truly in love with it in that moment.

Would people tear up thinking of it? He would make them. He could do anything.

A hand made its way down to the front of his pants, palming at his cock, surprisingly soft despite the constant stimulation. Her fingers were small and, for a fraction of second, he thought of how big Minho's was in comparison, the touch never gentle like the girl was doing.

His thoughts couldn't linger on Minho or anything as he was high as hell, no reaction whatsoever to something that had been literally haunting his dreams. 

Their lips disconnected to breathe, the air damp between them. Jisung couldn't even feel the act of his lungs filling in with the crisp wind of winter, his whole body numb, but the press of a hand on his dick was too dull for his liking.

“Hmmm, baby, it isn’t going to suck itself.” He tried instead, desperate to feel more, to forget the burning Minho left on him earlier, to wash away his fucking touch.

When he opened his eyes, his vision was blurry, barely making the figure of the girl ducking down, carefully placing her knees on the grimy asphalt. If he wasn't already pressed to the heavy metal door, underneath the sign that guided his living, he would have fallen, no control remaining in his body.

But he could still feel her fingers undoing his belt, the button and the fly on his pants, agonizingly slow. He was about to complain, to ask her to hurry up. He didn't need to, as she was smart enough to wrap her lips around him quickly, his dick weirdly soft.

He didn't know if the frustrated groan came from her or himself, but he could feel it echoing in his head, his vision suddenly dark, his temple hurting, but not remembering to have closed his eyes.

After that, he heard a thud, a high-pitched ‘Jisung!’ and ‘help!’, going completely unconscious, the only thing behind his lids were long lashes and sharp eyes.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Beneath the darkness of his thoughts, music danced in his mind, a tune hard to grasp, a melody hard to find. In the thin veil of awake and asleep, he could almost touch the notes surrounding his dreams.

Feeling it on his ears, on his tongue, on his skin, the music played him…

That is, until long lashes and sharp eyes invaded the eden of creation, the depths of his brain. Jisung groaned.

“Good morning, princess.” As melodic as the early stages of the song, he listened to the real world, taking too long to realize who the voice belonged to.

His eyes opened abruptly, instantly hissing at the light in the room. Then, an insistent headache behind his eyes, but it was true, Minho was there, blurry from his slumber but unfathomably him.

Jisung didn't know where he was, the creamy walls and the white door frame adorning Minho's figure unknown to his tired brain. But he was still there, standing on the entryway, shoulder pressed there the same way he did on the day he saved Jisung from getting choked to death.

A mug in his hand, steaming hot, a light blue knitted sweater hugging his shoulders. And yet nothing of this screamed comfort as it was paired with a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

“You put on a show yesterday…” He purposely dragged the words, enjoying it. “I bet you can't remember.”

Getting heated from the anger that his soft voice caused, Jisung sat up, ready to fight. 

It was true, he didn't remember. If he squeezed his brain enough, he saw cute eyes surrounded by smoke, the fog clearing to feel the kisses they shared, of torpid touches through his body, of the world ending right before his eyes.

Not even the comfortable mattress he was sitting on or the cozy blanket thrown over him could stop the bile rising on his throat, sick just to think of losing this much control.

He couldn't get it up for the girl, his dick pathetically soft when she sucked him off. On top of that, he fucking fainted on her. This was so not rockstar of him.

God, he wanted to die. At 23. Before raising rock again. 

“Let's recap what happened.” Minho sounded thrilled seeing Jisung with red cheeks and full of regret. “Don't get all pouty on me now. You were such a good boy yesterday.” 

There was a pause for Minho to take a sip of his… whatever was in that mug, that he not so secretly wished to be poison, ending this torture with a grand finale.

Jisung's mouth, filled with a dry taste of the worst decisions he could make, couldn't unstick itself  from its glued position, taking every word with no comeback ready. He hated it.

“So, of course, you were as dead as rock on the ground of the club when the girl with you called for help. What was her name again? I bet you didn't even ask.” He tsked at this, scrunching his nose judgingly. Jisung didn't have energy to roll his eyes, but Minho sensed it, completely ignoring him to keep talking. “I got there, had to carefully tuck you back into your pants. Wasn't that so nice of me?” 

Jisung wished he had a little bit of wit remaining in him to curse at that motherfucker. This was hell.

“Yeah, zipped you up, tried to bring you back to consciousness but you were barely there. So I had to carry you inside like a princess. Don't worry though, I didn't try kissing you to see if you would come back. Your lips touched where rats crawl.” Another scrunch of his perfect nose, but this time it was a joke, a giggle following right after.

Jisung didn't know how much more he could hear of it, but he couldn't move from his place on the bed or say something back, petrified by the deadly mortification his body was enduring.

“Chan helped me check if we had to call an ambulance, but you groaned enough to let us know you were alive.” God, Jisung closed his eyes, rolling in his own misery to think of his best friend having so much trouble because he had no control.

Another pause to sip his drink, the right side of the mug turning to show a cute drawn cat face on it. His aesthetic being a counterpart of his personality gave Jisung whiplash every time.

“Then, Chan parked the car close to the backdoor of Bad Decisions and we drove you here. You were a little better, so we let you stand for a second, which was more than enough for you to drop to the floor again and puke on yourself. Not the greatest sight, I must say.” 

And it got worse, of course it would get worse. How was Jisung still surprised?

“Chan and I got you up here and we had to bathe you because there was no way we would let you sleep with dry vomit in your hair. You groaned and mumbled nonsense, but otherwise you were such a good boy for us.”

His eyes kept the teasing glint, excited to embarrass him further. But Jisung finally got a grasp of his own body and sanity, getting up from the bed just to panic at seeing light gray sweatpants on himself and realize Minho was literally at the door, blocking his way out.

This was a mess he couldn't seem to get out and his breath got ragged at all the new information. Minho's bedroom, Minho's sweats, Minho's sheets.

Blood pumping in his ears, skin tingling, his lungs aching for the instant relief of nicotine, Jisung knew what was happening. And he would not show Minho how much he was affecting him.

Ready to bolt, Jisung looked anywhere but Minho's direction. 

The room matched his aesthetic, the floor-to-ceiling window bathing in light his shelf full of plant pots and candles; the big bed with fluffy pillows and detergent-scented comforter taking up most of it, only leaving a little space on the wall by the door to house a dresser, adorned by art supplies and beige… ropes?

If Jisung wasn't freaking out, choosing between facing the demon in front of him or jumping the window, he would definitely question the folded ropes close to paint and brushes.

He didn't have time though, opting for the most reasonable way out, inching closer to Minho by the door, trying to decide if he could fit through the tiny space his body wasn't occupying and run for the hills.

“I know what you're doing.” The sound of the mug being placed on the dresser was loud enough to startle Jisung.

When he looked up, Minho's smile was gone and so was the excited glint in his eye. Instead, he got a raised eyebrow and a tilt of his head that challenged him to fulfill his plans.

Nervous, he didn't have enough time to come up with something better than, “You don't know me.”

Jisung knew he was being petulant, avoiding looking Minho in the face, focusing on the pounding of his temple, the nausea in his throat and the insistent flood of blood in his ears. But he was getting to his limit.

“I know you enough to figure you are about to run away.” From the corner of his eye, Jisung could see Minho crossing his arms on his chest, not letting any space between himself and the door. “But I’m not Chan, I’m not going to let you off the hook just because you don't know how to deal with your feelings.” 

His words stung more than Jisung would've liked and the simmering of his blood on his veins turned into a boiling, his skin itching with the force of it. He had enough.

Fuck the panic, he was outraged, the feeling translating into a scowl. “And I'm not a child, I can come and go as I please.” He practically growled at him, too close to his face, fists forming on his sides.

“You can come and go as you please after we talk.” Minho wasn't fazed by his show of dominance, matching it right back, not with a growl, but with a sinister calm tone, blinking his long lashes lazily as he did so.

It angered Jisung how Minho could just say things without any emotion, corner him when nobody was looking and push him until he broke.

Today, Jisung wasn't having any of it, letting respect and common sense fly out of the window. He brought his fist up in a sudden movement, trying to aim for Minho’s stomach rather than his face, trusting that his rather quick reflexes wouldn't notice.

Minho squeezed Jisung's knuckles in a tight fist, close to his diaphragm, but stopping Jisung before he knocked his breath away. He hissed, the bone-crushing hold of the older's fingers on his hand actually painful.

“You give me no other choice.” 

It was the only warning he got, the world spinning right after, his back pressed to Minho's chest for a moment and Jisung had to fight the urge to puke again, everything happening too fast.

When he could swallow the thick saliva in his throat, Minho had his other hand up his back, holding his wrists in an iron grip. As Jisung was back to his senses, the feeling of something else caged his forearms.

No, it couldn't be. 

It was already too late to remember that Minho had fucking ropes in his room, within his reach. Jisung’s eyes widened and his body turned cold.

“Minho, what the fuck?!” He didn't care how loud he was in the silent apartment, twisting and squirming against his hold, but to no avail, he had his arms tied in a firm knot. “This is crazy, even for you. Let me go!”

“Not before we talk.” He bullied him inside the room, Jisung trying desperately to balance himself on his feet without the help of his, now useless, arms.

Nothing worked and Minho got to push him onto the bed in a swift motion, Jisung landing on his face with a yelp.

“Seriously, you gotta stop doing this!” His ego broke in a million pieces to have his voice muffled by the sheets while he wiggled like a worm to try and turn around.

If Jisung was angry before, now he was fuming, finally getting a grasp of his body to sit down and prevent Minho from doing anything else to him.

“Relax. I'm not going to touch you anymore.” He stepped back, getting closer to the door again, sensing that Jisung might be crazy enough to run away with his arms tied.

“Where is Chan?” His brain belatedly realized this was also his best friend's home and he hadn't come for his rescue after screaming for help. Maybe he was pouting, but Minho hadn't commented on it.

“He got the Saturday morning shift at the music school.” He paused to get his mug back from the dresser, sipping on his drink and letting Jisung rot in his own anger. “Are you calm enough to talk now?” 

The weary look Jisung got from Minho made his eyes roll, but his mouth remained silent, not giving in to the older's wishes.

“You know, I’ve never tied somebody up against their will.” His lips twitched in a smile that wanted to break through, but he contained it, already happy with how much he pushed Jisung to his limits.

And the younger stayed there, sulking. God, he really needed to breathe in order not to spontaneously combust.

It only half worked, his hands rubbing on his forearms, his shoulders trying to get more comfortable in the position. 

The knot was well-done, his blood flow intact; and the ropes were pretty soft, the smell of lemongrass filling the air now that he could focus on something more than his insistent headache and the even more insistent psycho in front of him.

“Look… I know this isn't the best way to have this talk and it's okay if you don't want to say anything.” Minho sounded different, more careful than usual, but Jisung didn't let it fool him. “I want to apologize.”

Okay, Jisung wasn't expecting this, blinking a few times at him, confusion etched on his face.

“You tied me up to apologize to me?”

If this was the karma he deserved for his sequence of terrible decisions, Jisung would honestly reconsider every one of his choices from now on.

“No, I tied you up because you run away from every situation you can't control.” Minho crossed his arms in front of his chest again, getting restless. Jisung scowled, about to share a piece of his mind, but Minho interrupted him. “I am apologizing for being a dick and making you confront feelings you are not ready to face yet. It isn't right of me to push you.” 

“You don't know me.” He couldn't stop his neck from getting pink, having no idea why Minho’s words made him so flustered.

There was nothing to be dealt with. Jisung would forever be Jisung. The asshole, the fuck-up… The rockstar. He was sorry for the people who thought there was more to it. This was all of him.

“Well, it isn't my business to figure out your shit, I think it is going to hit you eventually, whether you want it or not. But, meanwhile, this is me asking for a truce.”

His arms came down from his guarded position and, for a second, he offered his hand to Jisung, but then he winced, remembering the younger was tied up.

Jisung rolled his eyes for the nth time. “Why would I believe you?” 

He did look different, his hair softer, his lashes more gentle when ruffling on his high cheekbones, his smile more genuinely and his eyes sparkly in a way that wasn't evil. 

This Minho scared him, more than the psycho in the alley who choked him, because that was simple, he knew what to expect. But when he was being nice, Jisung was afraid of how he would react to it, of how much self-control he would lose.

In the end, he was just a boy, with a fear of letting new people in, with a fear of his favorite people liking Minho better than him.

“You can believe in anything you want. I’m trying to start over, because we are going to see each other a lot.” His eyes got impossibly softer, not taking pity, but empathizing with him. “You don't need to revive rock on your own, Jisung. We are here to help you.” 

It was enough for the pink of his neck to deepen. It caught him off-guard and he didn't like any bit of it.

“Okay. Can you untie me now?” Changing subjects was easier. There was too much going on, the nausea, the headache, the flustering. He wanted out.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Chapter Text

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Jisung wished the wind outside could change everything for him.

He wished for it when he was still a teen, sad, angry, wanting the world to explode right before his eyes.

The years passed and here he was, on a bridge, in the heart of the city, watching the lights on the horizon blink back at him in urban serenity, not giving the answers he craved, not giving him anything.

Bad Decisions was a few steps away, the music blasting through inked walls and the eternal grime of casual rockers. Today he wasn't having any of them. No bad decision would change him.

So he screamed, in the dead of the night, to commercial buildings and a handful of cars, with all the strength in his lungs.

Nobody listened.

A couple hours ago, everybody listened, to his yells, to his moans, to every word he sang. But the show was over, his sweat had dried and his adrenaline died down to desperate yearning.

Jisung still hadn't written the song they needed, not an ounce of inspiration inside of him.

Failure, came the whisper of the cold wind hitting his ears.

He screamed back into the void, inteligible, none of the anger and frustration gone with the echo.

“Fuck!”

He went home in the late hours of the night, watching the grass as dead as his dreams, dragging his pitiful body through the large, empty living room. Jisung felt like a fraud; it wasn’t very rockstar of him to leave without a girl or a buzzing head.

In reality, he was afraid of repeating the previous Friday, when Minho and Chan had to bathe him because he fell on his own vomit. 

Therefore, he went back to his obligations, dropping his black converse and socks by the door, leaving the rockstar to rise again the next Friday, because this was just Jisung.

And just Jisung made his way to the backyard door, to sink his feet in freezing water, soaking in the ache of his bones to feel a little bit more alive.

His mom was already there and he gasped out loud, surprised to see her. 

“Hi, Jisung.” 

It was too late to run away, he realized, so he just scratched the back of his head and approached her.

The water was just as cold as he was expecting, hissing out a pained, “hi, mom,” in return.

They were two ghosts in this big house, reminiscing good times that were forever ago. The only living and breathing thing among them was the tall ipê tree, with its small yellow flowers, fallen on the pool, but stuck in their hearts.

“Remember when your dad brought home a crooked tree, with no leaves?” she started, a smile forming on her lips, but not reaching her eyes.

He sighed, dreading the conversation, but knowing he couldn't flee the situation like every other thing in his life.

“Yes. Who would've thought that 18 years later it would turn into this beautiful thing?” They both stared at it, shaking with the wind, letting more yellow into the water.

“And the first time it bloomed was right after he died.” 

A beat of silence, the night as dark as them.

“Maybe the tree is crying with us, every year, on his death anniversary.”

“Will it ever stop?” His mom always supported his craziness, adding in, making them both smile. No gloom, just natural silliness.

This time, they weren't smoking, Jisung's pack of cigarettes in his jeans’ pocket, her pack of cigarettes between them. There was no need to, no anxiety calling for nicotine, to distract, to forget.

She looked at him for the first time, deep in his eyes, the lines of old age on her face prominent under the moonlight. The same tiny brown orbs, round cheeks, a mirror of him.

“You don't believe enough in yourself, but everything will come out alright,” she said.

“You don't believe enough in yourself, but everything will come out alright.” He returned her words, because they both needed it.

To watch her eyes turn into crescent moons and a laugh escape her, maybe Jisung did feel alive now.

He hugged her, tucking her head beneath his chin, trying to rub the cold goosebumps away from her bare arms.

“Yeah, we can do it, mom.” 

She wasn't the heavy rock he sometimes thought of her as, anchoring him down in this pit of misery. She was trying her hardest, more than he ever could. So he would try his hardest too, to write this damn song, to fucking bring back rock and the happiness they craved so bad.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

He didn't. Nothing worked. Jisung was desperate.

The songs he wrote came from feelings that were too hard to face, most of them not leaving the mess of his room, because how would he rock people’s world if his songs showed everything? There would be no sexy mystery or the easy trouble of his smirks on stage. Just the broken boy underneath.

And love wasn't a sentiment he was acquainted with. He needed to touch people without making them sad.

In the end, he had nothing. Another week passed, the date of sending their demos drawing closer with each torturous passing day.

Jisung didn't know how to love.

The conclusion was painful. He ran away from the people who loved him, he put a giant wall between any chance he had at love, any kind.

Of course he had thought of the obvious, using a kind of love that wasn't his to write this song, but it was a feeling he couldn't empathize with. 

He watched a dating show of couples in crisis and, although he really wished for the long-term couple to solve their problems and be happy, it didn't reach him personally.

Was he broken? Would he never find the fire and the sparkles of love that sex couldn't give?

“Found you.” Changbin was breathless as he stopped by his side, the peaceful neighborhood watching them back.

On Sundays, there was nobody in the street, people choosing to lounge in their pompous big homes instead. So Jisung had the liberty to smoke without anybody giving him a side eye.

Once, here, at the same spot he stood every week, when taking a break from band practice, he saw a few capybaras looking for the lake. And he thought that maybe smoking wasn't so bad if he got to witness the world happening so slowly when life happened too fast.

“I'm always here.” He looked at Changbin after throwing the butt of the cigarette on the ground and stepping on it.

“Yeah, you're always here.” His conclusion was sadder, a sigh leaving his lips.

“If you're about to lecture me on cigarettes being bad for my health, don't.”

The members never changed, always trying to get him to quit. But they didn't know how hard it was.

“I'm not. You're a lost cause.” Changbin's lips curved on a playful smirk, hitting his shoulder lightly to show he was joking. “I am thinking that you’re anxious enough that you're here for the second time since we started practicing.”

It was Jisung's turn to sigh.

“Look, I'm not trying to figure you out or whatever, I leave that to Chan. But I know the song has been bothering you, especially today.”

“It's not. I'm working on it.” Jisung put his hands inside the pockets of his leather jacket, looking at where the ashes were smashed onto the pavement.

“I'm not dumb, Jisung. I know you have nothing ready. Otherwise, you would be gushing about it every second of every day.” 

He had to look at Changbin again, a little taken aback by the sudden boldness. Nobody in the band talked to him like this.

“Only saying this because I'm trying to help.” He raised his hands in defense. “You're not gonna get anywhere if you keep thinking the same way. Yes, rock needs to live, but you also need to undead yourself.”

This was hard to swallow, but Jisung did it anyway. His mouth was dry because of the cigarette, the lingering taste getting digested with the harsh truth.

“You need to see the world past anger and resentment and whatever is wrong inside of you.”

His gaze was back onto the ground, his foot playing with the ashes.

“We have no time for that.” Jisung's voice was a murmur, barely there, charged with emotion.

“We’ll wait for you. It's okay if you take longer. We are bringing rock together, it's not all in your hands.”

A heavy pat on his back followed Changbin’s words, trying to light up the mood. Jisung swallowed the building lump in his throat, clearing it before he attempted to speak again.

“I think it's time to get back.” He didn't agree or disagree with what his friend had to say, the easy change of subjects meaning he acknowledged his words. But he was still Jisung, who would never admit that he had problems to somebody else.

“You're right.”

They made their way inside, descending the stairs to the basement. The members were all ready to go back to practice, various copies of Chan's new song laying around.

It wasn't their first time making songs together, sometimes they even played originals at Bad Decisions. Each one knew what to add or change to make it look good, which was what they were doing now.

“Good. You're back.” Chan stood from the couch. “I was just texting Minho.” Jisung held back an eye roll. “He knows a producer who can help us.” Of course he did, what couldn't Minho do? “He's gonna book us a studio to record the ones we have.”

God, Minho was annoying. Jisung hated that he was a crucial part of their process of reliving rock. But he guessed Changbin was right, he needed to put everything aside for this to work. And that was what he was going to do.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

It was so hard to put everything aside when Minho was around.

He was traveling the previous week, something about selling art pieces to rich people in another city. Not seeing him at Bad Decisions or band practice or Chan's apartment gave Jisung time to almost forget why he hated him.

But then he was back, with his fluffy hair and cream cardigan and stupidly pretty smiles. Holding the key that would help change their lives forever.

And, with him, there was a guy, young like them, bored as ever. He had short, tousled bangs, a nostril piercing and eyeliner that made him look extra mean.

“This is Seungmin.” He introduced them. “He's the music producer I told you about.”

Of course Minho was smug to have landed them a chance at a studio with an actual producer, hiding it behind a smooth voice and long lashes that swooshed gently on his high cheekbones. Jisung saw right through him, his blood boiling without having spent five minutes close to the guy.

Before he could dwell on his hateful feelings, though, Seungmin offered a hand to each of them, politely greeting them with a warm smile. Very different from what Jisung was expecting. Maybe he was nothing like Minho. He hoped so.

“Does he have to stay?” Jisung was feeling petulant enough to grab Chan by the arm as everyone made their way inside.

“Who?” The visible confusion on Chan's face made Jisung want to stab his two own eyes to get out of this situation before it even started.

“Minho, of course. He's so annoying.”

“Jisung, I honestly don't know what your problem is with Minho. You guys barely exchanged a few words and you hate his guts. Give him a chance.” The gentle tone made everything worse, like Jisung was kicking a kitten.

If someone was getting kicked, it was definitely Jisung. The guy had choked him twice and tied him up. He wasn't crazy for disliking him. But he couldn't tell Chan.

“Fine. I'm gonna warm up my voice in the other room.” Visibly tired of his traitor friends, Jisung just admitted defeat.

He expected more of Chan, because the older usually got him like nobody else in this world, speaking for him when he couldn’t find the right words, trusting his version before anyone else's. Minho ruined it all.

In the other room, Jisung let his body slump against the window, his fingers itching for the pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his leather jacket, a scream stuck in his throat.

Past the windowsill he rested his elbows on, the city seemed to mock him. The sky was a beautiful shade of blue, no clouds in sight, just tall buildings and the busy streets underneath.

Nothing changed in the landscape, but his life was changing against his will and he hated it.

“Looking for these?” Jisung jolted, hand stuck in the pocket of his jacket, desperately looking back while trying to retrieve his limb.

The giggle that followed his clumsy actions made his blood turn cold for a second, instantly boiling after making eye-contact with that demon, who was holding the white and red paper pack he was searching for.

“God, can't you leave me the fuck alone?” He didn't have the energy to fight, just returned his body to the original position, facing the window.

“What got your panties twisted, princess? I'm jealous.” 

Of course he wouldn't leave him alone, instead, moving closer, resting his elbows on the windowsill, inches away from his body, heat radiating from his sunny blonde aura, the speckles of his glasses shining in the daylight.

It felt so wrong to look at Minho's cardigan-covered hand, beige and clean and so smooth, holding the glossy paper on the outer part of the window.

Jisung would be mad if he wasn't already expecting it. Minho wasn't touching and teasing him like promised he wouldn't, but this remained. He stole his cigarettes every time.

“Seriously, you're not usually this dense,” the sneaky bastard said, waving the pack around to try and get Jisung's attention. “What's bothering you?”

“Why would you care?” Jisung was expecting his cigarettes to be stolen, Minho was expecting insults and snapping. One of those things didn't happen.

“Why wouldn't I care? I'm here trying to be friends, with the guys, with you, helping in any way I can. If this isn't enough to prove I care, I don't know what will.”

The playful, teasing Minho was gone. This was way deeper into the layers that kept the mystery going. An unsure murmur. An attempt to fit in.

Jisung, the forever fuck-up, asshole rockstar, thought this was the best time to poke his wounds right back. “If you care so much, leave me the fuck alone.”

The hovering presence was gone, his cigarettes swiftly thrown out the open window before he left. 

Jisung sighed, because it didn't solve any of his problems to not have Minho there.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Nothing was solved, but the time it took for Jisung to actually start the exercises for his vocal chords and get them going was… refreshing. A new perspective, an optimistic one that he was about to resurrect this motherfucker called rock.

“Ready?” Chan smiled at him when he arrived, dimples on full display when he saw the sparkle back in Jisung's dull eyes.

“Born ready.” He winked at him, a smirk coloring his features. This was his moment.

Everything could go wrong in Jisung's life — his dad dying, his friends treating him like porcelain, his inability to love — and yet, the rockstar lived inside of him, calling his name, urging him to become as big as he dreamed.

Minho sat behind the glass with Seungmin, Chan and the members. The song they worked hard on was about to have a heartbeat, a Phoenix rising from the ashes.

This was his first time in a professional studio, but he could have fooled anybody. Placing the headphones on his head and guiding his ringed fingers to the mic, Jisung was king.

There was nobody like him, his voice raspy but smooth like the song asked for, adding to Chan’s amazing songwriting skills, the perfect match for the catchy beat.

“It's missing something on this part.” Seungmin pushed the button to talk to Jisung, his voice reverberating through the small room.

He raised a pierced eyebrow at the producer.

“Try moaning on this part, crescendo, it will do wonders.” Minho had a smirk on his face, not as mean as the ones he had given him in the past, the energy behind it a little faded.

The older was still helping although he made sure to tell him he wasn't welcome. Because the world didn't revolve around Jisung like he always thought it did. And, in the end, Minho was as keen on reviving rock as Jisung was.

Jisung hated how many hard-to-swallow truths he was hit with during the week. But it was enough fuel for him to express the emotions the song asked for. He’d said it before, the best rock came from troubled minds like his.

So he moaned, not like that time in Bad Decisions when he was moaning for Minho. This time was for the sake of rock, feeling himself in the booth, rising in pitch, getting breathless, knowing how everybody stopped to listen when he did it.

And, just like he was expecting, all pairs of eyes were on him, Minho biting his lip as he watched Jisung with clear desire in his eyes. He shrugged. Well, he had asked for it.

“Minho is right, it's way better now.” Seungmin pushed the button again, ending the barely there moment between them. “Good job, Jisung.”

The rest of the recording went smoothly, Chan, Seungmin and Minho adding in Jisung's parts. Some lines were redone a few times and the vocalist's throat went a little raw by the end of it.

Something else went a little raw by the end of it too, Jisung thought when looking at Minho, his eyes darker, unable to hide what he thought of the rockerboy in front of him. He bit his lip to repress an evil smirk that wanted to break free.

He wanted Minho to rot in his unrequited desire, in his fucking influence on the musical industry, in his cute cardigans and fluffy hair.

Still, it wasn't a surprise when Minho followed Jisung to the other room as soon as he was done, leaving Felix to record his bass and Chan to do the ad-libs. He’d brought a water bottle as a peace offering.

Jisung accepted for the hell of it. He was thirsty and he wanted to show Minho he didn't scare him.

“You did a good job there.” They were both getting settled at the window again, with elbows on the frame and a clear blue sky ahead of them.

It wasn't so early, getting warmer as the day went by, but the wind wasn't merciful enough to let them lose their jackets. The chilly breeze hit their faces and blew Jisung's longish hair around.

“I always do a good job.” He shrugged, the wit remaining. It was hard to brush the rockstar off of him when adrenaline still pumped high in his blood and his voice was still fucked.

He took the pause in their fairly normal conversation to drink water.

“You should believe your own words.” Jisung choked on it, surprised at hearing it from Minho. 

What was wrong with the people around him? He knew enough about himself, he didn't need anybody to tell him that.

“I thought you said you would stop trying to figure out my shit.” A guarded, cold answer, hiding how much it affected him, the third person to tell him this in the same week.

Another silence and another gulp of the water, hoping the cold liquid would cool off the anger bubbling inside of him. He could never put everything aside when Minho was around.

“Oh, trust me, I’m not trying to figure out your shit. But it's so obvious you’re having a hard time writing the song and it’s affecting you mentally.”

This time, Jisung looked at him, scowling, hoping Minho would spontaneously combust in front of him just to wipe that fucking smirk off his face. It didn't help that he was stupidly pretty and Jisung had a hard time imagining burning such a work of art.

“It’s not like I can do anything about it. The words aren't wording.” The tone of accusation was maybe a push, not caring about looking unaffected anymore.

God, how Jisung wished he still had his cigarettes… The poor pack was probably lying crooked on the road next to the building, after its fall from the window. This angered Jisung even more.

Minho's existence annoyed him.

“I was trying to offer help earlier, but you shoved me away before I could actually say anything. Why is it so hard to accept help, Jisung?” Minho's eyebrows creased, not in anger, not in disdain, but in concern.

His softer side, the one who was always willing to care for others, the one who got him off Bad Decisions’ ground and tucked him safely into his own bed… Jisung didn't want to acknowledge it, because, if he did, he would let his guard down, would let Minho in.

By any means, Minho was all good, choking him when nobody was looking, laughing right at his face, tying him down, forcing himself wherever Jisung had claimed. But he wasn't all bad either and it was dangerous.

“I don't accept help from psychos who have ropes in their bedroom,” Jisung tsked, lips tingling along with his fingertips, physically needing the rush of nicotine in his body.

Minho chuckled. “Do you wanna know why there's ropes in my bedroom?”

Images of that day returned. His aesthetically pleasing bedroom; gold, white and beige welcoming him in. But it was all a farce, Minho not hesitating to grab the first pair from the dresser to trap him.

“Do I want to know?” His raised eyebrow showed disbelief, waiting for the worst. Was he planning on kidnapping Jisung? He honestly didn't want to know if that was the case.

“It’s not what you think. It's a Japanese art.” Funny, Jisung had his otaku days as a teen and he never heard of it. “An adult art. People get tied in pretty patterns, it's a pleasure for the eyes… But also a pleasure for the body, as the ropes go right where you need them to be.”

So this was what Minho liked in the bedroom? Jisung’s mind wandered for a second before landing on Earth again, remembering it wasn't his business to know such a thing and he didn't want it to be his business.

He swallowed the thick saliva in his mouth, blinking back some sense into his brain.

“I could show you if you want.” The evil, dark eyes returned, neither gold-rimmed glasses nor his gentle-looking appearance able to hide the menace that he was.

“Oh, you want to tie me up again so bad, don't you?” Jisung's scorn almost dripped from his pierced lip.

A voice inside of him whispered that maybe he would want it too. It wasn't bad the last time.

Jisung had been restrained before, sexually and by law enforcement, though none of them had been as comfortable as Minho's lemongrass-scented beige rope.

“You should give it a try. It's pretty relaxing.” He wasn't denying it. Jisung didn't blink an eye, already expecting him to be shameless enough to confirm he wanted to. “Maybe it's what you need. Relax and get a change of perspective for your thoughts.” Changbin's words reverberated on Minho's.

“Maybe I will.” Jisung didn't know what got into him, the sentence out of his lips against his will, his self-control faltering. His eyes widened.

“You know where to find me.” Minho's smirk turned into a predatory smile, all teeth and all bite. Jisung waited for it to break his skin, but it never did.

Instead, Minho left, leaving Jisung to stand alone and reminisce on the crazy speed of his heart and the heating of his flesh. If it was anger, if it was lust, if it was the knowledge that the power lied in his hands… Jisung would never know.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Along with the desperate thoughts that clamored around his head, about how useless he was for not writing the song he was supposed to, the word was stuck in his head…

Shibari.

A simple japanese word, symbolizing the act of tying. Ancient practice, born to restrain captives, to bring pain. And then turned into kinbaku-bi, the beauty of tight binding.

It could be beautiful, it could bring pleasure, it could give you anything you want… That was what Jisung learned from a quick search on the Internet.

Maybe his quick research got out of hand when he found himself in the early hours of the day, sun rising, birds chirping, on a specialized website that taught how to make someone feel good with ropes.

His crusty eyes blinked the exhaustion away to watch a guy tying a woman, his hands oddly veiny like Minho, his voice also honey-soft… It was hard not to picture him doing that, vanilla scent so close to his face, sunny-blonde bangs ruffling under eyebrows creased in concentration.

Maybe Jisung was going insane.

There was no other reasonable explanation. Every time he closed his eyes, he could only see the beige of his ropes, the beige of his room, the beige of his hair… A comfortable fantasy that only existed in his twisted little head.

Minho ruined him when he gave a name to his intrusive thoughts.

Lying on his bed now, defeated, phone resting on top of his naked stomach, video still playing — Jisung had no idea what to do with himself. 

Nor watching the plain white ceiling or letting the cold weather raise goosebumps on his skin would fix the ache of his cock, painfully hard in his boxer-shorts.

“Dude, you're fucking crazy…” he tried to reason with his dick, but it was to no avail, it wouldn't soften.

Well, he said it before: he got hard when endangered. That bastard needed just a rush of a threat to make itself known. And Minho was everything it loved — unpredictable, rough, and just a tad psycho.

The last thing got a twitch out of him, inviting him to fully give himself in to whatever Minho wanted.

If his mom wasn't sleeping somewhere inside the house, he would have screamed again, hoping it would clear his mind. Nothing worked and he sighed, about to make the worst decision yet.

For Jisung's absolute desperation, he was great at outdoing himself, always ready to make a poor choice of his life. And there was no rockstar persona to back him this time. He was doing it for himself.

Jisung

Chan

Are you up

?

Answer now

Before I do something stupid

(Sent at 6:47AM)

Chan

God Jisung…

Please don't 

I'm leaving for work

If I see you on the news

I’ll pretend I don't know you

(Sent at 6:49AM)

Wrong answer, Jisung thought. 

Something inside him stirred other than his dick, remembering he was alone in this. He couldn't count on his friends to advise him otherwise, they didn't know what was going on between him and Minho.

Thinking back, he purposely kept to himself every encounter they had. From choking him in an alley to offering to tie him up, nobody knew a thing. 

If he was actually afraid, he would have told them. Jisung wasn't that dumb. But he was dumb enough to scroll through his chat with Chan to find Minho’s contact.

He was officially losing his mind.

And his dick liked the idea so much it wouldn't stop twitching. Jisung had to squeeze it with one hand to relieve himself a bit while he opened a new chat with the other. Hard job, but he figured it was enough time to think.

Again, who would Jisung be if he didn't love a bad decision?

Jisung

Yo

Psycho

(Sent at 6:57)

Minho

Did you text me just to insult me?

(Sent at 6:57)

He rolled his eyes, already annoyed even though they didn't exchange more than one text. But he had other plans, so he had to sigh and keep going.

Jisung

No

I would never waste my time

Minho

What do you want?

Jisung

Yk that shibari thing

That you talked about

On recording day…

Minho

Yes

Jisung had to bite his fist to control the urge to punch his phone. Minho was really going to make him say everything, not giving him a way out. He liked to see the younger suffering.

Jisung

Ugh

You literally said

Quote

“Come find me”

Minho

Are you serious?

If it's a joke, it's twisted

Even for you.

Minho was not collaborating in any way. Jisung had to let go of his dick to muffle his screams with a pillow.

Jisung

You are annoying

Of course I'm serious

Hit me with your worst

Did he really say that? Was he ready for Minho's worst?

Minho

Let's talk when you don't have a hand around your cock.

His cheeks heated up. Sometimes it felt like Minho had a permanent spot in his brain, seeing what he saw, thinking what he thought. It was unsettling…

A pity he enjoyed it so much, craving his insanity like his lungs craved nicotine. A killer addiction that he couldn't get enough.

Jisung took Minho's warning as a sign he should stop texting and fix the problem in his underpants. If he imagined hands around his neck while he sat with his hands tied behind his back, it was nobody's business.

He wished it wasn't his business too. The guilt, the worry, the disgust… They became ghosts following him after that.

And all it took was a look at Minho's stupidly pretty face, his fuzzy white sweater and light-wash jeans again, to exorcize them.

Everybody feared the day Jisung would explode and shatter, but this was the moment he felt like he truly had already, offering the shards to Minho. To step on him, to mend him back. He didn't care.

“Hi, Jisung.” It was all he said, his tone leaving the commanding pitch to give way to a gentle murmur.

It was band practice day again. They were at Changbin's house and Jisung decided to find a refuge in his usual spot, looking at the peaceful neighborhood, and sat on the curb, waiting for the capybaras.

Minho never came when he was smoking, probably afraid he would smell like Jisung, bitter and sad.

“Hi, Minho.” A whisper. Both of them enjoying the quiet. 

There was no imminent fear, expecting him to cross any lines. He just watched the older drop to the ground, arms bracing his knees and chin resting on top of them.

“Do you wanna talk about your texts?” No judgment, no obligation. It felt weirdly like they were friends.

Maybe Jisung should be honest too.

“Well, I haven't changed my mind.” He hit the butt of the cigarette, getting rid of the ashes, trying to distract himself from his heart, racing faster each passing second.

He did need a change of perspective. For the song, for his life. And he was willing to give himself as a sacrifice.

“Okay then. We'll figure something out together.” Minho offered him his incredibly soft hand, palm up, for Jisung to hold. He accepted it, no thoughts, a lot of worries. “I hope it will be enlightening enough for your song.” 

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Jisung was nervous.

It wasn't like he didn't know what to expect. Quite the opposite, he knew exactly what was about to happen.

Minho was a mystery in his everyday life, saying little about himself, the motives behind his good-will. But when dealing with ropes, he was predictable, safe.

It felt weird thinking about Minho exactly the same as his room: beige, soft scented, comfortable. The change in character left him dizzy again, palms sweating, heart racing, lungs craving for more nicotine.

He also knew how nervous Jisung was, to change something so constant in his life: lack of trust. He didn't trust his mom with his feelings, he didn't trust Chan or anybody who could see a little past the rockstar façade.

“You're gonna leave the rockstar on my doormat, ridding yourself of anything related to him. Anger, nicotine, bad decisions. All of it.”

Minho's words on the call had reached deep in his core, his skin tingling like he were touching him for real, heating up his body as he did so.

But who would Jisung be if not the fuck-up rockstar he spent so much time building?

Winter butterflies ruffled their wings in his stomach. In anticipation, in fear, in uncertainty.

He didn't have a plan besides reviving rock and that scared him. Minho proved himself to be the exact opposite, a great planner, a great teacher. And Jisung didn't know how to feel.

They talked for a week, through messages and one call, but it was enough to drive Jisung insane, anxiety eating at his bones. In the meantime, Jisung shared his brief research, Minho adding in with a few helpful links to get himself versed on how it was besides aesthetics.

Rope high. Nerve damage. Aftercare. Jisung had never heard so many terms, usually related to sex, written like a manual, far from what he expected BDSM to be.

He was going to get tied, but he was also going to let himself feel, differently from his usual stage high, emerging in a whole new world. One that was studied, planned, controlled.

“We are not about to do something crazy, like suspensions. I’ll let your wrists free, so you feel safer. Is there anything you would like to try?”

It wasn't the psycho who choked him on an alley speaking, but the sensitive art guy that helped everybody. He messed with his head like nobody else, calming him down, turning him into mush.

Breaking through his daze, Jisung replied, “Yeah. That one video I showed you, with the lady called Justice wearing a blindfold. I think I would like to be surprised.”

His cheeks were red to confess such a thing, but there was no judgment between them. Minho answered all of his questions, in a calm, gentle voice, waiting patiently for him to formulate them.

“Being surprised, yeah. And my neck…” He couldn't finish, swallowing the saliva stuck in his throat.

Jisung liked to be choked. 

“I know. Don't worry about that.” 

And now he stood on the doormat, Minho so real in front of him. They did talk on the phone for the whole week, but not seeing the older made him forget about his actual figure. Stronger than him, muscled forearms exposed in the plain white tee he was wearing.

His first instinct was to run away, used to always fleeing at the prospect of facing emotions that weren't related to the rockstar.

But Minho had told him to leave him on the doormat, which he was currently standing on. So instead, he breathlessly said “hi.” Not as imposing, snarky or petulant like he always had been.

He was just Jisung. 

“Hi.”

And this was just Minho.

“Come in?” He kept the conversation going, making way for the younger to step inside.

The apartment was still the same, green nature behind the tall window on the back, lack of decoration besides the black couch and TV on a corner. Nonetheless, it felt different for Jisung, like he was actually seeing it for the first time.

“Is Chan already off to work?” He couldn't help but hug his arms around his torso, feeling too exposed in his muscle tee and cotton shorts.

“Yeah, he just left.” Minho was behind him in no time, looking at the window past his shoulders, probably trying to figure out what Jisung was thinking. 

“Good.” The jitters were back, sailing in the cold waters of his stomach. He wasn't regretting his choices, but it felt too real when they were there, ready for it.

It was awkward, standing wordlessly in Minho and Chan's living room, not addressing the real reason why he was there, the time passing slowly, every second taking forever. And yet it felt too soon when Minho said next:

“Are you ready?”

Simple question and Jisung felt himself stuttering even before his words were out, “Y-yeah.”

It wasn't a lie. He was ready. He had been ready for the whole week. The only moment he hadn't been anticipating was when he was up on stage the day before, but even then, when his hand reached his neck during Welcome to the Jungle, he closed his eyes and thought of Minho…

He cleared his throat, hoping it would be enough to drown his jitters. “You sure this won't be sexual, right?”

Minho’s pink lips curved into a soft smile. “Not on my part, no. Chan has modeled for me and it was cool. But don't worry, I won't touch you besides what we agreed on. Even if you want to.” He wasn't smug, but reassuring.

Strangely, it worked.

“Okay then. Lead the way.” Jisung's arms left his guarded position to rest at his sides, not feeling like he should run and hide anymore.

A hand was extended to him and he took it, incredibly soft like he remembered. He did need the extra push, the gentle but firm guiding to the place he thought would make dread fill his stomach, but not today. Right now, there was only excitement.

The room was the same he thought during the whole week. Fluffy white comforter on the bed, plant pots and candles by the window, beige ropes on the dresser.

“Do you mind if I light some candles?” Jisung was surprised by it, jolting before nodding, awkwardly standing in the doorway alone while Minho walked over the shelf.

He didn't have a lighter like the one Jisung had in his pocket, igniting basic fire to his complicatedly-long candles. Instead, a wand rested delicately between his fingers, the electric jolt bringing orange to flicker hotly in the air. All of this while the faint morning sun bathed his skin.

Soon, vanilla-scented smoke made its way to Jisung's nostrils, smelling like Christmas cookies but not quite.

“Empty your pockets. Put your stuff on the dresser.” An easy command, natural like honey on Jisung's ears, putting the defiant toddler in his brain to sleep.

Jisung didn't recall the last time he obeyed so quickly, fisting his belongings one by one from his shorts, his battered black wallet and skull keychains looking odd on cream-colored wood.

His eyes searched for Minho immediately after, and he didn't know if he was looking for praise or the next command or for Minho to snap.

None of it happened. The older made his way to Jisung, vanilla stronger in his nostrils, the hint of sandalwood underneath telling him he was too close. Jisung could only blink in response.

Between his fingers now was an elastic band, his other hand combing back his longish hair to receive the first tie. His heart pumped in his ears, hard and fast, different from the soft touch he was receiving.

“Remind me again how you want this?”

“Slow in pace, rough in intensity.” 

They had agreed on this. Jisung couldn't physically enjoy being treated with too much kindness, it would break him, not in a good way. 

So here it came, the next command:

“Get comfortable on the bed. I'm getting a blindfold.”

Even more blood rushed through his veins, some of them reaching his cheeks, some of them reaching south. And nothing was done yet.

Jisung wanted to say it felt like walking to slaughter, the way to his bed, but as soon as his butt touched a cloudy mattress, he knew it wasn't. This was redemption.

A heaven he felt too guilty for and, in a way to get rid of the feeling, he pushed his shirt over his head. It felt better, the weight of the rockstar dissipating as the Rammstein tee fell to the floor.

“I didn't know you had a nipple piercing.” Minho's voice brought him back to the present, finding him fidgeting with off-white satin.

Jisung felt like he was a mystery ready to be uncovered, bit by bit, blushing under his gaze, but still muttering, “Didn't you bathe me that one time?”

“Yeah, but we were busy trying to make sure you wouldn't drown in the tub.” 

The blush deepened. “Oh.” He couldn't say more, forever mortified by the lack of memory.

Minho saw it and decided to end his misery. “Close your eyes.” The sudden command didn't feel as sharp as he was expecting, but the knot on the back of his head was. A gasp was out of his lips against his will.

Black was something he was used to, the infinity of his thoughts swirling in his mind was the only thing he couldn't run from. This time, though, there weren't any hateful thoughts, but a prickling of his skin and an urge in his core to know where Minho was.

It caught him off-guard when a hand pulled his head back by the hair tie, rougher than any of the touches he had, but aware it wasn't even the beginning. His heart thumped faster in his ears. 

He wanted more.

The mattress soon dipped behind his back and he could feel the warmth of Minho’s thighs close to his back, no part of him touching besides the hold he had on his hair.

Jisung specifically told him to surprise him, so this part was a performance Minho rehearsed alone. He was dying to see what he had to offer.

And yet, Minho was the most patient man ever, doing nothing at all for a whole minute, waiting to catch him off-guard again. 

Jisung was getting smarter, heightening his senses for vanilla and sandalwood and the gentle warmth of Minho's body behind him. It was like a game, guessing the next step but getting it wrong each time.

The conclusion wasn't disappointing, but very thrilling, to have velvety hands landing on his shoulders, thumbs squeezing the tensed muscles on the back of his neck. A pleased hum rumbled in his chest.

“You have firm fingers.” Jisung lolled his head to the side, making it easier for Minho to reach his neck.

He was honestly waiting for Minho to choke him right away now that he had the consent for it, but he didn't. Minho pressed his thumbs on sore spots, caressing his rapid pulse. It was so good.

“Stop trying to predict what I'm going to do.” Minho's voice reverberated through his skin, his senses trying to compensate for the lack of vision. “I'll do everything different just for the fun of it.”

Jisung didn't have the energy to deny that he was trying to guess his next steps, so he just sighed, enjoying the pressure on his neck — abruptly taken from him as Minho left the bed.

Without any sort of touch, Jisung strained his ears. It was so hard to do so when his heart was thumping so insistently, but he caught glimpses of Minho by the drawer, the rough sound of ropes being picked up the only thing he could focus on.

“As you know, shibari is an art. But also a language. And today we are going to use the ropes to communicate. I don't want you to speak, but let your body talk for yourself, listen to the ropes.” 

Would it be crazy if Jisung wanted to be good for Minho? He bit his tongue, his ego, everything that told him to rebel, forcing himself to nod in agreement.

“Good.” 

No warning was given before Minho pushed the bundle of rope to his chest, the material feeling rougher than last time, no lemongrass filling the air, only vanilla, vanilla and vanilla. It was dizzying.

“This rope wasn't recently treated. I left them unwaxed just for you…” He trailed his voice off, using the moment Jisung was distracted to shove him backwards onto the bed.

He couldn't help the gasp he left out as his back bounced a little on the soft mattress, his stomach stirring at the feeling of being controlled. 

Jisung couldn't believe that all this time rebelling against everybody would end with him so easily complying to a pretty guy, staying still, waiting. A good boy.

“Wouldn't it feel great if I traced all your tattoos with the crude threads of jute?” It wasn't a real question, but he nodded anyway, ready, impatient. Nothing he said was sticking to his brain, leaking from his ears in his syrupy-sweet tone.

His whole body was in tune with the weird sense of perception his body tried to have, a defensive mechanism for the satin covering his eyes. Every hair stood on edge, tingling, predicting… 

But he wasn't ready when Minho placed the bundle of ropes on the right side of his pec, torso jolting, sensitive.

“Cursed,” he read the black ink on his chest, gothic font. “Wasn't it supposed to be blessed?”

When Jisung didn't say anything, just kept lying on the bed, Minho dragged the unrefined rope harshly across his skin, grounding him in the real world. 

With another gasp and eyes uselessly blinking behind the blindfold, he said, “I thought you didn't want me to speak.”

Although Jisung tried to get rid of the rockstar, his petulance was a permanent part of him. And he would never refuse an opportunity to be defiant.

Minho chuckled. “Well, too bad I’m curious.”

“Blues was born from a cursed tale, the one who sold his soul to the devil for the power of music. Rock, being the son of it, followed the same steps, reaching success, dying young. We need to be cursed.”

It was his first tattoo, a compass on the side, a quote under it. Funny enough, it was the only one that had a meaning. Maybe Minho sensed it too, that the others were random sketches while this one bared his soul.

At any other time, he would have lied about it. The mystery of the rockstar was artificially built by him for many years, but here, in Minho's bed, it was just Jisung. And Jisung wasn't as cool as him.

“Pretty.” Minho resumed his journey of tracing his tattoos with rough rope, guiding the knotted tip across his biceps, forearm, hand.

He didn't know if the comment was about him or the ink on his body, but it affected him regardless. Goosebumps erupted everywhere the jute touched, stomach quivering.

It was unsettling how this was arousing but not sexually. There was more to it, the undertone of dominance and violence urging him to submit. Meanwhile, Minho kept being gentle and soft and comfortable.

And still no actual tying was done yet. Just brushing the ropes over him with the promise of more. Jisung squirmed on the bed, impatient.

He couldn't see, but he was sure Minho noticed.

“You can't rush the art, Jisung.” His point was proven by Minho's words. “Let go.” 

The command wasn't clear, but he knew what it meant. And it was so hard. Letting his body speak instead of his head. He thought it was empty before but right now not so much. A frustrated sigh left his lips.

Maybe Minho was more in tune with his body than himself, because his next move was to bring the bundle close to his face and snap it open, the raw sound of the jute allowing his brain to suddenly stop.

“That’s better.” 

Was Minho praising him? For doing nothing? Jisung squirmed again, enjoying the attention.

“You really wanna get tied up, don't you?”

More squirming and his breathing picked up, anticipating. His body was really speaking for himself, no words needed as he just visibly asked for Minho to finally touch him.

Jisung remembered from the tutorials how things were done, untangling the ropes, finding the bight, double rolling, an overhand knot to secure it.

He could hear the process of folding 8 meters into 4, heart racing at the prospect of finally having what he wanted.

By any means, he was ready for it to immediately find his throat, scraping the delicate skin of his neck. Everything happened so fast — Minho rolling it twice, Minho tying the simple knot, Minho releasing his touch to let him feel the weight of the rope.

He did feel it. When he gasped, when he swallowed the pooling saliva in his mouth. It wasn't tight or constricting; in fact, it was loose, like a short necklace. Minho did say he couldn't go crazy on it, as it was a vital part of the body and he wasn't trying to kill him.

But it was an imposing presence. Even more imposing when he felt Minho fixing the tail in his hands and, abruptly, Jisung was firmly pulled from the mattress by his neck .

This time, it wasn't a gasp he let out but a choked moan, trying to scramble for a hold that wasn't the one on his neck, using his hands to get him properly sitting, a little boneless and a lot hard.

Shit, he was straining in his gray cotton shorts. And there was no way Minho wasn't seeing it. But nothing mattered, not when Minho fisted the rope close to his throat, beneath his Adam's apple, feeling it bob helplessly under his ministrations.

A minimal rough touch on his neck was all it needed to get his dick working. It was embarrassing.

“I wish you could see how beautiful you look collared.” Minho's voice, darker than before, showed how affected he also was by all of this. He was still the honey-toned gentle psycho, but the psycho part was loud.

If Jisung said his cock didn't stir at his words, tone, actions, scent, he would be lying. And there was no point in lying when Minho could literally see it, resting heavily between his opened legs, feet planted on the wooden floor.

Well, he would just have to suck it up, panting, knowing Minho’s face wasn't that far, taking in Jisung's damp heavy breathing along with the sight of him being tamed.

Secretly, he hoped Minho was struggling just as much, the tiny spark of defiance blending into the air with the overpowering vanilla.

Just as suddenly as he was brought to a sitting position, Minho pushed him back harshly, once again bouncing on the soft mattress. 

All the pulling and tossing shrank his ego. He liked to think he was smart, smarter than everyone, but like this, he was nothing, a mere doll in Minho's hands. It hurt, but his cock enjoyed every second of it.

Minho wasn't done with him, pressing fingers on his bare calf, his breath so close where he was starting to ache. And he did nothing, like he promised he would, but Jisung hated that he agreed to that. He wanted to fix it now.

Another squirm and this one got the older chuckling under his breath, “You're very eager.” The choice of words killed him slowly, fully aware he was looking at his cock, the position he held his calf making his leg open further, not leaving anything to the imagination.

Fuck. That was a terrible wardrobe choice. Jisung’s cheeks colored.

Luckily, Minho didn't make him wait long this time. Instead, he pushed his leg to his chest, thigh hitting his naked torso, the sheer coat of sweat on his overheated body making the contact sticky.

It was a compromising position, with his loose shorts riding up, exposing his whole thigh, Minho pushing it further up to completely free the upper part of it of clothing, fingers so close to his cock. 

Fuck. Jisung was aching for real, gritting his teeth to stop the crazy need to push his hips up or do something completely insane like begging for Minho to touch him.

He would never. Minho would never. They promised. And somehow this was the worst decision he had made yet.

So he had to swallow the urge to groan while Minho sank his fingers into the meatiest part of his leg, extra sensitive from the lack of vision, the jolts of contact going straight to his dick and balls. 

When the first knot was done, Jisung had to let out a long breath, like he had run a marathon. Maybe he did, in his head, the race being against his fucked-up self-control.

“Are you okay?” Minho asked, voice more careful than before, the gentleness overpowering the psycho.

Jisung wanted to say no, because he wasn't in fact okay, his balls tightening in his body, desperate for any kind of stimulation. But it wasn't something Minho could fix for him. And this was so good that he didn't want to stop.

“Yeah,” he forced out between labored breaths. “Keep touching me. Don't stop… Please, don't stop.”

Was this classified as begging? Jisung didn't want to know. And Minho probably didn't care either, hands firmly adjusting the loops of rope on his inner thigh, the rough threads of jute and the soft pads of his fingers a contrast that had Jisung shivering.

He bit his lip, because this was insanity. He felt completely insane. All the touching and the edging like nothing he ever felt before.

In any other situation, Jisung would have denied how good Minho was at something, but he couldn’t think clearly as the jute kept rubbing on his skin, soft hands handling his leg without a lingering touch, so professional and not enough.

A broken moan was Jisung's only response, under the influence, bent arms framing the sides of his head, useless, unable to do anything other than tremble.

Nothing in his body worked, submitting so easily, wanting everything but accepting only what Minho had to offer. 

The rockstar was in fact a good boy, hiding deep in his core. For the first time, Jisung didn't hate it.

“Shit, Minho…” His voice sounded so coarse and spent, like he had sung the whole night.

The one entitled to his utter despair was using the tail of the rope to test the stability of it, pushing his thighs further apart, making his cock jump in sudden anticipation.

The jostling of his clothing caused the damp fabric of his underwear to touch him, realizing belatedly he was dripping, the steady little drops of pre-cum a constant occurrence with Minho's hand so high on his thigh, two fingers slipping under the jute to check the tightness.

He hoped it wasn't bleeding through the cotton and Minho wasn't staring right at it.

Shit, that made him twitch even harder.

“Ready for the other leg? Or do you want a moment?” Minho being such a gentleman, contrasting with his actions, had a whine wanting to bubble in his chest, still so fucking sensitive to any stimulation his eyes couldn't predict.

Swallowing the weird feel of cotton in his mouth, he forced his lips to mutter, completely out of breath, sweaty, consumed, “Keep going… Please.” 

And, in return, Minho's smug tone reminded him of everything his brain was trying to disassociate from every time he touched his own dick. “You're so polite when you're not being an asshole. Who would have thought?”

If his fingers had lightly brushed his cock even for a second, he would have cum. Instead, his eyes rolled back in the blindfold, his fingers gripping the sheets in order to ground himself on something that wasn't vanilla and the maddening feeling of crude jute on his thigh.

It was so hard to think, to live, to lay down without squirming… All while Minho's piercing eyes were directly on him, the gaze burning his skin.

Yet, everything felt instantly better when his other calf was engulfed in a soft touch, gently being raised from the ground to make his thigh rest high on his torso.

The position would be awkward if Jisung wasn't so turned on, both of his legs pushed back to expose his sensitive bits. If Minho wanted, he could have easily fucked him like this, Jisung would let him.

But Minho had warned him, dead in the night, phone close to Jisung's ear: rope high would make him delirious, wanting more than he could handle. So they drew limits, for both of them.

Fuck past Jisung for being so uptight about having his cock touched by the pretty sunny-blonde boy. He needed to cum, the urge so strong it had him jumping when Minho was tying the first knot on the very top of his thigh.

“Still okay?” 

“Yeah,” He replied, his voice strained, trying not to think about the lingering hand brushing on the sensitive skin. “I'm good.”

And that was all the break he got before Minho was doing the same to his other leg, tying the extension on his calf on the back of his thigh, the rope so firm on his limbs, rubbing when his body moved.

Sweat was dripping from Jisung's forehead, the battle inside of himself, against the desire to have his hand sneaking inside his shorts to find relief, a very difficult one.

It got harder by the second, Minho using both of the tails from the futomomos on his legs to tie them together, keeping him permanently in that position, knees spread, aching cock in the middle.

Jisung groaned, feeling like it was too much and not enough, wanting friction but getting overwhelmed by the friction he got. His mind was fogged, not a thought crossing his head other than the physical pain of his balls.

He could feel his labored breath in his ears, his pounding heart, but not a single noise coming from Minho. His torso trembled even more as his hands were suddenly back on his leg, fixing the rope on his inner thigh, dragging the jute, caressing the abused flesh right after.

There wasn't much Jisung could do about the infinite twitching of his cock or the constant drip of it, not when Minho was so warm, so close to where he needed him. He already knew it would be short-lived, but he still whined as the older stopped touching him.

God, Minho was infuriating. Jisung’s body thrashed in protest, little noises bubbling from his chest, so fucking desperate it was pitiful. His ego was burning, self-combusting in a raw hot white shame. But Jisung liked it better like this, when it stung, when it hurt.

And, although infuriating, Minho was so quick to listen to his needs, giving him more than he was expecting, reaching a deep part of his desire he didn't know existed. All by fisting the tail on the single column of his neck and raising his body from the mattress, stopping his trembling with a hand on his shoulder.

Jisung was left to use his hands to ground himself in that weird position, knees still spread, and gasp for air, his mind interpreting the action as choking even though the rope wasn't tight on his throat.

“The first time I choked you in that alley, I was so surprised to find out how much you liked it.” Minho’s voice was sweet like the vanilla filling the air, but he also sounded affected, a hint of desire on his heavier breaths, his train of thought losing a bit of the insane control he was used to having.

Jisung would be lying if he said he didn't love how this wasn't one-sided, both of them overpowering the vanilla with the violence of their own desire. He couldn't voice it though, clutching on the last remains of his psychological restraints.

“I’m gonna untie you now.” It was the only time he warned his actions and the younger was honestly sad that it was over. “Don't pout, Sungie, I’m trying not to maul you.” His thumb caressed the jutted bottom lip.

“You could.” He mumbled back, against his right mind.

“Not today, baby. You’re too far gone to consent.” The finger on his lip reached his cheek to stroke it softly, his whole aura screaming comfort once again.

Strangely enough, it was all Jisung needed, sighing after, accepting the nearing end. More than that, he knew that after everything came aftercare and he was looking forward to it.

Maybe Minho had done it too many times to be so acutely aware of people's limits, when to stop, when to push harder. The latter thought took Jisung's breath away as he was again shoved onto the mattress.

His dick twitched, his torso trembled… Oversensitive, overwhelmed. All that without a single touch, letting desire pool in the pit of his stomach and stay there.

Different from before, untying was a quick process, gentle fingers making the way of the ropes in reverse, undoing the knots, untangling the tail, ending a conversation void of words, but full of feelings.

When Minho reached for his neck to undo the one around his throat, Jisung held onto his hands, unable to plead, but trusting he would understand anyway. He needed that for a little longer.

It was the only time he had moved on his own during the scene, still letting his body talk over his head, listening closely to what he actually wanted, no walls between them, the rockstar tamed deep inside of him.

“Okay.” Minho whispered, the hotness of his breath near his face indicating they were inches apart.

Instead of his dick twitching, it was his heart, craving the closeness, wanting their bodies to merge and mingle and occupy the same space. So he let his body speak again, putting his arms around Minho’s neck, not sure of what he wanted, but trusting the older would.

“I got you,” he said in return, a whisper against his skin, so warm and so sure and so different from his usual life. 

What was this simmering in the pit of his stomach besides the crazy lust and raw desire?

He decided he loved it, not letting Minho go, taking a deep breath as the older embraced him back, engulfing his waist and his whole being in a mix of vanilla and sandalwood that he would never forget.

Jisung didn't know when he laced his legs around the other’s torso, but he also didn't care, just happy to experience something he hadn't had in forever. Love, safety.

And then Minho was moving them, with a few grunts and an ungodly core strength, to sit on the bed, the younger straddling one of his thighs. For this, Jisung’s dick did make itself known again.

The pressure was overwhelmingly good, so sudden and yet it was like he waited all his life for it. Maybe he had, going through mediocre one night stands for years to culminate on this, jute ropes and a meaty leg.

Minho took the blindfold off and Jisung had a hard time blinking the brightness from his eyes, the image of sunny-blonde fluffy hair a blurry halo while his vision adjusted, feeling like this was salvation. His arms never left Minho’s neck, their faces a few breaths away.

From this proximity, Minho was a god, immortal in beauty and ruthless in power. A flex of his thigh and a blink of his eye was all it took to get Jisung going, desperately moving his hips, quickly finding relief.

Nothing mattered, sexuality, morals, rock, not when this was the highest moment of Jisung’s existence. Dragging his aching cock along the nice cotton material of Minho’s sweats, looking at him while doing so, seeing more than the psycho and the good boy, no restraints. 

This was the real Minho, all of his personalities combined to find creased eyebrows and glazed brown orbs that told how much he needed Jisung back, but he would never break their promise.

“Choke me…” And yet he wanted to see Minho lose control.

Who would Jisung be if he didn't want to see everybody crumple on the floor before him?

He was in charge, the older had said it, but now he believed it. How could he not when Minho instantly grasped the tail of the rope and pulled at it, the hardest one yet.

Surrounded by orange fire, vanilla and rough jute, Jisung reached heaven, the tension coiling in his stomach finding its limit.

It was so sudden, but at the same time it took forever. He could only let out a last broken gasp as he tasted it on his tongue, slowly getting there, letting it wash over him in endless spurts of cum from his twitching, untouched cock. 

He was unable to come back.

His consciousness only returned, barely, as Minho was holding a damp fabric to his forehead, wiping the sweat there. 

Sometime in the mind-blowing orgasm, he had closed his eyes and buried his face in Minho's neck, all of his body slumped on top of the older.

“Hmmm,” a protest from his closed lips as a hand tried to get between warm skin and his cheek.

Minho giggled. “Hold on, I'm almost finished.”

It turned out that he wasn't done, but he let Jisung doze off on his shoulder, trying not to jostle him too much as he wiped his sweaty torso. A sigh left his lips, because it felt so nice, warming his insides, making it all gooey.

None of them commented on the fact that Jisung couldn't seem to stop holding onto Minho like his life depended on it, arms and legs still around him.

“I’m gonna try to clean you a bit down here.” He touched his navel as a warning and the younger’s eyes lazily followed, cringing as he saw the mess he made.

His gray shorts were ruined, the front of them all stained with his seed, but not only that, Minho’s sweats were also ruined, a big wet patch on his thigh. If he wasn't so spent, he would be mortified.

Minho didn't seem to mind, so he wouldn't as well. The rockstar could reminisce about it another time.

“You’re a messy boy, aren't you?” Jisung groaned at the light teasing, eliciting another giggle from the older. “I like it.”

And, just like that, he pushed the cloth down his pants, not letting Jisung pay half a mind to his words, whether he liked it or if he liked him. The feeling of something touching his sensitive, soft dick was too weird to think of anything else.

Fortunately, it didn't last long and Minho was caressing his back in apology just as quickly. Another sigh left his lips, the bliss of comfort reaching deep in his bones.

“Do you want some water?” The words reverberated under his skin, but it was just honey dripping in his ears, his brain completely logged off from reality.

He didn't know he could stop his thoughts and relax, but Minho always proved him wrong. It was annoying, in a good way.

A bottle was pressed to his lips, startling him a bit, but a hand soon was placed on top of his head, massaging his scalp. He drank water, realizing how tender and sore his throat was from the excessive panting. He didn't even notice it before, but Minho had, like always, proving he sometimes knew him better than himself.

Another sigh escaped his lips, completely content.

“You’re okay now. Sleep, my little rockstar.”

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Chapter Text

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Everything changed for Jisung.

The birds chirping in the early morning were the same, the sky too clear and too blue was the same, the city, rock… They would ever be the same, but Jisung wasn't.

He’d had meltdowns before. He let his hair grow, he put in a few piercings, he got a bunch of tattoos, but nothing had touched his soul so intensely as being taken care of, with his walls down and a rope around his neck.

Maybe the world was indeed fucked up and life was waiting for the right moment to fuck him over again, but did it matter when this was the best he ever felt?

Used to feeling too alien in his own body, now he felt utterly human. This was Jisung, the rockstar, the fuck-up, the occasional good friend, the comfort of his mother, the one who was reviving rock.

He still didn't know how to love or how to write the song, but he felt more optimistic when plucking for inspiration, taking notes on random melodies, writing about hopes and dreams and winter butterflies ruffling in his belly.

Eventually, Jisung would learn how to love. His friends, his family, himself. He would learn how to be in touch with his emotions, to tame everything that is wrong inside of him.

Minho had torn open a dam he didn't know could be broken, letting his feelings flow in a river of good and bad and ugly. 

His stomach was flooded by cold water every time he thought of the older, of his actions. Because, yes, it was what Jisung needed, but how come Minho just knew?

With his psycho eyes and fluffy hair, he could see right past Jisung, seeing him naked in the most vulnerable sense of the word, but Jisung got nothing in return. He knew nothing about Minho.

And now he was curious, set on a mission: he was going to learn everything he could about sunny-blonde, caring, and oddly commanding Minho.

The fire in Jisung's soul, good and controlled, should be used for the song, unwritten, unknown, but it could honestly go to hell and return with all of the answers to his real questions. 

They still had some time left anyway.

“What do you know about Minho?” 

Chan was his first victim, watching the buildings and the busy city life under various sets of stairs, standing beside him while he smoked in the empty room next to the recording studio.

He remembers the other day, when Minho had told him about shibari, innocent, both of them not knowing what it would mean for Jisung. Perhaps Chan could do the same, enlighten him.

“Why are you suddenly interested in him? I thought you hated his guts.” The inquisitive eyebrow raised at him made Jisung roll his eyes.

Yes, everything had changed inside of Jisung, but he still got annoyed every time someone wanted to prod at his secretive feelings.

“I do hate him. But I am curious. This guy just gets here out of nowhere and suddenly he wants to help all of us without a motive? What is this? Christmas? I don't think so, there's more to this story that you are not telling me.” 

Jisung discarded the butt of his cigarette out of the window to look at Chan, asking what he hadn't had the courage to since he first met Minho.

He got a big sigh in return, the older's eyes softening. “Look, I don't know much. Minho gets very uncomfortable when someone asks about his personal life.” 

“That looks very serial killer, not gonna lie.” Jisung's arms crossed on his chest, trying and failing not to be petty.

Another sigh, this one feeling more tired dad than the first. “Why don't you ask him yourself? If you're so curious.”

Jisung closed his hands into fists, blood boiling in his veins. Chan was unhelpful and had a good point. He hated it.

God, why can't life just be easier?

Before he had the chance to push further into Minho's business by using Chan, the older backed away from the windowsill and wiped the invisible dust from his jeans.

“Why can't you just accept help, Jisung?” It wasn't disappointment in his tone, but he was definitely frustrated by the younger's insistent urge to find what's wrong in people. The ultimate punch line, the one that would hit him in the stomach and knock the breath out of him.

He wasn't hit this time, but it hurt. Chan's saddened eyes, creased eyebrows, wanting to flee as much as Jisung, it all hurt. But Chan wasn't Jisung, he didn't run away from difficult situations. So the younger made the choice for the both of them, walking away from the windowsill and returning to the studio.

The dark walls, covered in acoustic rubber, the thousand and one cables, the couch filled with the members… This was his dream, but why did it feel like a nightmare?

And suddenly his eyes were on Seungmin, short, wildly cut hair, nostril piercing and black eyeliner. He sat down next to him, with part of his soul aching, but not crushed enough to stop now.

Felix was inside the booth, playing his bass and moving his head to the rhythm of his chords, oblivious to what was happening.

“Where is Minho?” Jisung blinked a few times, realizing the source of his problems wasn't anywhere nearby.

This was his only shot.

“Bathroom.” The one-word answer made him want to crawl into a hole and die. Everyone was feeling super unhelpful today.

“Hm.” He fiddled with the buttons on the table, acting nonchalant. “Where did you meet Minho?” 

Yeah, it wasn't subtle. And Seungmin's side eye told him exactly that, looking skeptical. Jisung decided it didn't matter.

“We met at university. Why?” Seungmin was bolder than Chan, he could tell by the way he raised his eyebrow, judging him. He decided he liked the guy, he had balls.

Jisung shrugged, still pretending he wasn't scheming. He truly wasn't. “I'm curious. He knows a lot about us, but we don't know much about him.”

“Hm,” he first said, giving in but not quite, thinking carefully about his next words. “Minho doesn't say much about himself, he's not one to open his heart like a book. But you can crack him through his art. You should come to the gallery sometime.”

Bingo. Seungmin was on his side after all. Jisung's eyes sparkled in amusement.

However, before he could say anything, Minho was back, in his sunny-blonde glory, looking like a model in a simple white shirt and light-wash jeans.

“What did I miss?” He was looking directly at Jisung, knowing there was something going on. He always knew.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Minho would never fail to make him squirm under his gaze. In the real world, in his dreams. He haunted him.

Partially, it was Jisung's own fault. The addict in him screamed for more, longing, having this insane desire to know more, to figure him out, to crack him open. It was eating Jisung alive.

And he couldn't help staring back at him, intensely, watching his every move, while the cogs on his brain kept working on his plan. 

He had no idea how he would get Minho to invite him to the art gallery and uncover the truth.

“Take a picture, it will last longer.” The guy in question winked at him, a smirk lighting up his face right after.

Jisung’s lips quivered, wanting to smile back, because Minho was the one with a camera hanging on his neck, the vintage object matching his incredibly cute outfit. 

Maybe he could start from there, his choice in clothing. He always wore light colored outfits, all of them clearly well-chosen in the morning, smelling like vanilla and comfort, forever engraved in Jisung's memory. And today was no different, a light blue oversized shirt, a white cap on top of his usually fluffy hair and blue sunglasses, the golden rim shiny under the sun.

What did it tell about him? Perhaps that he breathed art. In his fashion, in his steps, in his choice of words. Or this was all a façade, similar to the rockstar.

Jisung got absolutely nothing.

“What's wrong with you? You usually have some snarky retorts ready.” Minho lightly shoved his shoulder to get his attention, brows furrowed in confusion.

How could someone look this pretty and soft when he was in fact a devil?

Jisung blinked, trying to make sense of his words, immediately smirking when he realized what the older said. “Aw, do you miss being mistreated?”

“Yeah, that sounds more like you.” Minho's fingers curled into a fist and it came in sudden contact with his cheek, but it wasn't a punch, his knuckles caressing the skin like he was a prized possession. Jisung bit his lip, trying not to show how much he liked it. “Keep it like that.”

A snort was out of him before he could stop it. “You're such an asshole.”

There was no real fire behind his words, he knew that now, and Minho did too. But their bickering was fun, kept another kind of fire going.

“I didn't know you were into photography.” Minho was still standing there, close to his open knees, where he was sitting on hard concrete on the front steps of Bad Decisions.

It wasn't Friday or any day that the mystical aura of the club conjured the worst out of him. They were there on a Monday, ten in the morning, when the eternal grime on the walls became prominent in broad daylight.

Minho had said they needed photos to go with the demo they would send for the band trials, so here they were, where it all began. Not only for Jisung and his friends, but for all of them.

When his dad was young, he had photos on the same grimy walls. Different posters hanging, different clothes, different smiles, but rock was the same through the generations that followed. Rebels, addicts and whores gathered by the power of music.

Would he approve of Jisung's attempt to relive it? Would he approve of Jisung's insistent urge to reach deep in Minho's soul when he didn't want anybody doing the same?

A sigh left his lips and he blinked through his sad haze to really look at the older.

Past the good boy aura, he could tell Minho was just as broken as him and he knew it wouldn't be easy to access it.

Therefore, his plan was to be softer, earning a head tilt and rapidly blinking eyelashes, the blonde clearly confused.

“Well,” he shrugged in a late response. “There's a lot you don't know about me.” And yet he didn't say anything else, playing into his everyday mystery.

“What if I wanted to know?” Too bad Jisung wasn't going to give up.

Shifting from one foot to the other, Minho pulled his walls up. Jisung's heart missed a beat, afraid he had ruined his chance. “Are you ready though?” 

“I thought we had established a pretty solid trust bond when you tied me up.” Jisung was charming when he felt like it, able to convince priests and the devil if he needed to. “Do we need to repeat that?”

Would Minho fall for it?

“I'll think about it.” A sigh left his lips and Jisung's shoulders slumped, deeming this fight as a losing battle. “Don't pout at me, baby.” This time, instead of caressing his cheek, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear, carefully looking into his eyes as he did so. “You'll get what you want. Eventually.”

Minho was hard to get, but little did he know Jisung was equally as hard to give up. Because of this, he smiled, faintly, keeping the satisfaction contained.

“How about I help you get ready for the photoshoot?” He changed subjects and Jisung let him. This was all he would get for now.

Extending a hand for the older to help him get up, Jisung compromised, actually accepting help in hopes that Minho would too.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

It wasn't so bad accepting his help and the conclusion bruised Jisung's ego.

Minho had a good sense of esthetic, dabbing concealer under his eyes to mask the sleepless nights, using red lipstick to make the center of his lips inviting, and smudging his eyeliner to look hot instead of messy.

Secretly, he wished the older was less professional about makeup. He stayed away, putting some distance between them, all while touching his lip, knuckles brushing his lip ring. Jisung's hands itched to do something, touch him back, to bite his finger, anything to get his attention.

He could be so frustrating, giving him nothing when he wanted it the most.

“It's done.” Minho stopped messing with his hair and held onto his shoulders to turn him around, their eyes making contact in the broken mirror backstage.

Jisung didn't back down, staring at him, staring at himself, the both of them. If he took a tiny step in Minho's direction to have their bodies almost touching, it was nobody's business.

“Do you like it?” He would press all Minho's buttons if he could, wanting the blonde to react somehow. “Do I look good?”

But he had an equal opponent, who knew all his moves.

“If you're looking for reassurance, it's not my thing. You can boost your ego by yourself.” Not even an eye roll followed his words, every spoken syllable sharp and smooth at the same time, his eyes as bored as ever.

God, he was infuriating and the younger loved every second of it.

“Don't be shy, I know you want me.” 

He had no idea where this was coming from, the flirting natural to his being when he needed something. But, from the wave of cold rush in his stomach, he was afraid of where this could lead him.

Smarter than him, Minho knew it too, deciding not to dive in dangerous waters. Instead, he let out a snort and tiredly replied, “Don't play with fire if you don't wanna get burned.”

Oh, Jisung wanted to get burned, wishing it would sting in the process and leave a scar to tell the story. But he bit his tongue, watching Minho walk to the door and wait for him to follow.

The remaining bit of sanity in his brain told him to hold back and take this seriously. Besides being a pain in the ass, Jisung's mission was also rising rock from its ashes.

So they passed the crumpled corridor to get to the main hall, Jisung stopping in his tracks when he saw two big softboxes and a reflector, behind them a tall figure he hadn't met yet.

Jealousy bubbled inside his stomach, because he was beautiful, like no human should be. Tall, elegant, with a perfect nose and a layered hair that touched his shoulders. Jisung hated him already, without having a full conversion or even learning his name.

It was irrational, but he couldn't help it. And he hated even more that one look was all it took for Minho to sense something was wrong, creased eyebrows and rapidly blinking lashes finding the source of the problem seconds later.

Jisung tried to avert his eyes, but it was too late. Shit.

“Oh…” Minho's brain made the connection and the younger could feel his cheeks coloring. Why did he have to be like that? “Hyunjin, this is the band's vocalist, Jisung. Jisung, this is Hyunjin, my artist friend who's helping with the photos today, along with Seungmin. Where is Seungmin by the way?”

Minho’s not so subtle way of de-escalating the situation was pathetic, fingers coming to hold his upper arm while he spoke in a fake natural manner. Jisung felt like an animal, not trusted around strangers, jealousy quickly turning into something else, bitter and angry.

“Hi, Jisung. It's a pleasure to meet you, finally. Minho talks so much about you…” The beautiful creature among them spoke, smoothly like Minho, a mischievous smirk reaching his face, not aimed at him, but at the one by his side. 

Jisung could only blink, surprised to see someone who could rival Minho’s venom.

Okay, maybe he hated him less.

“Seungmin's on his way. While he's not here and the guys are still getting ready, why don't we catch up?” Hyunjin, in his model glory, was an absolute devil, set to torment Minho.

Jisung sneaked a glance at him, wanting to see colored cheeks or furtive eyes. He got none of that, Minho didn't back down, he raised an eyebrow at Hyunjin, tsked and said, “Someone hasn't been eating enough tissues lately.”

The commanding tone, the absolute venom… And yet, none of that affected the tall, long-haired boy, a chuckle leaving his lips, enjoying the situation. Jisung could only blink while watching the both of them.

“Fine, I won't say anything. But, Jisung, you should stop at the gallery anytime to chat. Minho would love to have you over.” Bingo. This was all he needed.

Trying to play as hurt as he could, Jisung looked at the older with his utter puppy dog eyes. “Am I not ready for it as well?”

Two against one, it was an unfair game. But when had any of them played fair anyway? And, by the way his eyes softened while staring at Jisung, he knew he had succeeded.

Minho couldn't run away anymore.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

It turned out that Minho could run a little bit more, because Chan and Felix walked into the hall before an answer was given, their bubble immediately popped.

He resisted the insistent urge to groan and throw his fists in the air. The universe was not on his side today, even if Hyunjin really wanted to help.

If Chan or Felix sensed that they were interrupting something, they didn't comment on it, making conversation with the two artists about what they had planned for the photos.

Sometimes he forgot how easygoing Minho was around other people, making jokes with his honey-like tone and giggling in embarrassment when someone pointed out how weird he was. The embodiment of cuteness. That's why nobody believed Jisung when he said he was the devil.

But Hyunjin was aware of his true potential, just like Jisung, and both of them together could rival Minho's calculated moves.

The blonde could win a few matches, but Jisung always won the game.

And he would keep winning, he decided shortly after Seungmin and the rest of the band arrived in the empty hall of the club. Minho hadn't invited him yet and he was about to change that fact.

When red lights were turned at the stage, mingling with the studio lighting, Jisung could feel every sin committed inside the old walls of the place, bad decisions ready to be made, this time intentionally.

Beside him, the boys focused on looking hot for the three cameras aimed at them, in different directions. They were up on the stage, not having any of their instruments on them, listening to the instructions given once in a while.

Jisung only looked at Minho, who was in front of them, taking the pictures that would probably be the cover of their digital single. 

The lip bite, the hazed eyes, the hands that traveled his torso, covered by a thin and tight tank top, was all for the blonde. He wanted Minho to suffer while editing, to have a hard time releasing something that was meant to be only his.

“I think it's time to take a break, five minutes, and then we continue with individual shots.” Minho let the camera drop to his chest, not sparing Jisung an extra glance as he was talking to his friends.

If it wasn't for the tightness in his jaw or the stiffness in his body, Jisung would have thought he was incapable of being affected. It turns out he’s just really good at hiding it.

With his head down to hide the smugness on his face, Jisung got off the stage and not so subtly made his way to the corridor, hoping Minho would chase after him, demand some explanation, squeeze his neck…

Nothing happened. Five minutes dragged out and, from his dark corner, he could see Minho using the time to change the film of his analog camera while talking to Seungmin and Hyunjin.

Maybe he shouldn't have declared his win so soon.

Sulking, Jisung made his way back, his ego a little shaken and his mind a little short on ideas.

“Jisung, you're first.” Hyunjin declared, motioning for him to get onstage. “Minho will take your pictures. He has the best eye among us.” The quivering lips at the end told the hidden meaning that only the three of them knew, purely wicked, all the rest left blinking in confusion.

It didn't matter, not when Hyunjin was directing the members’ focus towards himself, explaining what they wanted from the single shots. 

Jisung tried hard not to show how much he appreciated the taller boy's effort to leave the two of them alone, but the glint in his eyes was a universe of its own, uncontrollable.

And to think he was a minute away from punching Hyunjin for being too pretty… 

“What?” Minho was skeptical of his good mood, his bored eyes following the younger as he grabbed a chair and climbed onto the stage.

“Can't I just be feeling good?” He shrugged, proceeding to sit down lazily and spread his legs, Minho's gaze instantly following the movement. For this, he smirked, extra smug about it.

“Only if it's me making you feel good.” Stepping forward, the blonde was now occupying the space between his thighs, smirking back, eyes scrunching into slits, challenging him.

God, he was ten times hotter when being the most difficult man on the planet.

“Well, you should make me feel good by inviting me to the art gallery.” Jisung closed his legs on the older's thighs, caging him in, rivaling his look with the fire of their challenge. He wasn't backing down either.

A second passed and then a whole minute. Their staring contest was getting tense, uncomfortable for both of them. But this time Jisung was certain he would win.

A sigh left Minho's lips, the clear hesitation on his tongue visible as his mouth opened and closed a few times. “I'll text you when,” was all he said and Jisung’s smirk only grew, his thighs letting go of Minho as reward. “Now let's get back to the photos, we have a lot to do.” 

Jisung was satisfied, not able to hide his joy as Minho bossed him around to get a few good shots of him.

In the end, he always won.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Staring at himself in the mirror, Jisung had no idea what he was doing.

He had asked for it, he knew that. But he wasn't expecting it to be like this.

It turns out that Minho always does as he promised, but he would never make things easy for the younger. He felt utmost satisfaction from having Jisung squirming and uncomfortable, not in a bad way, but not in a good way either.

His palms were clammy and this was the shibari day all over again, anxiety bubbling in his stomach and sweat collecting on his hairline.

If curiosity always killed the cat, he was still happily walking to slaughter. He couldn't bail this time.

Therefore, he put the rings on his fingers, trying to look more confident while doing so. It didn’t work, the figure staring back at him so odd and strange.

The city had many art galleries, expected considering how rich the population was, wanting to spend money on whatever pretty piece their eyes landed on first. Jisung thought Minho would ask him to go somewhere like that, skim his fingers on some panels from old exhibitions and wait for him to explain what they were about.

He didn't. Instead, he got a fancy letter, the invitation inside designed by an artist, with original artwork on it, telling where and when the art opening would be.

A big event, in the national museum. The most important art gathering of the year, made for the artists to show off their best pieces to curators and collectors, grow their network, build their careers.

But Jisung was still Jisung, with his black-dyed hair, longish and messy, nothing about him looking refined even though he was wearing a suit. All black, with a white shirt inside and a loose tie hanging from his neck. He resembled an outdated pop punk artist more than the fancy version of himself he was aiming for.

The last time he had worn that suit was at his dad's funeral, the memories intensifying his anxiety. He swore he could smell the chemicals from then, the flowers, the cigarettes, the tears.

God, he was a mess.

Still, he forced his way out, putting on the cleanest pair of converse he owned and driving to the location.

Although he had lived in the city since he was born, he had gone to the museum maybe once, during a school event. It stood there awkwardly, surrounded by the dark sky, all white and circular, looking like an OVNI in the contemporary design of the rest of the buildings.

He wanted to text Minho, ask him to come pick him up in the parking lot, so out of his depth that his breath was ragged. But how would he ask Minho to show him his demons if Jisung wasn't willing to get out of his comfort zone too?

Sighing, he regained the sparkle of courage in his core and let his feet drag himself numbly along the concrete floor, climb the ramp, get inside through the main door.

That was it, he thought, eyeing the main hall with uncertainty, full of people he had never seen, temporary walls lifted to accommodate paintings and sculptures.

Jisung wasn't used to a crowd that wasn't ogling over his image and banging their heads to the sound of his voice. 

To stop the jitters, he quickly grabbed a glass of champagne from the first waiter that came in his direction, trying to breathe while he downed it all. He was a coward.

With his spirit a little crushed, he scanned the place for the person he was looking for, not giving a second glance to the variety of art surrounding him.

It wasn't difficult to find his sunny-blonde hair and the sound of his distinct laugh, a little maniac and a little cute, the perfect amount. Jisung's shoulders slumped as he made his way there, hoping he wasn't pouting when he reached the circle of people listening to what he had to say.

Minho was beautiful, blending in with the yellow lights of the place, with the curved walls, with the art. His white suit was fitted, no tie on his neck, only a half-opened black shirt underneath, giving him the aesthetic of a designer-brand model, luring people in to listen, to admire him.

His eyes were instantly on Jisung as he got closer, watching him stand there like the sun, his image breath-taking. A smile formed on his lips, soft and uncontrolled, as they stared at each other.

Jisung felt weirdly at peace after this whole time drowning in his own head, anxiety clogging his airways. All it took was one look and a hand that was extended to him, the pale skin of his palm so velvety and so inviting.

He took it, breathing again at a normal pace and taking the moment to fully take in everything that was Minho. His golden-rimmed glasses, the long lashes underneath and the curving of his lips into a teasing smirk that made him him.

“You smell good.” It was an odd compliment and Jisung snorted, knowing exactly what he meant by that. He hadn't had a smoke yet. Before he could reply though, the older's eyes were back at his small group of people. “Everyone, this is Jisung, my guest. If you excuse me, I'll take the liberty to show him around.” 

Fleeting glances and hidden smiles were sent their way, Jisung's cheeks coloring at the false implications people got about Minho's sentence.

“You should have told them I'm your friend.” He was mortified, their hands still joined as Minho walked them to wherever.

He giggled in return. “Well, you are my guest, my plus one.” A look into the playful glint in his eyes and Jisung could tell he wasn't taking him seriously at all.

Minho loved to tease him and he often forgot that fact.

“Where's Hyunjin?” In an attempt to avert his embarrassment, he seeked the one who could get a reaction out of Minho. He sounded petulant to his own ears, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

“Probably helping Seungmin make more connections with the collectors.” He shrugged, looking past his shoulder with a mischievous glint in his eyes as his next question was to tease him further. “But you aren't here for them, are you? You have other plans.” 

Minho was a menace in his good days, at the studio, at Bad Decisions. But Minho in his comfort zone, among precise strokes of colorful paint and shiny metal molded in abstract patterns, was a kind of devil Jisung wasn't sure he was ready for, daring, bold.

However, he had asked for it, the secrets and the burn marks that would come along. Jisung could only take it in the best way possible and decide if it was all worth it in the end.

Turns out that Minho was taking him to a secluded room, with a lock on the door. He took a key ring from his pocket, the clinking of them while he found the right one a comforting noise. Both of them stood there, their hands intertwined, Jisung's stomach taken by butterflies.

“I'm not here as an artist.” Minho held on the door knob, his back the only thing Jisung could see as he spoke. “I'm here to make connections between collectors and the right art they are seeking for.” Every word was careful, slowly elaborated to reach the younger's ears.

Maybe he didn't understand at first why Minho was telling him that, but he hummed in acknowledgement, afraid that, by saying more, it would pop their delicate bubble of trust.

It seemed the right thing to do, because it got the older to open the door and take him inside.

A storage room. With a bunch of canvas lined on the walls and white sheets all over. The faint yellow light was the same, but this room didn't exhale the beauty and the refined aura of the main hall.

Waiting for Minho to give him the next steps, Jisung's eyes stared at their hands as he was being pulled further into the room.

The tattoos on his knuckles and the back of his hand, his knobby fingers, the silver jewelry, the tan of his skin… They were a contrast to the hand that held his: paler, softer, slightly veiny, a single golden ring on his middle finger, refined as the rest of his outfit.

Jisung had thought many things about their difference in aesthetic, of lifestyle, and even their untold story. At first, it pulled him away, but not now, he was  happily being pulled into whatever this was.

“I don't share my art with the public. It's too personal, so I keep them here most of the time. I look at it occasionally to remember what I am, where I came from. But, besides Hyunjin and Seungmin, you are the first invited to snoop around.”

Minho faced him to show he was smiling, faintly. Jisung felt warm all over and he had no idea why, blinking back at him in curiosity.

He let go of his hand, ushering him to a specific line of canvas.

Should he say he was flattered? Jisung's palms were clammy and his hands were shaking again, swallowing the anticipation in his throat as he touched the staples and the fabric before separating the piece from the rest, turning it around.

A gasp left his lips, barely audible, more of a sharp exhale, driven out of him from the utter surprise of discovering the artist in Minho.

The piece was beautiful, the oil glossy under the diffuse light, the dark colors mingling perfectly, the lines blurred, but still obvious: it was a woman wearing a blindfold, similar to the one he wore in Minho's bedroom, but she had a purple bruise underneath, the edges painting her cheek sadly.

Jisung's mouth opened to say something, but the words died before reaching his mouth. It was heavy and his heart clenched.

Leaving it on the side, he turned around the next one, less delicate than the first, physically needing the truth to come to him in the most blunt way possible.

The same woman, the same colors, the same blindfold. She was laying down in fetal position in the middle of the painting, covered by shreds of off-white satin, the bruises covering her body in dark splotches.

Another piece was turned and Jisung felt like his heart would shrink in size and cease to exist. It was brutal. A hand covering her mouth, tears dripping down her blue-covered cheeks.

By the time he was done revealing canvas by canvas, each one equally as painful as the first, his own eyes filled with overwhelming hurt. He could feel the ache in her body, the desperation of her soul. It broke him.

“Well, this is it, I guess.” Minho's voice was softer than usual, sounding almost weak, exhausted just by looking at his collection again. Jisung understood it perfectly as he felt the same.

“It's…” Jisung was unable to say more without breaking into tears with a pain that wasn't even his.

“Beautifully heart-wrenching,” the older completed and Jisung looked back, watching him give a half-shrug, used to the reality hidden in the corner of a storage room. 

Past the lump in his throat, the younger didn't trust himself to say a thing without letting the tears flow, his eyes wet and heavy with each blink he took. He was afraid it would break the bubble, that Minho would think he pitied him somehow.

So he just stood there, in shock, watching blue and black and fading bruises on the last painting. And eventually the blonde circled him to organize each of the canvas in its specific order, a sheet thrown over them, like it would erase their existence.

After that, he stood by Jisung's side. “I feel like we need fresh air. The chemicals of the paint mess with your brain if you let them.” There wasn't any remaining pain in him as he winked at Jisung and brushed their shoulders together, trying to cheer him up.

“Yeah.” For a guy with too much to say, it felt terrible to be rendered speechless.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

How Minho could be so cheerful after looking at those pieces was beyond Jisung's knowledge. 

But there he was, outside of the museum, running away from everything, taking in the time to stop when he deemed far enough, with opened arms as he breathed a lungful of air and contemplated the infinite dark sky that seemed to touch the concrete in the horizon.

Between scattered stars and scars, Minho smiled, with his eyes, with his teeth, twirling around himself and laughing while doing so.

Jisung joined him after a few beats of the clock, wanting to be consumed by the lightness of how Minho dealt with his demons. He locked them in a room in the most important museum of the city, propped on an angular wall designed by the best architects of the country, and just lived without them.

Therefore, he opened his arms as well and looked at the sky, screaming at it, without the usual angst that followed them, but trying to mirror Minho’s optimistic view of the world.

“You know what?” The glint in the blonde’s eyes meant trouble and, this time, Jisung wasn't scared of it, matching it with a fire of his own. “I’ve always wanted to climb the wall of the national theater. We should do it.”

“Aren't there cameras up there?” Jisung couldn't believe he was being the rational one.

“Don't get caught.” He giggled in return, offering his hand for Jisung to take it.

Minho was crazy. Too bad Jisung was equally as crazy. And, because of that, the two of them walked hand in hand to the other side of the road, watching the spaceship that was the museum become smaller, feeling like they were two aliens out there in the open.

Bad Decisions wasn't far away, a five-minute walk at most, and Jisung couldn't help but think that the club's mojo worked from a distance, conjuring the worst ideas out of Minho this time.

When they finally reached their destination, they were a little breathless, not from the walk, but from the adrenaline of doing something reckless (and illegal).

“Are you ready?” Minho asked as they eyed the building.

This one wasn't circular, in fact, it was a pyramid, with a square base and a flat top, to resemble Aztec buildings. One of the sides had big concrete blocks all over it and Jisung doesn't think that the architects, when they were designing it, had thought anyone would want to climb them. It was beautiful… And so tempting.

“Yes. Let's go.”

“The last one to reach the top has to do whatever the winner wants,” Minho announced, letting go of his hand to start racing there.

Surprised, Jisung took five seconds too long to start climbing, yelling ‘not fair’ to Minho, who only laughed. 

The white concrete seemed to go on into infinity, some of the blocks very far from each other, their brains working for a better solution to get to the top first, their clothes not appropriate to do so.

Laughing when one of them got stuck and trying to delay the other's journey to the tallest point, they reached it at the same time.

“Noooo,” Jisung groaned, hating that there was no winner. 

Maybe the universe sensed they were both terrible losers and was trying to avoid anyone getting pushed over the edge. It didn't mean they liked it though.

“Well, we tried.” Minho slumped against his block of concrete, sitting down to catch his breath.

Jisung did the same, joining Minho on the bigger block to watch the city come and go. It was late at night in the middle of the week, so there were only only a few cars and people walking by.

“Maybe both of us should do anything the other wants. We didn't lose,” the older proposed and Jisung looked at him, trying to see if he had a deeper meaning to this game.

Minho wasn't naïve, he knew exactly what was going on behind Jisung’s inquisitive eyes.

“You know what I'm going to ask.” Jisung bit his lip, waiting to receive a big no as an answer. But Minho only adjusted his back on the wall, getting more comfortable.

A second passed, a whole minute. No turning back now.

“Who's the woman in the painting?”

Minho let out a long breath, not an ounce of hesitation as he finally looked back at him, his long lashes tiredly swooshing. “It's my mom.”

Jisung gulped, his stomach freezing and melting at the same time.

“You wanted a sad story, so here's your sad story. I'm from a small town ten hours away from here. I used to love it there, the calmness of nature and the coziness of the people who all knew each other. My parents worked hard to build a nice life for me. Everything was going great until my mom got pregnant with my brother and my father lost his job.”

Minho played with his fingers and Jisung could do nothing, paralyzed, sitting there like a statue, listening to what he had to say.

“He started drinking and one day he slapped my mother across the face. I was twelve. When I got back from school, I could sense the tension between them and, with a bruise on her cheek and red-rimmed eyes, she told me she fell.” 

Jisung wanted to reach out and stop the fiddling of Minho's fingers, but he was a coward, not able to move his body in any way.

“But the bruise didn't seem to disappear, her cheek a constant shade of purple and her eyes a constant state of glum. And then her arms were bruised, her legs. I was lost, nobody told me anything. My brother was born and my mom could only cry when looking at him.”

A single tear escaped Jisung's left eye, slowly losing the control in his body, feeling his heart clench all over again. Minho stopped the fiddling to reach a hand and use his thumb to wipe it for him, his cheek instantly leaning into the touch for comfort.

Minho smiled at him, a little sad, but fond, caressing his cheek in the meantime. “It's okay if it's too much.” Always worried about everybody, Jisung felt selfish to be the one needing consolation.

“No, I want to listen.” He did say he wanted to be scarred in the process of knowing Minho.

“So, when they thought I was asleep, I watched my father beating the shit out of her from a crack on their bedroom door. I tried talking to her, to convince her to seek help. But it felt like she wore a blindfold, saying he wasn't so bad, that he was a good father and they would overcome that.”

Another tear left his eye and Minho was there to wipe it before it even landed on his cheek. He wished the act could comfort the older in the same way.

“Years passed, nothing got better. I had to take care of my brother, because my mom couldn't look at him without crying. I had to take care of my mom, because she couldn't do much and she couldn't attend to her wounds on her own. Once, I almost hit him when he talked to her like she was dog shit.”

“Did your dad ever hit you?” Jisung was afraid of the answer.

“Surprisingly, no. Not me or my brother. And he also didn't hit her when we were around. But things didn't get better, instead, they got worse. When I was seventeen, he broke her arm. The hospital called the police on him and he went to jail. My mom blamed me for it, because I provided information that would compromise him. She didn't speak to me for the entire time she wore a cast on her arm.” 

“What happened next?” Jisung was desperate for a happier ending.

“The government forced her into therapy, I kept taking care of both of them. I started working to afford the bare minimum for my brother, to give him a decent childhood. Eventually, she got better and was able to look at the kid without bursting into tears.”

Minho didn't seem to be affected by the hurt of his story. His tone was softer, the honey of his voice slowly dripping on Jisung's ears, not as sweet as it usually was, but not bitter either.

Jisung wished he could say the same, but he knew too well how terrible it was to watch a mother suffer, not being able to help, wiping the tears even when they felt like an endless flow.

He sighed. “How are they now?”

“My brother is fourteen and he doesn't remember much about our father. My mom will be forever broken, but she managed to mend herself back pretty well.” Minho kept caressing his cheek, his eyes warm. Jisung didn't think he deserved it. “I work hard to provide them a decent life and, during the holidays, I go back there to see them.”

“That's why you work so much?” Jisung blinked back at him, remembering all the days Minho couldn't show up because of something work-related.

“Yeah. It's my job to take care of them.”

His guts stirred in something different. “And everyone else. You take care of literally everyone.” Jisung could feel the pieces of the puzzle connecting. “You're always helping every single person you know.”

“It's true.” Minho brushed his thumb over Jisung's cheeks one last time before removing his hand and letting out a snort. “I try to overcompensate for the asshole that lives inside of me.”

Jisung smiled, using his shoulder to brush the older's, desperate to keep touching. “It works. Most people can't even notice how much of an asshole you are.” 

They chuckled, Jisung not believing how they made such a terrible memory into something so light, so distant, just like the city under them, sparkling in the horizon.

But he wasn't done. “If you're taking care of everyone, who’s taking care of you?” 

It was an honest question, Jisung's insides squeezing even before an answer was given.

“I can take care of myself.” 

If all of Minho's sentences sounded so sure, this one faltered, a barely there pitch in his tone to give him away. He didn't want Jisung to pity him, clearly, but that wasn't the sentiment at all.

Yes, he felt an itch under his skin and a turmoil in his stomach to do something about it, but it wasn't out of pity. Jisung wanted to be there for him, to give everything nobody else had the courage to.

In a heap of feelings and sensations inside of him, Jisung surged forward, taking Minho's neck in a desperate motion and bringing their lips together to connect them.

Minho was surprised, Jisung was surprised, both of them frozen for the longest second that the world seemed to have, trying to make sense of what the fuck was going on. 

He didn't regret it. Minho's lips were soft and there was no way everything he was feeling could be translated into words. This was the only way. And the older seemed to understand, but still decided to part their lips.

“There's too much going on. I think we should leave it here now. I want you to think about what kissing me actually means for you. Let's not get carried away.” He wasn't mean, in fact, he was the sweetest human being to ever walk on Earth. And yet, Jisung felt young, foolish, naïve.

Minho kissed his cheek and rested a hand on his shoulders to hold him there, both of them taking a minute to appreciate the sight of urban serenity bathed in the moonlight, the rest of the words unspoken.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

What did it mean for Jisung to have kissed Minho?

He had time to ponder. 

And honestly, he couldn't give two shits about his sexuality crumbling into pieces, or how it would affect the rockstar.

Yes, he did enjoy pussy, but also Lee Minho. He was like an addiction when it reached his torpid senses.

With his sunny-blonde hair, syrupy-sweet tone and controlled madness, Jisung was obsessed. And now that he found what he was looking for, the unlimited source of his troubles, he wanted more.

Jisung was set to have Minho, all of him, in any way he craved. Even if it cost his soul.

No amount of jerking off to the thought of his delicate fingers around his neck or psycho-sharp glare aimed at him could compare to the real thing. He wanted him.

Therefore, Jisung had another mission, starting at band practice, with a fake innocent tone etched to the suggestion of a new song. The guys couldn't care less if he was going to commit crimes with it, the idea was amazing.

Knowing Minho was attracted to him would be his eternal funeral. Jisung had too much power in his hands and a maleficent mind behind it to use it in the most unfair way possible.

He was going to break Minho's walls one by one, unleashing the demon behind them to leave him bare, crazy, raw, hungry.

Bad Decisions would rot and burn with the kind of fire he was about to start. 

The beginning of it all was Jisung dressing to kill when he opted for his custom leather jacket, ‘rock is dead’ written on the back, spikes on his shoulders, opened up to reveal the lack of shirt underneath, only abs, passion and Minho’s favorite ink on his body.

Deep down, Jisung knew how crazy possessive Minho was, and he was about to press every one of his buttons. Only able to watch how hot the younger looked onstage, from a crowd, no better than anyone there.

He didn't need cigarettes or booze to give him the initial buzz he needed to perform, letting his addiction to fighting fill him with the perfect amount of adrenaline. With that, he stepped on creaky floorboards and dodged the cables to reach his rightful place.

In his kingdom, everyone was there to serve him, Minho included.

He wasn't there for the first song yet, working late hours at the gallery. Jisung used the time to get in the mood, sing whatever cheap sexy rock he knew by heart, letting fangirls at his feet indulge themselves in their POV fantasies about him when he winked at them.

But then Minho arrived, running in, out of breath, as much as Jisung, their gazes locking, no good shared between them.

He could see the moment the blonde realized Jisung wasn't wearing a shirt, his hips swaying as he kept singing, his eyes rolling back in his sockets just for the fun of watching Minho fume with jealousy.

The song ended and Minho’s bunny front teeth were out to bite on his lower lip, his arms crossed on his torso, a raised eyebrow sent his way, fucking challenging him.

Game on. Jisung was ready.

“Hmm, widows, the next song isn't one of our usual ones…” Jisung started, a bit sweet, a bit sweaty, but still sexy as fuck. “But a friend really needs to see us play this one.” He turned to nod at Changbin, signaling his cue to begin on the drums. “Hope you all enjoy it as much as them.”

A wink was sent to the public, who cheered loudly at whatever Jisung said, but Minho knew it was just for him.

“We've been here too long, trying to get along, pretending that you're oh so shy…”  

Jisung was mocking him with the rhythm of his shoulders, bringing his fingers to partly hide his eyes and hearing the fangirls under him go crazy. Minho seemed to not recognize the song, which was fair, it wasn’t as mainstream as Welcome to the Jungle.

“Talking's fine if you got the time, but I ain't got time to spare, yeah…”

The chorus was approaching and Jisung really tried to contain his excitement while singing, but, God, Joan Jett was a fucking queen for coming up with the perfect song to get fucked.

“Can't you see we're wasting time, yeah? Do you wanna touch? Do you wanna touch?”  

Conjuring the audience to participate, Jisung opened his jacket to reveal a little bit more of his torso, asking Minho, asking all of them. He knew the answer, but he still loved to hear every single cheer, so powerful and so loud.

Everyone in that room would kill for a chance to be with Jisung and Minho was stalling. This was a reminder, a threat, that if didn't do something, he would choose the next.

“Do you wanna touch? Do you wanna touch?” 

Jisung put his hands in his hair, then on his throat, lowering his hand with each word sung.

“Do you wanna touch me there? Where?”

His fingers finally reached his belly button, his voice getting higher, needier. He was practically moaning into the mic, breathless and sweaty, driving everybody insane.

“There, yeah.”

Adjusting himself in his pants for emphasis, he rolled his eyes on his head and gave a final moan, abrupt and raspy and broken.

For Minho’s uttermost despair, he knew exactly what the younger looked and sounded when he orgasmed, having experienced it first hand when he came on his lap, all pretty and pliant, the perfect good boy for him.

He was a devil and, just like everybody, Minho wasn't immune to his charms. When his eyes returned to stare deep into his crowd, he could almost see the veins on the blonde’s neck bulging, his hands formed into fists, his whole image tight and tense.

This was a grave he was digging himself into, waiting for the time he would fall, taking rock's place, willing to be buried by whatever Minho was still hiding.

And the show went on, Welcome to the Jungle closing their concert, with equally high moans and hovering hands at his bare torso.

“This is all, widows.” Dripping in sweat and whatever sex trance that got the crowd going, Jisung announced the end. He would let rock descend to hell again, but different from most days, he was excited for what was coming next. “You know the drill. Rock is dead, but the night's still young, perfect to make some bad decisions.” 

A final wink was given to the noisy crowd before he was subtly messing with the cables, waiting for the members to get off the stage first.

If somebody told Jisung from two months ago that he would be expecting Minho to hide in the shadows of the corridor that led to the backstage area and choke him, he would have probably punched the person and told them it was a terrible joke. But look at him now…

A silent gasp broke out of his throat as a hand pinned him against the wall, fingers on the sides of his neck, squeezing.

Finding Minho’s eyes with their dark, crazy glint sparkling back at him was equally as delicious. Victory was sweet and he would enjoy every little lick of it.

“Tsk. It’s lost its fun knowing you enjoy it so much.” Minho roughly let go of his neck, Jisung's shoulders slumping on the grimy wall, his mouth opened in rapid breaths.

“Hello to you too, Minho. How have you been? Have we lost our manners?” Jisung was feeling annoying and Minho sensed it too, emitting a subtle huff through his nose.

If he wanted to see the demon inside of him unleashed, he needed to push further, knowing everything that was past those dark eyes. He was ready.

The well-kept baby blue blazer and the fluffy hair could all go to hell now that Jisung knew what was underneath. And there was no denying he was addicted to danger, to trouble, to pain.

“What do you want, Jisung?” The lack of patience behind his voice was noticeable, not playing into his game, but getting affected either way.

“I thought you would never ask.” Jisung rasped it out, trying to be coherent while his blood tingled beneath his skin, feeling his stomach swoosh in anticipation.

This was it.

In a bolt of courage and insane desire, he grabbed the sides of Minho’s blazer and turned them around, the blonde's eyes widening in surprise as their lips collided. There was no pause, no going back now.

Jisung had never kissed a guy, but he was sure it wouldn't be so different from kissing a girl, letting his hands travel to the sides of his neck as he tilted his head to slot their lips together.

Shocked, Minho took a second to return his pursing lips, but fitting them perfectly after, fingers grabbing at the long hair on the back of his head for leverage.

His lips were incredibly soft and Jisung thought that this was probably what heaven felt like, cherry-flavored and silky-sweet. It didn't help his addiction, letting control jump out of the window as he licked Minho's bottom lip.

He wanted to say it happened too fast, but it didn't, Minho’s moving lips were slow and firm, savoring each humid breath from Jisung's open mouth, not allowing him in yet, taking his time, setting the pace he wanted by the tight grasp he had on his hair.

Meanwhile, he was surrounded by vanilla, his body having a Pavlovian response to it, buzzing with hot adrenaline running in his veins, wanting more, but knowing he would only have what Minho wanted to give to him.

And, to reinforce that fact, Minho turned them around, Jisung's back colliding harshly with the wall, their lips separating for a second, both of them slick with their spit, red even if they hadn't used tongue yet.

“What are you doing, Jisung?”

The younger’s hazy eyes tried to blink some rationality back into his brain. “Kissing you.” 

The answer was obvious, but Minho was dense.

“You know what I'm talking about.”

“Yes, and this time I'm jumping in fully knowing what I'm getting into.” The hands on his neck descended to his shoulders, trying to pull him closer, chest to chest, Jisung's nipple piercings rubbing on the soft fabric of Minho's blazer. He was going insane. “Come and get me, psycho.” 

They didn't need more words, lips driven to each other like magnets, finding the perfect balance, Minho's bigger upper lip meeting Jisung's bigger bottom lip, moving their heads in sync.

It was hot, it was wet, it was rough. The urge to stick his tongue out again and lick at the seam of his lips was so strong, but he knew Minho would make him wait longer if he did it. The fingers grasping at the blonde's clothes tightened, trying to show how much he needed it.

When Minho felt merciful enough to add some tongue, Jisung's eyes rolled into the back of his head from pleasure. He didn't even try to play hard to get, opening his mouth obediently, embracing insanity at the prospect of having more of the older to himself.

Another moan as their tongues rolled around each other, fighting for dominance, fighting this all-consuming hunger that seemed to envelope them both. Minho pressed Jisung further into the wall, invading all of his senses, so much spit shared between them that escaped to their joined chins.

By far, this was the most intense kiss he’d ever had. Parting was difficult, but necessary, their lungs burning from the amount of time they stayed glued to each other.

Looking at him was worse, seeing Minho's lips cherry red and bruised, shining with their combined spit, his chin rubbed raw by Jisung's stubble. This wasn't enough.

Was it normal to feel fucked-out from a single kiss? 

“Minho…” he called, tongue heavy in his mouth, feeling a little useless. “Take me home.” 

In the process of uncovering Minho’s true self, Jisung also allowed himself to find pieces of him that he didn't know about, finding a part of him that wasn't attached to his fuck-up rockstar persona.

And like this, with his emotions at front, seeing Minho’s own mirrored in his sparkly eyes, he was certain that he was making the right decision.

“Let’s get out of here, baby.”

His answer was followed by another kiss, a breath-taking one, their tongues extra slow as they both enjoyed the moment, leaving their lips tingling with an after-taste of rebellious lust.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

It would be emblematic to take Minho by the hand to the backstage room they both knew so well, push the heavy metal door and have each other under the sign of the club. But this was no bad decision and Minho wasn't a faceless groupie meant to feed his ego.

His fluffy blonde hair and tailored suit were meant to fit the aesthetic of his bedroom, white and beige and comfortable. And he was meant to be treated right, soft and understanding, the same way he's been dealing with Jisung.

So they headed to the apartment, hoping Chan would stay longer at Bad Decisions, left to relive rock past late hours with the help of the members, taking the burden from Jisung's shoulders.

With an insistent prickling under his skin, begging to touch and to feel, the path was torturous, the longest ten-minute drive of his life.

“You're so eager,” Minho teased him while he fumbled with the keys, a smirk coloring his face, watching with amusement as Jisung let his weight shift from one foot to another.

Eager wasn't exactly the word he would use to describe it, but desperate. He needed Minho like he needed air. And, as soon as they were inside, he tried to press Minho against the door, the older swiftly dodging it and raising a pointed finger at him.

“Chan lives here too. No fucking around in common areas. We aren't animals.” 

Jisung rolled his eyes, groaning all the way to his bedroom, feet heavy as his boots stomped on the wooden floor, incredibly pouty but knowing he was right.

Fuck Minho for always being right.

When they reached it, Jisung wasn't sure if he would rather kiss or punch Minho's stupidly pretty face. But he had no time to ponder, the older choosing for him, repeating what he did at the club, grabbing the sides of his jacket to bring their lips together, more forcefully than their first.

There was no lingering around or hesitating, their tongues instantly finding each other, roughly dancing, pushing, pulling, fighting.

Their primal nature would never allow them to be gentle, Minho's teeth pulling on Jisung's lip ring forcefully, almost drawing blood. Jisung retaliated with his fingers gripping harder on the older's hair, separating them to look bewildered at him.

“Ouch.” It didn't hurt, but Jisung loved to be dramatic, Minho's lips curving in a full smile, giggles shaking their joined chests.

“I don't believe you for a second.” With both of his arms, he embraced Jisung's waist, bringing their bodies impossibly closer. But, for good measure, he placed a peck on his lips. “Better now?”

Beneath their thick layers of fucking up, Minho and Jisung were silly and youthful, matching each other's energy, completing where the other was lacking. Jisung sighed at it, content, but never giving in.

Instead, he grabbed Minho's jaw to keep kissing, slower, more intensely, not fully comprehending the warm wave that swooshed through his stomach besides the infinite pit of desire building between them.

However, nothing mattered, not when Jisung was finally understanding Minho, past the art and the mystery, deep into his soul.

To say he was beautiful inside and out was nowhere near as grand as kissing him was: hurting, bruising, but so sweet and so fucking fulfilling.

Maybe this was the missing piece of his miserable life, looking for rock as an answer for the hollow in his chest and finding something that was so different from the sex and addiction that he surrounded himself with.

His soul sang with the passion of their kiss, soaring, so high no one could bring it down.

He thought it would never end, his lungs burning, much quicker since he was a smoker, but it was so hard to part, to lose the thing that bound them together.

“Ah, it's okay, Jisungie,” Minho reassured him as Jisung’s hands fisted the back of the blazer, afraid of losing him. But he still wasn't convinced and, for this, Minho kissed his neck, maintaining the warmth in the cold night.

The wet, open-mouthed kisses on his skin were good, allowing him to close his eyes and sigh in the tame pleasure it gave. They were usually so intense that the short break was needed, both of them breathless, using the time to recover.

Would he ever recover though?

Jisung didn't think so, the boiling of his blood returning, desperate to see Minho lose his clothes, his senses, his right mind.

He did exactly that, tugging the blazer down, opening his eyes to plead.

In the heap of all-consuming lust, he forgot what his original plan was. But now, with oxygen in his brain, he remembered it.

“Would you let me take care of you?” Jisung was sure there wasn't much credibility in his hazy eyes or wild hair or state of half-undress, but he meant every word.

Minho’s mouth opened in surprise, blinking back his long lashes at him, slow and confused. “What do you mean?” The extra-soft honey of his tone was a pitch higher, raw, vulnerable.

“You are always taking care of everyone. Let me take care of you today.” He let his incredibly tight grasp on his blazer go, taking his hands in his, intertwining their fingers.

Okay, that was corny, but how could Jisung not be when he had seen it all? The good, the bad and the ugly, just like he wanted to.

A smile made itself to Minho’s face, tight-lipped but sunny all the same. “You’re cute.” And then they were kissing, soft and light, wet brushing of their lips together. Just perfect.

“Is that a yes?” He had to make sure.

“Yeah. I think trust should go both ways and I've been lacking on this part.”

Jisung was beaming, like he hadn't been for a long time, stuck in this grouchy mood since he was a teen. He hated to admit it, but Minho was good for him.

And he hoped to be good for Minho too, waiting patiently for him to come back from his fumbling with the lamp on the bedside table, bathing them in warm faint light.

Minho looked even more beautiful like this, his hair extra shiny in the yellow glow, his nose sharp, his eyes cat-like under his glasses. The museum had nothing on him, he was truly a work of art.

“What do you have in mind?” The question took a while to reach him and then he blushed. He hadn't thought this through.

“Ahn… I can suck you off?” Jisung didn't sound so sure and Minho giggled, coming to wrap his arms around his waist again, an amusing glint in his eyes.

They were having fun, Jisung's lips also curved in a smile, bringing his hands to cup the older’s jaw to kiss him. Now that they started, he couldn't stop, his lips craving him all the time.

“Is that what you want?” Minho asked back, whispering, his breath hot when they were so close, noses almost touching.

“Yeah.” 

To be honest, it would be poetic. The rockstar, who always gets blown at the back of the club, dropping to his knees, wanting to please. His dick stirred at that.

“Get to work then.” He always raised his eyebrow when he meant trouble, challenging him. And Jisung fell for it every time, never skipping a dare. His ego was too big for that.

The first thing he did was to finally get rid of the blazer on his shoulders, pulling the garment past his arms, Minho allowing it. He placed it on the dresser, free of ropes or painting supplies this time, just them.

He was nervous, heart rabbiting inside his ribcage, fingers clumsy when he then touched his dress shirt, opening the buttons one by one, the blonde staring at him intently.

Minho wasn't ripped with muscles here like Jisung was. His pecs were defined, hard like rock, but he had a soft tummy, lean and cute and pale like the rest of him. He wanted to take a bite.

Maybe the older shouldn't have given him a free pass, because Jisung was completely insane, dropping to his knees, in touch with his most basic desires. He immediately nuzzled his face on the soft skin past his belly button, and soon his teeth made an appearance, biting down on it.

A hiss could be heard from above and fingers gripped his hair, trying to get him away from his sensitive bits.

When Jisung looked up to see the older's reaction, still with a piece of him held by his teeth, Minho raised an eyebrow at him.

“If you bite me like that past my waistband, I'm gonna leave a bald spot on your head.” Minho's warning was playful, but with a hint of truthfulness behind it. Jisung let it go. “Now that's a good boy.” 

The pat on his head would be humiliating if Jisung wasn't so turned on, actually wanting to be good for the first time in his life.

Averting his attention to the bulge at his eye level, his mouth watered.

God, how had Jisung never noticed he was in fact queer?

But again, he never felt like this, towards another man or woman. Minho had an effect on him that was inexplicable, getting him to rub his thighs together to have some friction on his dick while he brought his hands to undo his belt and zipper, nervous and excited and a tad confused.

Jisung was selfish, in bed, in life. He loved to be pleased, to be worshiped, often relying on his partners to make the best for him, not caring about their well-being. The rockstar didn't need to.

This was different. Putting his pleasure aside, even if his cock demanded attention, aching. Getting Minho's pants off of him was the only thing in his mind.

Taking a deep breath while looking at the dark boxers in front of him, Jisung tried to convince himself he could do this. He had received plenty of head before, he could just mimic what he liked and hope Minho liked it too.

“Are you okay?” The gentle brush of fingers on his hair was surprising enough to have his eyes closing, enjoying the contact. He nodded. “I'll guide you through it, don't worry.”

Fuck Minho for being so empathetic. He wanted to do things himself, but he knew he probably couldn't.

“How about we move to bed?” The fingers never stopped caressing his scalp. Jisung nodded again, lost in the feeling.

When the fingers left and Minho moved, Jisung surged forward, almost tumbling into the floor. A blush creeped onto his cheeks as he raised to his feet and looked at the older. He was really out of it for a second.

“Get comfortable.”

Would he always say that to Jisung when they were here, surrounded by the smell of vanilla and comfort? It made him never want to leave and face the world again.

He did as told, ridding himself of the jacket and opening his jeans’ button just to get some of the pressure off. There was no shame in it, looking at Minho’s flexing fingers on the bed, probably trying to hold back the urge to touch him and take control.

At this, Jisung smirked, knowing Minho found him hot. “Take a picture, it will last longer.” He repeated his words from the photoshoot day. 

“Shut up and get on your knees.” A good retort, Jisung didn't expect less from him.

Chuckling under his breath, he held onto Minho's naked thighs for leverage, getting on his knees as promised, feeling how warm he was there, the heady scent past the vanilla filling his senses deliciously.

Maybe he liked it better like this, with a hint of lust and masculinity, leaving the immaculate figure of Minho behind.

“Better?” Jisung was annoying, but it didn't faze Minho, long lashes blinking at him, his head tilted, but still with that cold demeanor etched on his face.

“Hm, could be better.” He shrugged. “You could use this mouth to blow me instead of talking.” His tone was commanding. 

Jisung's dick twitched in his pants, surprised at how bold Minho was, pre-cum dripping. 

“Yeah.” No smart comeback could leave his mouth after, his legs trembling.

It hurt his ego that all it took was a few words to have the rockstar tamed inside of him, reducing Jisung to this obedient dog, so eager to please. And yet, the hit to his ego only made his cock twitch harder, aching, needing.

Again, Jisung did as told, letting his fingers go past the waistband of his boxers and reveal his cock.

Yeah, if Jisung had any doubt about his sexuality, this was the moment he was certain.

Minho’s dick was as beautiful as he was, long, thick, veiny like his hands, glistening in pre-cum even though they didn't invest that much in foreplay. He wanted nothing more than to have it in his mouth, instantly dropping his head to lick at the head, moaning as he did so.

God, this was good. No wonder people liked to suck Jisung's dick so much.

The blonde seemed to enjoy his clumsy and messy licks, hissing as he watched Jisung leave more saliva than necessary, having it dripping down his length only for him to catch it on his tongue and moan again.

“You look so good like this, on your knees, wanting to please me.”

Jisung's couldn't do more than lazily look up while he licked him from base to tip, feeling fucked out before anything was done.

“How about you put it in your mouth now? You think you can do that?” The condescending tone was making Jisung go crazy, legs squeezed together in a desperate attempt to find relief. “Tuck your teeth behind your lips and go down slowly, don't try to take it all in or you'll choke.”

Okay, he could do this.

Following Minho's instructions, he wrapped his fingers around the base and guided the tip to rest on his tongue, mouth closing around it. 

Minho let out a hiss, combing his fingers through Jisung’s hair. “Yeah, that's good. You're doing good.” His breath was short and his tone was tense, boosting Jisung's ego. Oh, how the tables have turned. “You'll keep being a good boy for me, right?”

He had to look up, torn between biting Minho's dick and nodding, wanting to cause a further reaction. Jisung had too much power with a dick in his mouth and he secretly loved it.

Minho still looked too in control and Jisung wanted to change that fact. So he put more of the length inside his mouth, as much as he could, until it hit the back of his throat. Minho moaned, sweet and long. That was better.

It felt good to be stuffed full of dick, the length searing hot against his tongue, knowing he was able to drive Minho fucking nuts with something so simple.

There was still halfway down to go, his fingers around the part he couldn't reach. Fuck Minho for having a big cock.

“Okay, bob your head and use your tongue to caress the side.” He was blunt with his language and, God, Jisung loved it, refraining from moaning while he concentrated on the instructions given.

His intention was to leave Minho like he always left Jisung, boiling with desperation. And Jisung was a quick learner, doing exactly what he asked, moving his head up and down his length, curving his tongue to lick it.

After a chant of groans, Minho suddenly snapped. “Fuck it,” he said, a breathy moan resonating and his fingers tightening in Jisung’s hair.

Jisung didn't have time to think, Minho using his rough grip to help set the pace he liked, hard and fast, biting his lips as he watched Jisung's eyes water. 

Fuck, he felt like a cocksleave as Minho used him to pleasure himself. It made his dick drool in his pants, aching so much as he sat there, taking everything Minho had to offer.

Maybe he was driving himself nuts along with Minho.

A whimper escaped his lips unwanted, broken and spent. His breath was caught in his throat and, god, everything was getting to his head, no thoughts behind his eyes, just pure desire.

“You look hotter when you can't use your mouth to be an asshole.” Minho was purposely hitting his ego, Jisung's eyes pressing shut, whimpering again, his dick twitching non-stop.

Shit, he never thought he would be this turned on pleasuring somebody else. But look at him, hard and aching and so fucking wet inside his pants.

Jisung didn't care about his lips going numb or the raw feeling in his mouth as Minho pushed him up and down, his breath ragged, drool running down his length to pool on his balls. His scalp stung with the force of it, but it felt so good.

And Minho was no better, panting, groaning, letting himself go in every bob of Jisung's head, chasing his release without a care in the world. 

Tears ran down his face and he choked on a breath, reaching his limit. Jisung's dick was going to explode if nobody touched it.

He could only whimper and blink his wet lashes at Minho, hoping he would understand. His ego was completely broken as he pleaded for his own release.

Hips coming to a halt, Minho lifted an eyebrow at him. “What's wrong, baby?” His sticky sweet tone was evil.

Jisung's cheeks felt like they were on fire. “Minho…” he whined, wiggling in his seat, impatient.

He tsked and maybe Jisung would explode for real. “Can't last long without anybody touching you.” The grip on his hair loosened, knuckles coming to his cheek to caress it. He was mean. “It's okay though, I like that you're a little pathetic.”

Jisung's whole body shivered and, for a second, he thought he was going to come just from the humiliation.

“Come here, baby.” One veiny hand made its way to his thigh, patting it. “You did good.”

Afraid Minho would change his mind, Jisung quickly got up, getting rid of his jacket and his pants in a second, lowering himself on his lap before Minho could blink.

“Aren't you eager?” He was warm, like the light surrounding them, like his hair, his whole comforting aura; enveloping him a hug, their naked chests colliding, eliciting a sigh from him, because it felt oddly like coming home.

“Fuck you.” He said back, chuckling under his breath, arms wrapping around Minho's neck to kiss his mouth and finally shut him up.

Jisung hoped they never changed, fighting and fucking and being so intense when their lips were joined, mingling together, sticky with tears, drool and Minho's pre-cum.

It was dirty and a little disgusting, but it only spurred them on, Minho's hands coming to his ass to grab and pull. Jisung had to part their lips to moan, heady, bordering on pornographic.

Yeah, that had never happened before, Jisung's eyes widening as he realized it.

“Don't even dare say anything about it.” The threat seemed to work, Minho rolling his eyes before resuming their kisses.

In a desperate attempt to find release, Jisung rutted his hips against Minho's stomach, seeing stars behind his eyes, sounds muffled by their mouths.

Minho seemed to remember they were both achingly hard, hands leaving his ass with a slap to hook his fingers on Jisung's waistband, freeing his cock from his boxers. Jisung couldn't stop twitching, anticipating.

They couldn't focus on the kiss anymore, panting into each other's mouth as Minho used both of his hands to squeeze their cocks together, the touch wet and sticky as he rubbed up and down quickly.

It felt like dying. Jisung was sure a second more and rock wouldn't be the only dead thing lying around.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” He couldn't stop chanting, everything so intense, the arms on Minho's neck pulling them even closer, needing something to ground himself with.

And then it suddenly hit him what he needed to cum.

“Choke me.” Jisung's body was an addict, proving itself over and over, craving the rush of adrenaline, the beginning of a fight.

As soon as a sticky hand was around his neck, squeezing, his hips rutting on the sloppy one-handed grip on their cocks, Jisung was a goner.

He blacked out after letting out a final gasp, eyes rolling in their sockets, completely spent as spurts of white painted their stomachs.

Somewhere in the distance, lost in time and space, he heard Minho say ‘fuck’ and more wet heat joined the mess between them.

He was wrong. Rock was dead, but Jisung wasn't. He never felt more alive, floating on the feelings shared between them.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Chapter Text

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

As the first rays of sunshine filtered through the thin, white curtains of Minho’s bedroom, Jisung was hit with a wave of suffocating dread.

He blinked himself awake, desperation flooding his chest as he realized he was silently choking.

Minho lay sleeping beside him. It was the first time Jisung had seen the older like this—his beautiful, long eyelashes resting peacefully, his cheek pressed gently into the soft, white sheets that smelled faintly of fabric softener. He looked serene, almost ethereal. Yet, Jisung couldn’t shake the overwhelming sense of horror creeping over him.

He didn’t understand where it was coming from. The night before, he had been so happy, so excited to finally have Minho, in his terms, past the rockstar and the cocky artist persona Minho and him created. Just them. But now, in the cold light of morning, everything felt wrong.

His heart raced, his skin crawled, and a restless heat spread through his body. Jisung had experienced many breakdowns, but none had felt like this—like he was truly dying.

Trying to assess the situation, he quietly slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Minho. But he felt torn. If he left without a word, he’d be an asshole. If he woke Minho because he couldn’t get his shit together, he’d still be an asshole.

The crisp wind of morning whispered in his ear that he would always be a fuck-up. No matter how hard he tried. The thought consumed him. A lump formed in his throat, and he felt sick to his stomach. He gave up—on fighting the feeling, on trying to be better, on himself.

He left without a word. He dressed back as the rockstar, zipping up his jacket, lacing his boots. This was who he really was: a crumbling façade.

Minho was still asleep, his shoulders bare, his soul even more exposed than his body. The faint light of sunrise bathed him in a soft glow, and Jisung wanted to remember him like this. He sighed deeply, trying to memorize every detail before bolting out the door.

The weather outside was freezing, but Jisung felt numb. He wandered the streets like a ghost, hollow except for the suffocating tightness in his chest.

It felt like the choking would never end, torturing him with every step. The city around him was as gray and lifeless as he felt inside.

Spotting a liquor store along the way, he bought a cheap bottle of alcohol, not bothering about the brand or the label. He didn’t care about the rockstar image anymore. He just wanted the pain to go away.

He had ruined everything, and he would keep ruining anything good in his life. He was destined to be a fuck-up forever.

But Jisung wasn’t one to wallow in self-pity. He preferred to own his demons, wearing them proudly on his sleeve. And, as the vodka burned his throat, he felt a flicker of life return.

It wasn’t the warm, comforting glow of contentment from the night before, when he had laughed and joked and shared intimacy with Minho—when he had dared to believe that life could be good. No, this was the bitter, angry numbness he had lived with for so long. And as much as it hurt, it was familiar. Jisung welcomed it back, letting the darkness wrap around him like an old, tattered blanket.

He thought about a lot of things during the forty-minute walk back to his house. His mom, his dad, Chan, Minho. They had all tried to help him, but maybe this was who Jisung was always meant to be: the eternal fuck-up, the misunderstood rockstar, the atomic bomb that left destruction in his wake.

It was okay. He was okay with it. He stumbled home drunk as the sun rose, leaving the nearly empty bottle on the shelf that once held family photos. Now, it was just a row of empty frames.

Jisung had burned the pictures—the ones where the three of them were smiling—after he got tired of seeing his mom cry over them every day.

He was a terrible son. A terrible friend. And now, a terrible lover.

By now, Minho was awake. Jisung saw the message he had sent, asking where he had gone and if he was okay. He didn’t reply, leaving the older on read. The blue dots probably hurt Jisung more than they hurt Minho.

After a lifetime of being a fuck-up, this was the first time Jisung wanted to spare someone from his chaos. Maybe it was because Minho already had so much to deal with, and Jisung didn’t want to be the dead weight dragging him down.

“What are you doing up so early?” His mom’s voice interrupted his thoughts. She was dressed for work, her hair brushed, her makeup done.

Seeing her like this—in a nice dress, wearing pumps, looking put-together—reminded Jisung of the old days, when she had seemed effortlessly healthy because she was happy. But that time was gone, buried under the weight of everything that had happened ever since. He blinked a few times, focusing on her question.

“Suffering,” he replied honestly. There was no point in lying.

She snorted. “Aren’t we all?” It was meant to be a joke, but Jisung’s misery was palpable, and she noticed. “Don’t beat yourself up too much. Sometimes we feel bad, but we can’t let it define us.” A short kiss was placed on his cheek. “Get some sleep, sweetheart. Maybe it’ll help clear your mind.”

He took her advice, tiredly walking to his bedroom and collapsing onto his bed. He didn’t bother showering or changing his clothes. What was the point when he already felt disgusting inside?

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Jisung would be lying if he said his thoughts were clear when he woke up. But the sleep had given him a new perspective.

Along with the pounding headache behind his dry eyes, regret consumed him whole. He decided he hated Minho—for choking him in that alley, for giving them a chance to rise beyond the door of Bad Decisions, for liking him in a way no one else ever had.

A new message popped up on his phone, Minho’s contact name burning his eyes. The text said he was getting worried. In a fit of anger, Jisung opened it, ready to reply.

But what would he even say?

Sighing, he dropped his phone onto the bed and fell back onto the mattress. Minho was old enough to figure it out on his own.

He stared at the ceiling, white and void of any solutions to the growing problems that had plagued his life ever since a certain blonde, fluffy-haired man had entered it. When he closed his eyes, Minho was tattooed behind his lids—his smirk, his feline eyes, the golden-rimmed glasses.

If Jisung weren’t such a self-centered bastard, he might have clawed his eyes out just to feel something, to forget.

Instead, he grabbed his guitar, turned on his amp, and hit the pedal among the scattered clothes on the floor. The instrument wailed like his soul—a desperate cry for help, but not actually accepting help. Just endlessly screaming into the pit of his own misery.

Fuck the love song. Love was as dead as rock, and he wanted it to stay that way, buried seven feet underground.

Maybe this would be it—a sad ballad about love’s funeral. With a humorless chuckle, he adjusted the pedals to get the sound he wanted.

Jisung was going crazy. His fingers worked out a melody, his chest vibrating with a soft hum to accompany the rhythm. He paused to write down some notes on his phone:

Mistakes fostered by clumsy emotions
The feeling of love leaves behind a bitter resentment
Is there no pretty happy ending?

It was all on him, but still, nothing good ever lasted. Not for him, not for anyone. People would relate, holding up their phones with the flashlight on, maybe shedding a tear.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

The next day, Jisung arrived at band practice feeling optimistic. He had a song. Maybe not the one they’d initially wanted, and definitely not the sentiment they’d hoped to evoke, but it was a song, and it was good enough.

Late as always, he was the last to descend the stairs to the basement, where the rest of the band was warming up.

The air was heavy. Four pairs of eyes, dull and devoid of excitement, turned to him. He stopped at the final step, wary of the tension.

“Hi,” Jisung said, unafraid of whatever had caused their scowls. He’d been dead inside for a long time; not much could affect him anymore.

“I’d get out of here if I were you,” Changbin muttered, avoiding eye contact as he fiddled with his drum kit. His tone was oddly cold.

“Nonsense. We need to practice my song. Band trials are in three weeks,” Jisung shrugged, ignoring the warning.

The room fell dead silent. It was the first time all of them had been like this. Even Felix, usually so cheerful, had his lips turned down in an angry pout.

Jisung sighed, asking the question he didn’t really want the answer to: “What did I do?”

Beyond the annoyed glances, Chan’s reaction was the worst. He glared daggers at Jisung, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with hurt.

“Look,” Chan started, his tone far from the usual soft, parental one Jisung was used to. “I get it. Whatever’s going on in your head—this whole thing about the world being lost, about there being no hope for you, for humanity, for rock—maybe you’re right. Maybe there isn’t. But we’re not going to let you drag us down to rock bottom, destroying everything we’ve built and the friends we’ve made along the way, just because you’re fucked up in the head. Guess what, Jisung? We all are. But we’re trying. You should try too.”

Jisung blinked, wondering if this was all a product of his sleep deprivation or if it was actually happening.

In all the years they’d been friends, Chan had never looked at him with such disappointment, his eyebrows furrowed, his expression heart-broken.

“What?” Jisung asked, though part of him hoped they wouldn’t elaborate.

But maybe it was better not to hear it.

Felix, who had been fiddling with his bass, turned to Jisung with fuming eyes. “We’re tired of your bullshit, Jisung. I don’t know what you did, but you hurt Minho—the only person who ever truly tried to help this band. What happened to rising rock? Where did your dreams go? I don’t even recognize you anymore.”

A single tear escaped Felix’s eye, and he quickly wiped it away before continuing. “Get the fuck out. I hope you find yourself on your way home. Don’t bother coming back if you don’t.”

Jisung wished he could say his chest caved in or that he felt the urge to cry, but he felt nothing. He simply looked at Chan for confirmation, and the older man just pointed to the door, his gaze firm and unwavering.

This was it, then. The end of it all.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Like a racing car without brakes, Jisung’s downfall was inevitable. He had always known this day would come. Honestly, he was surprised it had taken this long for everyone to give up on him.

Back home, everything was the same. The pool, the ipê flowers falling because of the wind, the sun setting behind the naked branches. It gave him a strange sense of stability, as if the world wasn’t burning beyond the gates of his crumbling castle.

When everything went wrong, he could always count on the structure of his house to ground him. The walls had never been a different color, and every piece of furniture had been there since before he was born. Maybe that’s why he and his mom always ended up sitting by the pool, feet in the cold water, smoking and reminiscing about happier times.

This time, though, Jisung brought out a photo album from the living room. He smoked with one hand and flipped through the pages with the other.

He didn’t want to admit it, but Felix’s words had affected him. He had lost a part of his existence in a war against himself. What was he even fighting for? He couldn’t remember anymore.

But as he looked at the teenage version of himself—short, dark brown hair, no tattoos, and a heart-shaped smile—he knew that person was gone forever.

Was this the moment he would take a dive into insanity and never come back?

He was ready.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Hopes and dreams were dead, and so was Jisung. There was nothing left alive in him—no desire to revive rock, no love, no friendship, nothing. Behind his eyes, he was empty.

Falling asleep had never been so easy. There were no feline eyes haunting his dreams, no worries about failing and ending up in a suit like his dad, working a job he hated just to make a living.

Nothing mattered.

Jisung woke up, smoked an entire pack of cigarettes while his guitar sat on his lap, its strings weeping under his touch. He went to the gym, avoiding Chan and Changbin, who were there spotting each other. He walked back home, smoked another pack, wrote some lyrics on his phone, and scheduled a tattoo session.

Life went on, he guessed. His friends didn’t say a word to him, and neither did Minho. But he didn’t need any of them. He could dig his own grave by himself.

On Thursday, he was in the tattoo artist’s chair, hoping the pain would make him feel something—anything. He was growing sick of this state of absolute numbness.

“How’s the band?” the artist asked cheerfully, and Jisung felt something—anger.

He snickered. His friends had left him for someone they’d known for less than two months. “Dead,” he replied.

It was the truth. He shrugged when the guy raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Did you guys fight?” He was trying to make conversation, distracting Jisung as he applied the stencil to his arm.

“Eh, sort of.” Jisung wasn’t in the mood to talk. He craved the sting of the needle piercing his skin.

“If you ever need a band to perform, just say the word. I know some guys who know your set by heart.”

Jisung made a noncommittal sound, his focus on the tattoo machine in the artist’s hand. It hurt, but it hurt so good—every line being engraved into his skin forever to come. He let out a relieved breath, glad he wasn't as dead as he thought.

When they were done, the Fallen Angel by Alexandre Cabanel wept deep red from his bruised arm. Jisung was breathless, his heart pounding in his chest.

Just like Lucifer in the original painting, this was a rebirth. Out of anger, resentment, injustice, they both rose again, defiant as never before, confronted by their relentless true nature.

“Text me the band’s contact, yeah?”

His friends might have forgotten, but Jisung and rock were one and the same—capable of bringing out the best and the worst in people. It didn’t matter if they helped or not. Rock would rise from its ashes every Friday, and Jisung would bask in the love people had for all the chaos it created along the way.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

The band in question was some folks younger than him, trying their best to follow Jisung's footsteps in becoming the next popular rockstar among dirt and graves. They weren’t exactly bad, but they weren’t that great either. If Jisung were honest with himself, he missed his friends. There was no connection, no funny jokes, and no Changbin doing an impromptu drum solo during band practice just to shut them up.

But it was something he’d have to make do with. Nobody mentioned their Friday night concert in the band's group chat, and Jisung took that as his cue to go on without them.

Deep down, he knew it was the worst decision he’d ever made—no amount of the club’s mojo could convince him otherwise. And yet, he couldn’t stop. Not until he hit the last bit of rock bottom.

In a way, he blamed his friends, Minho, and even his mom. They all watched him like a train wreck, waiting for him to crash and burn. He would give them that.

It all started in the backstage room, where the guitarist lined up a roll of white powder on top of his case. Jisung had never used anything stronger than the occasional weed—his friends never let him. But where were they now?

Nowhere to stop him.

The powder was offered to him, and he lowered his head, sniffing it. The sensation felt like glass shards in his nose—burning, making him sneeze, clogging his airways for a second.

He hated it, but it was too late.

Stepping on creaky floorboards and dodging cables had never felt so alien, like his body was unfamiliar with it. By his side on stage, the guitarist was too close to his pedestal, trying to get the same recognition, but there was no one like Jisung when it came to grime walls and red lights.

The crowd beneath his feet screamed, going wild before he even uttered a word, not caring that he was there alone, surrounded by strangers with instruments.

All they wanted was for him to open his pretty little mouth and sing the first lines of ‘My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark,' and he was oh so generous.

“Be careful making wishes in the dark, dark. Can't be sure when they've reached their mark, mark.”

J isung’s heart raced in his chest, his skin tingling, his body incapable of staying still for even a second. He kept singing, on autopilot, not caring about the quality of his performance, feeling all control slip away as the cocaine kicked in.

His vision blurred, and it became difficult to get his breathing right for the high notes, but he didn’t stop. He finished the song, welcoming their drunk fans.

“Hello, widows. Rock is definitely dead, but we’re about to drive this motherfucker out of its grave. Are you ready for the ride?!” He screamed, anger seething through his lungs like pure venom, writhing in ecstasy as his people screamed back.

He didn’t need anybody after all.

The show must go on—and they could all go to hell with rock when he was done with it.

With each passing song, Jisung's hatred grew more unbearable. And when a bottle of whiskey was shoved into his chest while he was searching for his water, he embraced the worst parts of himself like never before.

“The next song isn’t one of our usual ones,” he began, and the fans, accustomed to his additions to the set, eagerly anticipated it. “But only a rebellion can raise rock from the depths of hell. Are you ready?!” More excited screams echoed his way.

His tattoo throbbed on his arm, reminding him of Lucifer’s story. Maybe this was really him collecting souls for his final goal. It was easy—his fans did anything he wanted, dumb little lambs kidnapped by the big bad wolf.

“I got voices in my head again, tread carefully. And I don’t medicate, it helps me temporarily. I got problems, I got issues, yeah, apparently,” he sang, realizing how perfectly the song fit his current state.

Even the people who hated him were there, under his feet, under his influence. Nothing mattered except for King Jisung and wherever his power reached.

“I got enemies trying to get rid of me. Evil tendencies are fucking with me mentally.”

Chan, Changbin, Felix, and Jeongin were no enemies—they never had been. Nor were the people who’d tried to beat him. He deserved their hate. All of it. Jisung was his own enemy, the villain in his own story.

“I’m a lyrical, typical supervillain, I’m venomous. And I’m never gonna stop until they put me at the top of the list. I can’t control the monster any longer that’s inside.”

Maybe it was a good thing his friends kept Jisung’s monsters in check while he was onstage. The havoc he was causing as the song built and built was becoming increasingly worrisome.

It started with one person shoving their friends side to side, and soon others joined in, pushing their own sets of friends. And when Jisung finally sang, “Watch the world burn,” the crowd erupted into the biggest mosh pit he’d ever seen.

He couldn’t tell where it began or ended, just a chaotic mass of bodies, throwing punches and raising broken bottles. Unsure of what to do, he kept screaming into the mic, feeding their anger, and his own.

The song ended abruptly, his throat unable to keep up, his voice gone. He tried to gulp down more whiskey, hoping singing would calm the massive fight beneath the stage, but it only made his vision blur and his world spin.

When nothing else worked, the mosh pit swallowed him. Jisung was finally facing the consequences of all his actions—Bad Decisions living up to its name.

Hands grabbed him, and Jisung thought this might be the moment he would actually die. No metaphors about rock or death surrounding him—a real death. And, just as he was about to black out, whether from the drugs, the alcohol, or the fist that had hit him in the face, he saw feline eyes and fluffy blonde hair.

Jisung let go.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Cause all the angels say, you are all to blame.

The lyrics repeated in his head, the sound of Gerard Way's voice blending with the darkness surrounding him. It was oddly peaceful.

Jisung couldn’t open his eyes, nor could he feel his limbs, but there was no fright or desperation—just his consciousness floating away.

Was he dead? Would he even know?

As a child, he’d prayed to a God he didn’t quite understand, one who spoke of mercy and redemption. Was this finally it?

The song faded to a soft hum in the background, giving way to the faint sound of sobs and sniffles.

Was God truly merciful if salvation meant the damnation of those around him?

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

‘Cause all the angels say, you are all the same.

Jisung’s eyelids felt glued shut, heavy and unresponsive, but eventually, the first sliver of light pierced through.

The room was too white, too bright. He groaned and shut his eyes again. But even like this, he was still sensitive, his closed eyelids straining, seeing red from the blood behind his sockets.

Suddenly, the bright lights were switched off, and a soft orange lamp clicked on to accommodate his state.

Sighing in relief, Jisung opened his eyes fully, blinking to figure out where he was.

It was a hospital room—sterile and noisy, filled with the hum of machinery and voices from outside the door. He was lying on cold sheets, with Minho sitting beside him in a cushioned chair.

If he had the energy, Jisung would have jolted in surprise—not because Minho was there, but because he had never seen him like this.

The usual smug, boyish glint in Minho’s eyes was completely gone, replaced by tired, dull brown orbs. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes, blue and pronounced. His hair was disheveled, and the glasses he usually wore were nowhere to be seen, leaving his beautiful pale nose exposed.

Jisung had put out the flame that kept Minho going.

A heavy weight sank into Jisung’s chest, not unlike the day he had woken up next to Minho, feeling as though he might suffocate to death. But this time, he couldn't run away. Needles were stuck in his arms, and his body lay uselessly on the bed.

It was no secret that Jisung ruined everything good in his life because he was afraid to feel more than anger and resentment. And to be faced with the fluttering of butterflies in his stomach from everything Minho and he had shared recently terrified him.

But it wasn’t just that—he had trouble opening his heart to new people, and Minho had started to see the real Jisung, past the rockstar. Being thrown out of his comfort zone confused him, making him unsure how it would affect the carefully constructed personality he’d built.

He wasn’t brave like Minho. He didn’t try to fight his demons or save the people around him. Instead, Jisung caused massive destruction to compensate for the parts of himself he couldn’t fix.

And while his body had no energy left to hate or rebel, guilt and hopelessness gnawed at him, forcing him to face the aftermath of the hurricane that he was.

He didn’t know how to fix it. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a harsh puff of breath.

“You fucked up your throat,” Minho mumbled, his eyes cast downward, seeming as dull and lifeless as his looks. “Maybe it was the drugs, the alcohol, the smoking, or the screaming. Who knows.”

A cold wave washed over Jisung. His eyes widened, and his hands instinctively wrapped around his neck in panic. Would he be like this forever?

As he moved, he hissed in pain—his right arm felt heavier than usual. There was a cast on it, leaving only the tips of his fingers exposed.

What the hell happened in that club?

Dark thoughts swirled in his mind, but Minho’s lazy gaze met his, reading him like a book. Jisung never knew whether it was a gift or a curse—the way Minho could just understand him.

“The doctor said it’s temporary,” Minho said, shrugging, his words tinged with venom. “That is, if you don’t smoke, scream, or do drugs in the meantime.”

Jisung felt scolded, judged. There was no trace of the guy who smelled like clean sheets and comfort anymore.

He deserved it. He wanted to apologize, but was he really sorry?

Minho was growing restless, shifting in his seat, something flickering behind those big brown eyes— eyes that always told so much, but today they were guarded from Jisung's prying stare.

“It’s funny how I’m always in this position,” Minho said, giving a humorless laugh. “In the middle of crossfire, saving people who don’t want to be saved.”

Jisung felt a pang of guilt. He was in the same position Minho’s mom had been in once—sitting in a hospital, with a broken arm and a broken mind.

He felt ashamed by the comparison, because, unlike Minho’s mom, he didn’t have an abusive partner or kids to raise. He had done this to himself.

“I can’t save you anymore, Jisung. Nobody can but you.” The first flicker of emotion across his eyes was heart-breaking. “It was wrong of us to turn our backs when we clearly saw you self-destructing, but we’re tired. You don’t get better. You only get worse, and you keep dragging us all into this shithole. You have to do something.”

A single tear slipped from Minho’s eye, glistening gold in the dim light. It fell down his face, soaking into his pink dress shirt before disappearing like it had never been there.

Jisung could only listen, unable to speak, trapped in the thick silence between them.

Fortunately—or not—it didn’t last long. His mom and the doctor arrived, and Minho rose from his chair, leaving without a word.

It hurt, but he deserved it. He had left Minho without saying goodbye and ignored his texts afterward. He had blamed Minho for how he felt because it was easier than admitting he liked him.

“You’re awake,” his mom said, standing beside the doctor, looking elegantly composed in her work outfit. Jisung wished he could read her face better—whether she pitied him or was about to scold him.

“You gave us all a big scare,” the doctor added, stepping forward. He glanced at his clipboard before continuing. “You’re probably confused, but overall, you’re okay. There was a head trauma that caused you to lose consciousness. The bone in your wrist,” he pointed to his own wrist, “the ulnar styloid process, was fractured. Aside from that and the laryngitis—an inflammation of your voice box—it’s all looking good.”

Though the doctor tried to sound optimistic, Jisung felt like absolute shit, physically and mentally. He probably noticed, as the silence between them grew awkward again.

“Can I speak to him in private?” His mom asked, still standing in the doorway, her voice sounding oddly formal. Jisung’s heart skipped a beat, afraid she was about to scold him like a child.

“Oh, okay,” the doctor said, exchanging a look with her. He seemed hesitant but nodded. “I’ll be back in a few to check on him.”

They probably knew each other, it was clear on the way he rubbed her arm and gave her a tight-lipped smile before leaving.

The asshole inside of him burned with unreasonable jealousy, wondering if his mom had moved on from his dad. But deep down, he knew she hadn’t, though she deserved to. He didn’t want her to be miserable and lonely forever.

Maybe it was for the best that he couldn’t speak—at least this way, he couldn’t hurt anyone.

“Jisungie,” his mom began, clearly unsure of what to do with herself, uncomfortable. In the end, she chose to sit beside him, taking his good hand in hers. “This is the end of the line for both of us.”

His brows furrowed in confusion.

“I mean, our aimless suffering. We keep running in circles, you and me. The house, the pictures, the ipê tree... We need to let the past go.”

He was afraid of where this was headed.

“I thought we could mend ourselves on our own, but we can’t. Time is ticking, and it’s been so long—almost ten years. We can’t keep doing this.”

Her eyes welled with tears, but she was always so strong, rarely crying in front of him. She blinked back the tears and took a deep breath.

“I can’t lose you too,” she said, and it hit him like a punch to the gut. He wasn’t afraid of dying, but she was. “So I made the call to schedule therapy for both of us. And the doctor you just saw is the emergency psychiatrist.”

It all clicked now. Minho’s words made sense too. He couldn’t imagine how Minho felt, having to go through this all over again. Maybe they’d talked about Jisung’s situation, and Minho, having experienced it before, had suggested this.

Jisung felt frustrated—he couldn’t speak, couldn’t refuse, couldn’t rebel. All he could do was listen and nod.

“I’m sorry I didn’t do anything before,” his mom said, back to a reality that didn’t revolve around his selfish feelings. “It was my job to help you go through grief, but I just sat and watched you destroy yourself.”

Jisung squeezed her hand. It wasn’t her fault.

He wasn't as strong as her, his emotions built up and spilled, a few tears shed on the hospital gown. He was heartbroken to realize she blamed herself too. For everything.

“You have a life ahead of you. I want you to live it” she said, wiping the tears from his cheeks with her thumb, her voice soft but full of resolve. “I met the boy who brought you in, Minho. Don't let him go, dear. He's special.”

Jisung’s cheeks flushed at the mention of Minho. He didn't say anything to her about them and he doubted Minho had too, but his mom was smart. One glance, and she seemed to have figured it out.

He groaned dramatically in response, though the sound barely escaped his swollen vocal cords. She gave a soft laugh and pinched his cheek gently.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Jisung's head was quiet, but not in the dead, numb way it had been before. It was peaceful, like the world surrounding him.

He feared that, by not being able to mutter a word, he might slowly lose his mind. The dark forest of his thoughts would finally consume him.

But instead, he found a way to mute it all out, allowing him to listen to the life unfolding around him.

With his knees deep in the cold water, he watched the birds resting on the ipê tree, chirping happily in the early morning. They shook their fragile little bodies as the freezing breeze caught them. Then came the faint, almost inaudible sound of flowers brushing the water, creating creases on its perfect, still surface.

Almost dying had given him a different perspective. He hadn’t consciously sought death, but after the psychiatrist pointed it out, he had to admit it felt like he was, in some twisted, non-metaphorical way.

They gave him meds, but they didn’t trust him enough to take the pills on his own. In fact, they didn’t trust him enough to do much of anything. He had yet to form a solid opinion on any of it.

His friends arrived after his mom and the doctor had discussed treatment for his head. Felix cried on his shoulder, apologizing repeatedly. Jisung should’ve felt comforted by this, especially since they had treated him poorly before, but how could he? It was his fault to begin with.

He couldn’t expect to be the center of everyone’s world forever. He needed to grow out of whatever was wrong with him and stop worrying those around him.

“What are you doing?” Chan poked his head through the glass door leading to the backyard. His eyes were swollen from sleep, and his hair stuck up in every direction.

Jisung found it funny and gave him a weak smile, shrugging his shoulders as the older made his way over, sitting on the floor beside him, wisely avoiding the freezing water.

“Isn’t it cold?”

Before Jisung could answer, Chan dipped his big toe into the water and hissed. Jisung’s shoulders shook in what was supposed to be a laugh, but only a sharp breath escaped him.

“Come inside. I don’t want you to catch a cold out here.”

Jisung didn’t protest; his legs were already becoming pruny anyway.

He was trying not to rebel against anything suggested to him. It was the least he could do when his friends and his mom were taking such good care of him.

It stung his ego to need their care—one pair of worried eyes following him wherever he went. His only real privacy was during bathroom breaks. He thought it would suffocate him, but it was oddly comforting.

Even if it wasn’t, there wasn’t much he could do. He didn’t want to see them miserable, so he had to accept the help.

As he stood to leave, he saw a flicker of orange on the tall fence, feline eyes watching him. Just as he was about to look closer, it was gone.

Jisung found it a strange coincidence. He had never seen a cat there before. Maybe it was Minho’s doing. While he was away, he called a few of his kind to keep an eye on him.

He hadn’t seen Minho since the hospital. The older had to travel for work—something about finding a piece for an art collector.

Jisung thought Minho would be mad, for leaving, for ignoring him, for making him worry, even though he was breaking inside. He had saved Jisung countless times although he didn't deserve it… He had plenty of reasons to be angry. And yet, Minho sent him funny cat videos every day, just to make sure he was okay.

“Do you want some breakfast?” Chan’s voice broke him out of his guilty thoughts, and suddenly, Jisung was bone-deep tired again. He shook his head, and his friend sighed. “You should eat something before you take your meds.”

Maybe he looked miserable enough, because Chan let him off the hook. He followed him into the living room, watching as Jisung curled up in a corner of the couch, trying to disappear between the cushions.

He knew it was the meds that left him so sleepy. He didn’t know which one it was—whether the one for pain or the one for depression. Before that, he was always awake at the crack of dawn, delirious with obsession over rock, love, and life. Now, he spent a good portion of his days snoozing.

“You’re cute like this,” Chan spoke again, and Jisung opened one eye, waiting for him to continue. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you like this—soft and pliant, actually listening to what we have to say.”

There was a sad glint in his eyes. Jisung sighed.

“I wish I could know what you’re thinking,” Chan added. Jisung wished he could say he wasn’t thinking at all. “Maybe it would help me understand you better. We’ve known each other for so long, but I still can’t figure you out.” Jisung couldn't as well, it was a problem.

“I thought you being crazy in the head was part of the thick wall you built around yourself, wanting to live like the rockstars of the past, as if that would be enough to rise in rock. Maybe it was at the beginning, when we were teens. I liked the change—going from the sad nerd to the heartthrob. I supported you. But I think you took it too seriously. You lost yourself along the way, the true you, the one who lived beyond the talented asshole.”

It stung, but fortunately, Jisung was too tired to fight back or flee when the truth was laid so bluntly before him.

“It was difficult for all of us, watching you make bad decision after bad decision. We tried to protect you, but you were good at outdoing yourself, defying nature just to be dead.”

“We got used to it—the worry, the fear, the sadness—all of it that came with being your friend. But then there was Minho, who didn’t know any of this. He was thrown into the black hole of emotions that came with being around you. He was genuinely hurt, and we thought you’d gone too far.”

“We were angry. And just like you, we made a bad decision—the worst of them. We left you, but it didn’t stop the dark feelings in any of us. They grew, consuming us just like they consumed you.”

Chan snorted sadly. “You joke about trading places with rock, about being dead for it to live, but I guess it’s true—not just for you, but for all of us. We are all dying in the process.”

Jisung wanted to say something, but even if his voice weren’t damaged, he wouldn’t know what to say. Sorry wouldn’t be enough. He had done shit to them, but they had also done shit to themselves. It was good to hear this, to lessen his guilt, to remind himself that the world didn’t revolve around him.

“What are we going to do from now on, Jisungie?” Chan sighed again. “Should we give up on rock? Let it remain dead?”

Rock was a bitch, calling to them during their darkest times. But it was also a blessing. It was because of rock that they became friends, that they had a purpose to keep living—even though this was painfully contradicting. They couldn’t give up on it, not when they were so close to reviving it.

Jisung shook his head, lazily reaching for his phone in his pocket, cheek still pressed against the cushion. On his lockscreen, it was a photo of all of them piled on top of each other for the album cover. He hoped it would remind Chan of what rock meant to them.

Chan nodded, and Jisung relaxed, finally able to fall asleep.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

The quiet remained. What was once a dark forest of somber thoughts had now become a garden of Eden—peaceful, but still tainted by the devil’s hand.

There would never be peace as long as Jisung would forever be chaos.

However, the meds helped, and he grew quite bored after they stopped making him so sleepy.

He paced around the house, looking through the windows, catching glimpses of an orange flicker now and then. Still, the days didn’t seem to pass.

Fortunately, he wasn’t alone. His friends played their favorite shows on the TV, trying to cheer him up.

But it wasn’t enough. He needed the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He needed something to happen. Anything.

He got it. This was his time to recover. With a patched-up hand, a swollen throat, and a broken mind, Jisung should’ve been resting and healing—or whatever. But this wasn’t him.

Even before Jisung started straying off, wearing the shoes of the misunderstood rockstar, he had always enjoyed living on the edge. Some things would never change, and he didn’t want them to.

All that was left for him to do was lay by the pool, his body supported by the rough stone, gazing up at the cloudless blue sky, praying for a lightning bolt to strike him.

Just as he was about to roll over and throw himself into the freezing pool to feel something, Changbin opened the backyard door.

“God, you’re pitiful like this,” he said, giving Jisung a once-over. “I don’t know what’s worse: when you were trying to get yourself killed, or this state of half-dead.”

Jisung wondered if he could still throw himself into the pool just to avoid hearing this.

“Whatever you’re thinking, unthink it,” his friend warned, pointing a finger at him. Jisung sighed, cursing the universe for making him so easy to read. “We’re all in the living room when you’re ready to come in. We’re gonna discuss the band’s next steps.”

Finally, something was about to happen. Jisung sighed in relief.

He slowly got up from his spot and made his way inside, surprised to find Chan, Jeongin, and Felix on the couch, laughing about something on Felix’s phone.

It felt oddly comforting to see them there. Dressed in black, their layered hair in disarray, sitting on a designer couch framed by pieces of his mom’s art collection. The two parts of his life were finally coming together.

“Oh, you’re here,” Felix smiled, patting the spot next to him. Jisung could never say no to him.

Felix was always so sweet, linking their arms together as soon as Jisung sat down, resting his head on a tattooed shoulder.

Seeing Felix so mad at him the other day had been surprising. He had never seen the blonde angry, and he had done plenty to make him rage.

Fortunately, they had all forgiven him. They shouldn’t have. Jisung didn’t. He knew it wasn’t fair for him to keep screwing up and hope his friends, his mom, and Minho would just brush it off and accept him as the fuck-up that he was.

He definitely needed a change. And for that, the meds helped. He felt less angry. There were still unresolved feelings simmering inside him, but they no longer boiled over.

The hardest part was quitting cigarettes. His fingers trembled, his throat itched, and his mood soured. Especially in moments like this, when his anxiety spiked, unsure of what the outcome would be.

Chan stood up from his seat, facing them. “Okay,” he started, clapping his hands. “Band trials are next week. What are we going to do?”

He didn’t want to state the obvious—that Jisung couldn’t sing because of the bad decisions he had made in his life.

“We can’t go,” Jeongin shrugged. “We don’t have a third song, nor a singer.” He didn’t care enough about Jisung’s fragile feelings. That was why Jeongin was his favorite—bold and unapologetic. It still hurt, though.

“Actually,” Chan smirked knowingly, “we do have a singer. Minho said he’d help us.”

Of course Minho would. Like always. There was a part of Jisung’s brain—one he wasn’t supposed to listen to anymore—that suggested Minho wanted to take his place, but he knew better.

It stung—the fact that this was his dream, and yet he would do nothing more than stand on the sidelines like a groupie, watching his friends perform alone because he was a reckless asshole.

Jisung sighed, and Chan looked at him, his eyes soft and apologetic. “It’s going to be okay. We’re all playing our part in it. You won’t sing, but you can still write the song and guide Minho through it.”

Chan was right. And maybe this was his karma. The rockstar, who loved the attention of a performance—the eyes never leaving him, the screams boosting his ego—would have to step out of the spotlight this time, working behind the scenes.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Like when they were kids, Chan and Changbin were reunited at Jisung's house, playing around, sitting on the couch, and screaming over a soccer match of their favorite team. Jisung had missed it.

Nowadays, they had a lot more muscles than back then, college degrees, tattoos, and a band. But they weren’t that different—still with their goofy smiles and bro hugs. They even lifted Jisung as they celebrated a goal, despite his soundless protests.

He wasn’t a fan of soccer, deciding instead to listen to the angsty song he had made earlier, unaware of the game as he sat in the corner of the couch. He only stopped when their painful display of affection became too much.

Huffing under his breath, he left them to it, making his way outside to his favorite place by the pool.

It wasn’t cold at all; the sun was warming up as winter approached its end. He refrained from putting his feet in the water, not because his laptop would be in danger, but because there was no rush of freezing adrenaline if he did.

He tried searching for some melodies he already had, frustrated that he couldn’t play his guitar until he found inspiration.

Everything sucked, and Jisung was a second away from throwing his laptop into the water.

In his fit of anger, he almost missed the flicker of orange on the tall fence. This time, the cat didn’t run away. It sat there, looking at Jisung with big green eyes aimed directly at him.

He dropped the laptop by his side, bringing his knees under his chin, staring right back at the animal. Both of them were curious about the other’s species.

The cat was cute—bigger than average, fire-orange all over, with a little piece of its left ear missing. Jisung smiled, thinking that maybe it had a temper just like him.

After a few more moments, the cat jumped off the fence, ready to explore the world again.

And, just on cue, his phone vibrated in his pocket, Minho’s name appearing on the screen. It was a link to something—an anime, the browser showed.

Minho

Everyone got to recommend you a show.

I didn’t.

:((

This is my recommendation.

I want to hear your thoughts when I come back!

Jisung was smiling like a fool. Even when away, Minho couldn’t seem to leave him alone. Ever. He would always be a pain in his ass.

Jisung

Anime?

Ughhh, you’re such a loser.

Minho knew he was kidding, receiving a photo as an answer, the caption saying, 'Do I look like a loser?'

He didn’t look like a loser at all. His fluffy hair was styled, his white blazer a nice contrast to the pale blue shirt inside, his pretty features accentuated by light makeup.

Jisung would never give him what he wanted, though, replying with a simple 'yes' and laughing at the series of angry-cat stickers Minho sent him.

It shouldn't be so easy to talk to him after all he had put him through. Jisung still felt guilty and had a million questions in his head about the mysterious art boy, who had acted psycho and intimidating at first, only to turn out to be a softie.

While the universe provided no answers, he hit play on the anime, butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Jisung was as much of a loser as Minho. He loved the anime.

He understood why the older had recommended this specific one. They did resemble the main characters of Nana —a troubled rockstar and an optimistic normie who brightened each other’s world.

The ending wasn’t fulfilling, and it left him sighing, though not in a bad way. It inspired him. Their story kept going past the trauma and the trouble, even though it wasn’t what they had both expected.

Looking at his ceiling early in the morning after spending the whole night watching it, he thought about Minho.

Just like Hachi, Minho looked after Jisung. At first, forcibly, getting on his nerves; but it didn’t take long for Jisung to like him back.

The fluttering of butterflies in his stomach returned, along with a cold rush of uncertainty. Was this the moment he would reach the same conclusion as Hachi—that, despite everything wrong in him, what they had seemed like the beginning of first love?

His heart started racing. The uncontrolled sentiment frightened him.

Jisung would rather not think about what it meant, hoping it would prevent him from running away for a second time. Instead, he thought about what they had—the easy smiles, the young impulsiveness, but also the crying and the anger. They would forever be a dichotomy of the universe, keeping each other on edge.

However, this time Jisung wanted to make Minho happy. The older had tried to make him comfortable and safe in his own skin. Jisung could only try to return his efforts by giving something he knew Minho needed: to live past the worry and the never-ending care for the people around him—to be truly happy.

Later that day, after a much-needed sleep, when the sun shone bright outside, he opted for one of the pool chairs, partially covered by the shade. Just him and his laptop, with Jeongin supervising him from the living room.

He still thought of Minho and guiding both of them to happiness, but he was also thinking of Japanese rock and Nana . With a bolt of inspiration, he managed to come up with a melody, getting Jeongin to play it for him on the guitar.

“What are you planning to do with it? It doesn’t sound like a soft ballad,” the younger raised an eyebrow at him, curious.

Jisung grabbed his phone to answer, his throat still too messed up to mutter more than a few grunts.

The lyrics will help. I’ll write an extra catchy chorus so people can sing along at the top of their lungs.

Jeongin nodded, playing along with the guide, adding a few extra touches, waiting for Jisung to add them to the program. It was nice to work together with him, humming in his head what he thought would be the lyrics.

I wanna make you the happiest one, no fear.

After Jeongin was gone and he was left alone in the dark backyard, only the pool lights on, he saw a flicker of orange.

“Hello,” Jisung’s voice wasn’t more than a whisper. The cat stopped on the fence again, staring at him for a whole minute—longer than last time.

Maybe he should buy some cat food.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Jisung had spent weeks desperately trying to come up with the perfect song, only for it to be written in a day, taking no more than a few hours.

He was proud of the outcome, looking at the file Chan sent him back after he and Changbin adjusted a few parts and helped him with some wording in the lyrics.

This was it—the last piece of the puzzle, the final part of their attempt to revive rock. Together. All their efforts combined. The rest was the universe’s doing (and band practice).

Jisung wasn’t very excited for the latter, as he wouldn’t be an active part of it, leaving a bittersweet aftertaste in his mouth. He could still help, guiding Minho through his song or the guys, but he couldn’t sing what was probably the best song he had ever written. It stung, his ego left in crumbs on the floor.

Just on cue, Minho was there the next day.

He had forgotten how the butterflies acted when the older was near, internally cursing at them, averting his eyes from the man on his front step as his mom greeted him on her way out for work.

If it were any other time, he would have run and hid, his heart beating in his ears and his body rising in temperature as Minho came closer.

Jisung hated that Minho was stunning under any circumstances—wearing a suit, wearing jeans and a shirt, wearing nothing…

Yeah, okay, he shouldn’t be thinking of that as Minho blinked his big eyes at him; this time, wearing a pale pink sweater and light-wash jeans.

“Hmm, hi?” Minho tried, conflicted by Jisung’s lack of external reaction.

“Hi,” Jisung greeted back, feeling just as awkward, heat pooling on his cheeks.

“I brought the cat food you asked for.” Sensing the weird aura around them, Minho raised his arm, a plastic bag dangling from it.

Jisung couldn’t speak much yet, so he had to resort to humming in answer, raising his own hand to take the bag and, consequently, invite Minho to sit on the couch with him.

The older didn’t hesitate to take a place next to Jisung, giving him the items he had asked for.

“What is it for again?”

Jisung’s cheeks heated even more as he realized he had forgotten to tell Minho about the orange cat on his fence.

Sometime in the last week, it had become bolder, jumping into the backyard, looking at Jisung with skeptical curiosity. For some reason, Jisung wanted to make friends with it, so he had asked his friends to keep bringing cat food.

With food available, Jisung could take a closer look at it, fondly watching as its tail moved while it ate.

Instead of trying to speak or using his phone, Jisung held Minho’s hand and took him and the bag to where he had set the little bowls of food and water.

He tried dangling the package of food to see if the cat was near. The animal always jumped in and quietly made its way to the bowl to wait for its food.

Today was no different. The orange ball of fluff appeared on the fence, ears perked up, making sure Jisung had its treat.

Minho’s features instantly softened into a smile. “Oh, that’s why then.”

He took the package from Jisung and, instead of dumping it in the bowl, he put some on the floor and made a line to where he was, waiting to see if the cat would approach him.

Jisung could only look at it, amused, as the cat did exactly that—licking the wet food from the floor and cautiously getting closer to Minho to sniff the package. Minho put some on his hand, and their little friend hesitated for a second, but it didn’t take long for it to work, the cat eating from his palm.

He dumped the rest in the bowl by his side and left the poor animal to eat peacefully. Then, he looked at Jisung’s surprised face and tried to explain, “I used to have cats.”

Of course, he used to have cats. He looked like a cat person. Jisung nodded in acknowledgment and sat by his side, both of them on the floor, watching as the cat licked the bowl clean.

They were avoiding the conversation they needed to have, but it was a good distraction. Jisung’s stomach eased as the cat finished its meal and went immediately to Minho, poking its nose on his hand, trying to see if he had more food.

It was so cute, and they both chuckled, Minho petting it. The cat tensed in surprise, but it didn’t hate it, letting the blonde gently pass a hand over its fur.

“You should give him a name,” Minho said, his eyes leaving the wary ball of fluff under his hand to look at Jisung. He shrugged. “Come on, think of something. Just don’t name him Rock. You’ll jinx it,” he laughed.

Jisung snorted and rolled his eyes. Minho was making fun of him. And yet, he still worked his brain for a name, obeying that menace.

“Axl,” he rasped out. The cat was orange, had green eyes, and fight marks on its ears. But more than that, this all started with a Guns N’ Roses song. He wanted to show Minho he cared.

The older understood it instantly, a small smile dancing on his lips. The cat deemed the petting enough and went back to wherever it came from.

Minho was the first to approach it, and it all felt special somehow. Jisung’s feelings simmered inside of him—not the hot, angry ones from before, but something warm and comfortable, just like the man before him.

“I’m sorry,” Jisung whispered, almost inaudible, hurting his ego in the process. But fuck it—it had led him nowhere until now. He wasn’t going to listen to it anymore.

“I’m sorry too,” Minho said, equally as softly, tentatively looking at Jisung, seeing all the things unsaid between them.

They sighed together, slumping against the glass door, not unlike the other time at the national theater. But instead of the darkness of that night, now the sunset bathed them in golden streaks of light. It was poetic to be there—warm because of feelings, warm because of the sun.

Picking up his phone, Jisung typed, "I always wanted to know why you put up with me."

Minho blinked rapidly while looking at the words, then he dropped the phone on his lap to really look at the younger, his face puzzled. “Because I like you.”

Jisung’s head tilted to the side, having difficulty understanding why.

“Look, I don’t know what you convinced yourself of, but anyone who sees past this stupid asshole persona you keep at Bad Decisions knows you are a sweet human being—troubled, but full of feelings, full of passion, full of life. You’re beautiful, Jisung. Inside and out. It’s time for you to see it too.”

Past Minho, the sun had descended enough to make his figure shine before him, looking ethereal. But his words hurt. Jisung knew all of that.

And Jisung, although trying to keep himself from running away from Minho, averted the situation by typing again, "You choked me the first time we met, and now you like me. What changed?"

No, this wasn’t running away. He was confronting Minho like he always wanted.

The older chuckled, his ears burning, his eyes going everywhere before finally landing on Jisung, screaming embarrassment. “At first, I wanted a reaction from you. I’m used to assholes—cocky and filthy rich, high on their morals. I like to see them breaking. I thought you were one of them—nothing inside the expensive vessel they wear, easy prey. But then you kept being cute and needing help and looking soft and pouty. I couldn’t resist you. That day in my room, with the shibari session, I knew I was completely gone, head over heels for you. If you thought you were the only one going through a change and being scared of it, you aren’t. I’m scared I’m handing my heart to someone so volatile like you. But I guess I have to trust you to take great care of it, the same way you subconsciously trusted me yours—a little broken for me to pick up the pieces.”

Jisung wanted to cry. He had never seen Minho rambling, but at the same time being so open and vulnerable with his words—not even when he told him about his mom.

This wasn’t the time to cry, though. Minho had just confessed his love. Jisung couldn’t say much, his throat already too raw from the few words he had muttered. So instead, he grabbed the front of Minho’s sweater and kissed him—softly, gently, understanding.

It felt nothing like any of their previous kisses. There was no fight for dominance or the push and pull like they always did. They kissed slowly, molding into each other, savoring little breaths and plump lips, finally taking down all the walls to fully have each other.

A million years had passed in a fraction of a second, both of them lost in time and space and the infinite love they shared. At ease. Complete.

“Okay, I think it’s time for us to work on the song,” Minho smiled after they broke apart, and Jisung mirrored it with a smile of his own.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

They were nervous.

The last week had been spent rehearsing Jisung’s song. Time was rushed, and most of them had jobs besides their little rock band, which resulted in sleepless nights in Changbin’s basement.

Having Jisung watch them helped. He could give them stage presence advice or point out when a mistake was made.

He didn’t feel as useless as he thought he would. It was good to be in the audience, to feel their performance like their fans did, to fall in love with rock and his dream all over again.

This was Jisung now—loving the little things he could focus on, so he wouldn’t think about how scary it was to love people as a whole.

Therefore, he loved the way Felix’s lips pursed as he concentrated on the sound of his bass; or Changbin’s strong arms as he heavily played his drums; or Chan and Jeongin’s attempt to play back-to-back to be cute and funny. But most of all, he was down bad for their front singer. Gosh, it hit differently to hear Minho singing.

His soft, gentle tone hit perfectly smooth notes that Jisung had written; his fluffy hair bounced when he danced to the rhythm of the song Jisung had produced; his veiny hands gripped Jisung’s mic the same way he handled the younger—with crazy precision, giving everything he needed.

Although his libido was getting affected by the meds, Jisung needed Minho like he needed air. And it took a lot of self-control not to jump him at any given time.

They still hadn’t told their friends about whatever was going on between them, trying to navigate their fragile emotions, their fear of love and vulnerability toward each other. So Jisung couldn’t kiss him senseless after watching him sing his song—made especially for him—like the day he first showed it to him, and they both got distracted again by the make-out session that followed.

But it didn’t mean he wouldn’t sneak a few fond looks and love pecks when nobody was looking.

“You look hot,” Jisung said, having difficulty putting distance between them after another short kiss to Minho’s plump lips. They were in the venue’s bathroom, and Jisung had instantly pressed the older against the sink as the door closed behind them.

Minho wasn’t helping at all, staring at him like he hung the stars in the sky. Jisung bit his lip, refraining from ruining Minho’s makeup by kissing him for real.

Minho was wearing some of Jisung’s clothes, and he couldn’t help but feel horny seeing the blonde in them—a plain leather jacket, a black tank top underneath, two silver necklaces, and earrings.

They had tried to fit Minho into one of Jisung’s pants, but they didn’t go up over his thick thighs, which was how Jisung became a mess in the first place. Instead, Minho had to wear one of his blue jeans, high on his waist, framing his legs beautifully.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Minho giggled in answer. “All it took was wearing some of your clothes? I would have done it sooner.”

Jisung chuckled, feeling mortified and desperate at the same time. “Hmm, it’s not the clothes,” he lied. “I would much rather have you naked.” This was true.

They also hadn’t been doing anything more than short kisses. Whenever things started to become heated, Minho stopped them.

Jisung couldn’t blame him for being afraid of intimacy, because this was what had caused him to freak out. So he was okay to wait until Minho was ready again. Plus, it wasn’t like he could do a lot with his broken wrist, which hurt with every sudden movement he made.

Once again, Jisung was left to rot in the pit of his own desire, and this hurt even more.

“I think it’s our turn next,” Minho said, looking past where Jisung had cornered him, against the bathroom sink, to look at the door. “The band before us stopped playing.”

Jisung hadn’t noticed, too distracted by the hot man before him. He groaned, releasing all his sexual frustration, but complied, following Minho out of the bathroom.

Meeting the band in the hallway chairs made them sober up and remember the jitters in all of their stomachs. Jisung had never seen his members this nervous before—Chan was sweating so much his hair was sticking to his forehead.

They initially had to hit the bathroom, because Jisung couldn't stop shaking, the need for the cigarettes was too strong when something big was about to happen.

And it had helped, he didn't even hear the band stop playing, only realizing they were next when the band passed them in the hallway, looking way worse than when they first went in. A look was shared between all of them—scared eyes meeting.

Nobody could say anything as Rock is Dead was shouted from inside the room right after.

“We can do this, guys. It’s gonna be okay,” Chan cheered them up as he rose from his seat and led them in.

There were five people lined up against the furthest wall from the door, who greeted them unenthusiastically, causing them to be more stiff and anxious. None of them were band members, which was odd. Jisung had always thought this was the moment he would meet them.

The singer was known to deal closely with all the band stuff, especially when it came to music, because he wrote the songs. Jisung expected that at least he would be there—also considering he was the judge of a talent show in the past.

This had shaken them up a bit. The members lined themselves up in front of the judges before saying their greetings as a band and individuals. Of course, they questioned why the singer wasn’t the one listed on the file, and Chan calmly explained about Jisung’s condition, taking the doctor’s notes from his pocket and placing them on the table that separated them.

After a quick scan of the document and skeptical looks, the judges told the band to begin. Jisung took his place in the corner of the room, wanting to watch their final performance.

He could see the way Chan’s hands trembled or how Minho was taking bigger breaths than normal, but they managed to prepare themselves without any major issues.

And then Changbin began with a beat of his drums, followed by Chan and Jeongin, with Felix joining in—everything just as they had rehearsed a thousand times. Maybe their stage presence was a little timid, but it was unnoticeable to those who had never met Rock is Dead before.

Any timidity was immediately erased when Minho gave a nod of his head, gripping the microphone with both hands and singing while looking at the judges:

"Countless trials, mistakes, and fights piled up on a teary night. That all ends today, so I smile—like the days are on fire..."

Jisung felt naked, having his feelings sung in a room with five strangers—feelings that weren’t evoked by the rockstar, but that made him a rockstar. The raw vulnerability of trying to end the infinite despair to finally achieve rock. This was it. And Minho sang it beautifully.

He was as much of a rockstar as Jisung, as all of them. Fighting and resisting like a rock, ready for anything life threw at him, facing it all with a smirk on his face and fierce, feline eyes.

Out of curiosity, Jisung looked at the judges as Minho was about to hit the chorus, energy bubbling inside of him as he sang, "'Cause all I want is you, not your tears. Until the tears dry up, I wanna make you the happiest one, no fear," a smile breaking across his face as he continued, "So, baby, hold my hand now."

The judges were trying to keep their faces emotionless, but Jisung could see how their eyes lit up when Minho started jumping and singing the “woah’s” of the post-chorus with all he had.

Jisung sighed in relief before giving a smile of his own, looking at Minho, watching as he winked at him—the brightest he had ever looked. Because Minho was like this—a bright light in Jisung’s dark world, not trying to change him, but being a beacon for him to see.

Tears sprang to Jisung’s eyes, and honestly, the rockstar in him—nurtured by his big ego—could rot and die for all he cared. He wasn’t afraid to feel the moment he saw rock giving its first signs of being taken from its coffin—not to zombie around, but as a full-living thing.

When they finished, with Minho’s last round of, "Baby, hold my hand now," they felt great. Jisung could see how proud they all were of their song, of their principles, of rock. The judges could feel it too, the one in the middle clearing her throat before thanking them for coming and informing them that they would receive an email the following Friday at 12 PM.

Silently, they left the room, all of them eyeing each other with sparkly eyes, waiting until they were in the hallway again to explode in cheers, hugs, and tears.

“Guys, this is it. We’re gonna make it. We will revive rock for real,” Chan hugged a sobbing Felix, trying to contain his own crying.

This was the best moment of Jisung’s life, and as he searched for Minho in their pile of bodies, he knew it was the best of Minho’s life too.

He couldn’t help but extend his hand for Minho to hold, wanting the song to be real in every next moment they were together. Minho took it, pulling Jisung toward him by their joined hands, using his other hand to cup Jisung’s jaw and kiss him.

Jisung melted right away, fitting their lips perfectly, kissing him back just as passionately.

They would have a lot to tell their friends, who were probably surprised, but it was okay. Everything would always be okay as long as Minho was holding his hand.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

The following Friday, they were at Bad Decisions at midday instead of midnight. All of them—even Hyunjin and Seungmin—looked ethereal in their fitted suits, along with Minho, who looked as nervous as the band.

Minho held Jisung’s hand, his grip so strong Jisung thought he might break his good hand. But they couldn’t help it—everyone was on the edge of their seats behind the laptop screen, waiting for the email to drop into Jisung’s inbox.

After the initial bliss of impressing the judges ended, they started doubting themselves and thinking of every possibility for them not to be the chosen band.

“Come on, come on,” Chan mumbled, refreshing the page ten times per second, his knees bouncing as frantically as the Google page.

Suddenly, a new email came in, and Jisung could hear his joints crack as Minho held his hand even tighter. Chan took a deep breath before opening it, a big text making itself known before their eyes.

It took a few seconds for them all to gather closer and start reading, one on top of the other, grumbling and trying to make sense of the words before them. Until a gasp escaped Hyunjin.

“Guys, you did it! You did it! You’ll be opening for the band!” He took a step back, watching as everyone made the same conclusion as they got to the final part of the text.

“No way,” Jisung was next to take a step back, with Minho in tow.

He didn’t know what to say or how to act. They were expecting to win, but at the same time expecting to lose, for everything to go wrong. But this was it. Rock wouldn't be dead anymore.

“Guys,” Felix broke their shocked silence, his mouth opening and closing before continuing, “We are actually gonna revive rock. It’s real.”

He opened his arms for a hug, and once again, they were all there—the answer finally settling in, jumping together in the much-needed victory they had been waiting for all their lives.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Chapter Text

Rock is dead , everyone made sure to tell Jisung when he said he had a band.

Maybe that was true a few months ago, but not now. Rock was alive.

The Earth kept spinning, the grass kept growing, and the sun showed up every day—until the moment rock was finally reborn. Nothing changed, but at the same time, nothing remained the same.

A city that was once the place where rockstars dreamed and thrived, but had long become a ghost of its former self, was now reborn along with rock.

People smiled at concert posters on the streets, music played through headphones and loudspeakers, and the sentiment that rock had ended with the death of past rockstars was washed away by the new wave of rock forming in the heart of the city—between grimy walls, red lights, and the worst decisions the world had ever made.

Rock is Dead—they called themselves. But for Jisung, for the band, for those who lived with it in their veins, it was just a name.

It didn’t mean the fight was over, or that it was the end. This was the beginning of it all. They still had a lot to do—to keep rock alive, to inspire others to continue their legacy.

Therefore, Jisung and the guys stood together in a warehouse-turned-practice room, shaking with anxious anticipation, ready to meet the band.

His dad had loved this band. He used to tell Jisung and Chan how they’d played together at festivals, how they persisted in their dream even after everyone else had given up.

Alone, these guys couldn't make rock more than a nostalgic tickle in the minds of their elders—a feeble attempt at reviving something half-dead. But together, they were big. They would make history.

Jisung still was a self-centered prick for believing they were this grand and, when the band walked through the doors, he didn’t waver. They were equals here.

With his head held high, he was the first to speak. “It's a pleasure meeting you all.” His words were genuine, and he extended a hand to the other vocalist—a rough hand, worn from years in the industry. He accepted it with a smile.

“Same, kiddo. I was impressed by your performance.”

He wouldn’t be saying that if he knew how big Jisung's ego already was, but Jisung shrugged anyway, thanking him.

They all greeted each other, heartbeats in their throats, happiness radiating beyond the walls of the building. This was their moment.

Contrary to Jisung’s expectations, the well-known band members were humble and down-to-earth, joking and playing with Jisung and his bandmates, who were easily two generations younger. They did it just to help them warm up until they were ready to perform together.

It worked. Easy smiles reached their faces and relief sagged their shoulders. They still couldn’t speak much—the conversation was awkward—but Jisung had a feeling they’d get along just fine.

At some point, Jisung looked at Chan, who was tuning his guitar as everyone else got ready to practice.

“Was this what you dreamed of?” he couldn’t help but ask.

Chan gave him a half-smile. “I still can't believe we made it. I'll probably only realize when we play our first big concert, outside of Bad Decisions.”

“Same,” Jisung sighed.

So far, it had been a mix of emotions: the exploding happiness when they read the email, the anticipation when they got the schedule, the sleepless nights thinking of rock, Minho, and his dad.

He didn’t feel as close to his father now as he thought he would—standing next to a band his father knew personally, playing with them. The man was still a distant memory, buried under years of loss and grief.

But he did feel close to his mom—the one who had been a rock for him, sharing smiles, offering words of comfort, and weathering the tough journey of recovery.

They would have to let his dad rest in peace. Unlike rock, they couldn’t revive him. And it was the hardest part.

His therapist said it would be—that letting go of the memories of the three of them together would be painful, just fading images of a past that no longer existed. Jisung hated every second of it, just like he hated therapy itself.

After he shared how meeting the band went, and after a deep dive into how he expected to feel versus how he actually felt—shedding a few tears in the process—Jisung sprawled on the living room couch, tired, happy, pensive.

“How was band practice?” his mom asked, quietly sitting in a corner of the big couch, looking just as mentally exhausted.

Jisung groaned in response. Honestly, he didn’t know anymore.

At first, he had been dying to tell her everything, excitedly sharing how cool the guys were and how unreal it felt to finally reach a goal. But there was so much more now, and he wasn’t sure what was going on inside his head.

“How was therapy?” he asked back, earning an equally dramatic groan from his mom.

They chuckled together, both lying in exhausted silence for a few beats of the clock, lost in whatever they needed to figure out.

Rock was alive, but nothing was really solved. Jisung was still a troubled rockstar to the core, not knowing how to shape simple things like love and affection.

Seemingly reading his mind—as always—his phone pinged with an incoming text from Minho.

The butterflies never seemed to settle in his stomach when Minho talked to him, ruffling their wings in sticky-sweet anticipation, his heart beating a mile a minute as he opened his phone and smiled at the photo of Axl trying (and failing) to climb Minho's bed.

After having Minho over a few times, Axl wasn’t just coming for food anymore, but for the man’s company and gentle petting. The cat didn’t let Jisung touch him even once, yet a few butt pats and a honeyed order to roll over from Minho's lips was all it took to tame him.

Minho couldn’t let him go after that. He had a thing for troubled beings who needed care and comfort. It made Jisung jealous.

Smiling to himself, he asked how their orange fluff ball was handling recovery after getting neutered. Minho replied with a mirror selfie—the cat propped on his arm, wearing a surgical suit and the cone of shame, the older trying to mimic Axl's angry pout.

They were so cute, but honestly, all Jisung could focus on was Minho’s lack of clothing now that the weather was getting hot. He was wearing a tight tank top and basketball shorts. Jisung wanted to roll over and ask for butt pats like Axl.

If his ego wasn’t so big, he’d definitely say he missed them. Instead, he replied that Minho should have some decency—even their cat was wearing proper clothes.

Minho still hadn’t touched him again. It was understandable—his hand was still enclosed in a cast, and it hadn’t been long since Jisung had run away after they had sex—but Jisung was crawling up the walls.

Karma was an ungrateful bitch, biting him in the ass like this.

Putting his phone away for a second, Jisung glanced at his mom. She immediately looked back at him before he lost the courage to ask whatever was on his mind. He sighed.

“How did you know Dad was the one?”

It felt weird to talk about him like this—as if he wasn’t a ghost or a painful weight they dragged around, but a person who lived, smiled, hoped, and dreamed.

“If you’re asking yourself this question,” she petted his knee in comfort, “Minho probably is the one.”

Jisung was utterly afraid of that being true. “You’re not making it easier,” he groaned.

“It’s not supposed to be easy, sweetie.”

Jisung hated that she was always right, just like Minho.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

There was no cold gust of wind to embrace Jisung in the dead, somber silence of a never-ending winter. Instead, it was awfully hot and sunny—the first drop of rain yet to fall to declare the beginning of spring.

The weather didn’t help his poetics, being as alive and cheerful as rock itself for the time being.

Band practice after band practice, he realized that nothing he once dreamed of matched reality. The rockstars weren’t the cocky assholes he’d expected—they were down-to-earth guys with wives and kids, wanting to sing about rain and easy love because that was life for them now.

It helped calm them down before the big concert, which was no longer some distant event but fast approaching. Every day, they made progress, blinking in the big basement as it still felt unreal how far they’d come.

Jisung went there five times a week with the guys. They practiced, discussed the songs they’d play together, and the ones they’d perform separately. The stage director and the sound engineer visited too, and all of them shook with the force of how real their dream had become.

Bad Decisions was still their place, hyping up a crowd every Friday night so they could feel something—the place holding their memories from the very beginning. But now, it was different. Everyone knew rock wasn’t actually dead anymore.

The only thing dead now was Jisung’s dad, who would never get to see for himself that Jisung had a band, that they could call themselves somehow successful.

It hurt—he’d told his therapist that. She suggested he do something symbolic to ease the pain, to put his heart at rest.

And that’s how Jisung ended up with his dad’s ashes and food packed in a backpack, knocking on Chan and Minho’s apartment.

Fluffy blonde hair bounced as Minho opened the door, his strands perfectly in place despite it still being early morning on his day off.

“Hi?” Minho greeted him, a confused smile dancing on his lips before leaning down to place a peck on Jisung’s. Jisung was still trying to get used to that. Minho was oddly affectionate, and he was just a recently-discovered, panicked bisexual.

“Hi,” Jisung replied, breathless from the anxiety of asking Minho to run away with him for a few hours—but crazy enough to do it anyway. “I’m kidnapping you.” He grabbed Minho’s soft hands with his own, pulling him out of the apartment.

“Woah, woah, wait a moment,” Minho’s eyes widened as he attempted to stop him half-heartedly. “Can I grab my wallet at least?”

“No, you’re being kidnapped. Keep up, Minho!” Jisung shot back, grabbing the car keys near the door and dragging him down the stairs.

“Can I at least ask where we’re going?” Minho was sulking in the driver’s seat of his own car as Jisung buckled up beside him. “Why am I driving if I’m being kidnapped?”

“Ugh, don’t be an ass,” Jisung groaned. “I’ll give you the instructions.”

Along with the quiet acceptance of his very gay and very romantic feelings for Minho, Jisung had started to notice how the older boy felt the same—falling for the most ridiculous little things he did. Pouting, for instance, was a powerful weapon, capable of making Minho’s shoulders sag and all his will to fight leave him.

He did just that now, jutting out his bottom lip and rounding his eyes like Axl had done a thousand times—the two of them not that different, really. It was fun to see Minho’s reaction. The guy who used to be such a mystery to him was now easy to predict.

Minho started the car, sulking through the whole drive to wherever Jisung was taking him, trusting the younger in a way Jisung probably didn’t deserve, but which he offered anyway.

A good heart hidden behind feline, judging eyebrows that dared anyone to cross his path. His bandmates had seen it first—that Minho’s urge to help and care for everyone wasn’t malicious. Jisung was glad to have someone like him by his side.

All this while, he thought he was the only one able to bring rock out of its grave, because he has lived rock since a young age and his dad had lived it too. But they were both too dead to ignite the sparkle of life on this supernatural entity, leaving it for Minho, who shone so brightly, to be the final element.

As Minho parked the car, eyeing the tall trees and thick grass suspiciously, with the sound of water flowing nearby, he immediately turned to Jisung.

“Well, if you wanted to kidnap and kill me, this is a very good spot,” he quipped, trying to sound serious, but the playful glint in his eyes gave him away.

“Well, you got me,” Jisung replied, lips quivering with the urge to laugh. “A last wish before I take your life?”

Minho pretended to think deeply for a second, humming. “How about a kiss?”

“Kinky,” Jisung chuckled, but leaned in anyway, cupping Minho’s jaw and kissing him for real.

His chapped lips met Minho’s pillowy-soft ones, fitting perfectly. All the angst and hate-masked love they once shared had given way to the light teasing of teeth on his bottom lip. Minho backed away just enough to make Jisung lean in, searching for more, a whine trapped in his throat at the loss of warmth.

Jisung fisted Minho’s shirt to keep him from pulling away any further, pressing his body forward, caging his lips with his own, opening his mouth, licking at the seam of Minho’s lips to taste him, their tongues mingling eagerly. Only then did he let Minho pull back, both of them a little breathless, lips slick and red.

“Should we go?” Jisung asked, already dreading the scorching heat outside of the car’s air conditioning.

“I guess I did have my last wish,” Minho joked, stepping out of the car alongside Jisung, finding his hand as they stood together, fingers naturally tangling as if to remind Jisung that Minho was always there—to hold and support him.

The normie and the rockstar would always fit in the real world. Nana had been wrong about that.

As they found a place to sit near the creek, sighing in relief at the cool breeze the water provided, they watched it flow continuously toward the waterfall, probably deeper into the woods. Minho looked full of questions, but he waited patiently for Jisung to be ready.

It was now or never.

“You shared so much with me when I pushed you to. You took me to the museum, showed me the deepest part of your memories, and then explained everything at the theater. I didn’t care if you were ready. I’m always so demanding with you.”

Jisung sighed. This was harder than he’d expected. Minho’s thumb caressed his skin silently, just tracing the head of the snake tattoo on the back of his hand, letting Jisung continue.

“But when it comes to me, I leave you in the dark. I’m used to you seeing past me so well, so much that I forget you can only see the present, what’s right in front of you. I never shared what the past was like... and I feel like you deserve to know.”

Minho smiled softly. “I’m glad you trust me enough.”

Prompted by the butterflies in his stomach and the molten heat in his chest, Jisung retrieved a box from his backpack.

“I want you to meet somebody special.”

It was probably lame to introduce Minho to his dad like this—in a small wooden box, with his full name engraved on the side—especially when Minho had introduced his own mom through the most beautiful art Jisung had ever seen. But if Jisung tried to sing about his dad, he’d just cry and make a fool of himself. And his ego was still too big to allow that.

“Nice to meet you,” Minho said, patting the box’s lid, a silly smile dancing on his lips, making Jisung snort.

“He says it’s nice to meet you too.” Jisung matched his crazy, and they both laughed.

Sobering up, Jisung let Minho hold the box, inspecting it while he gathered the courage to continue the speech he had prepared in his head.

“When I was a kid, my dad’s favorite thing to do with me was to find creeks and waterfalls across the city. We’d drive aimlessly, and when he spotted those trees that only grow near water, we’d stop. We’d have a snack, throw pebbles into the water, listen to music… It was pretty chill for how rushed life usually is in a big city.”

He glanced at Minho, who was running a finger along the metal band with his dad's name engraved on it.

“I loved his passion for life, his advice, his views on society, his hopes for my future, even his doubts about whether he was raising me right. After he died… I never went back to any of the places we shared. It was just too painful.”

Minho stopped fiddling with the box and looked directly at him. “You never say how he died. Or your mom.”

“It’s true,” Jisung admitted with a quiet breath. “The burden of living without him in the present is usually enough to make us sad… so we try not to think about how it happened.”

He paused, swallowing thickly.

“But he died in his favorite place on Earth, surrounded by the people he loved, after we shared a great day. It was sudden… no one expected it. But he made the most out of life, and he knew that.”

Jisung closed his eyes for a moment, his heart aching with the weight of it all. But he pushed through.

“He used to say he’d die young—said it so often, in random moments. He tried to prepare me and my mom, told us we’d need to learn to be happy without him. He even asked to be cremated… and to play ‘Heaven's on Fire’ as he turned to ash.”

Jisung let out a soft laugh through the tears threatening to rise, because that was his dad: while Jisung carried death like a burden, his father had treated it like a natural part of life.

“He seemed like a great person,” Minho said, his thumb gently caressing the back of Jisung's hand.

Jisung smiled, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he was finally learning how to be happy without his dad around.

To prove his point, he carefully took the wooden box from Minho and tucked it back into his bag. Then he pulled out a couple of sandwiches and a juice box, choosing to trade painful memories for new, better ones.

He wanted to live fully now, so the shadows of his past wouldn’t drag him down and drown him in the empty, cold void he’d lived in for years.

And Minho helped.

His bright, easy smile was perfectly illuminated by the sunlight, creasing the corners of his eyes, making the gold rim of his glasses and his blonde hair shimmer all the more brilliantly. He kissed like no one else could—each peck an eager, contented punctuation to their shared laughter—until Minho finally pressed his lips firmly to Jisung’s, shifting his weight and causing them both to tumble backwards onto the soft grass.

Easy, unrestrained laughter spilled from them, blending with the gentle sounds of the creek. And when the laughter ebbed, their lips met again.

“Thank you for trusting me with your dad,” Minho whispered, still lying on top of him, their breaths mingling in the damp air.

Jisung didn’t know why he’d been so nervous before. This was the lightest he had ever felt.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

In the basement-turned-practice room, Jisung felt like he was finally stepping into his life as a true rockstar. He tried to memorize every corner, living each moment as if it were the last, savoring the laughter, the voice cracks, and the chaos.

And yet, nothing was truly solved.

A cigarette offered to him at the back door by the other vocalist was all it took for Jisung to slip back into smoking, after weeks of being clean.

He was nervous, and he needed the instant, familiar relief of nicotine.

“You shouldn’t smoke, Jisung,” the older singer teased, lighting his own cigarette.

“It’s hard to live without them,” Jisung replied, letting them both fall into a haze of smoke and comfortable silence.

But he was smarter now. A pack would last him longer than it used to, and he chose fruit-scented ones, masking the bitter smell of smoke so Minho wouldn’t catch it on his lips.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of Minho—he would never be—but Jisung didn’t want to disappoint him either. This was the best he could do: he couldn’t erase the years before Minho, but he could compromise.

And seeing Minho smile when he opened the door to his apartment—rather than knit his brows together in concern—was worth every restraint.

So, Jisung left the cigarettes at home and showered before coming over, ensuring there were no traces left when Minho grabbed him by the shirt and kissed him senseless.

“Hello to you too,” Jisung chuckled after they parted, Minho immediately taking his hand and pulling him inside.

Axl was nowhere in sight—always hiding when someone else was around, even if that someone was Jisung. They were still warming up to each other.

“I missed you,” Minho whispered, pressing Jisung against the door and kissing him again, this time even more intensely, stealing his breath.

“I didn’t,” Jisung shot back teasingly, earning a playful bite at his lip ring that made his eyes roll into the back of his head.

It was getting harder to cope with the thick, unresolved sexual tension between them, worsened by the fact that they hadn’t had sex in a while. Minho and Jisung were healthy young adults, full of hormones and passion… and frankly, Jisung was having a hard time getting himself off with a cast on his dominant hand.

Minho was driving him up the walls. But Jisung would endure anything if it meant making sure Minho was comfortable giving him a second chance.

“Come,” Minho said softly, stepping back to give him space to clear his head. But it was a tough job when the next thing Minho did was guide Jisung to his room—where so many memories were stored—flooding his mind with flashes of them together.

“Remind me again why I’m here,” Jisung asked, his voice wavering, struggling to push the memories away.

Minho didn’t make it any easier; he lit a vanilla-scented candle by the window, then turned around, wearing light blue overalls over a white tank top, glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he watched Jisung with a look that made Jisung’s mouth go dry.

“I was invited to participate in an exhibition—one curated by Seungmin and Hyunjin. The theme is ‘skin and body.’ And it reminded me… that I love your body,” Minho said, shrugging casually, as if Jisung wasn’t about to combust on the spot.

Jisung stood there awkwardly, lingering by the door, his eyes darting to the mess of paints on the dresser, to the absence of ropes there. He still didn’t know why Minho had brought him here.

If he were to sit and watch Minho skillfully use his fingers to paint a canvas, he didn't know if he could survive. It was enough to watch his biceps bulging in the sleeveless top and his thighs suffocated by the thick layer of denim.

But Minho stepped closer, his steps self-assured, his shoulders broad—like a predator. “And I wanted to know…” he paused for effect, smirking just a little, “Will you let me use your body again?”

God, Jisung felt like a teenager, heat rushing up from his neck to the tips of his ears. He stammered, voice cracking, “W-what do you mean by that?”

Minho chuckled softly. “Get your head out of the gutter. I want to paint your back and take a picture.”

How could Minho be so relaxed when Jisung was dying on the inside?

“So, is it a yes or a no?”

Jisung tried to collect his scrambled thoughts, his voice cracking as he said, “Y-yeah… You can… You can do anything you want.”

His ego throbbed with the sting of how ridiculous he sounded to his own ears. Rockstar Jisung—who could bring anyone to their knees with just a look—reduced to a stuttering mess by a simple request.

But Minho, ever sensitive to his internal struggle, didn’t laugh. He simply took Jisung’s hand again and guided him to the bed, now covered with a plastic sheet.

“If I remember correctly, you don’t have any tattoos on your back,” Minho said, confirming with a look. Jisung shook his head.

“Good. You can take your shirt off and lie down.”

His voice was honey-sweet but firm, dripping with that comfortable dominance that always made Jisung’s knees weak. He obeyed, torn between horror and satisfaction at how easily Minho could tame the rebellious rockstar inside him.

Minho would truly be the death of him.

He lay down, half-naked, folding his arms under his head, taking a deep breath, unable to see what Minho was doing behind him.

His heart beat fast; his ears pricked at every little sound—the rustling of Minho gathering brushes, mixing paint.

Then, the bed dipped under Minho’s weight.

Jisung gasped softly when he felt Minho sit astride him, the older boy’s hands finding balance on his hips.

“What are you complaining about?” Minho teased, giggling.

“You’re too heavy,” Jisung retorted, but it was just a reflex.His blush deepened.

“Don’t be a baby,” Minho shot back, smacking the side of Jisung’s ass lightly, making Jisung gasp again, helpless under Minho’s easy control.

It was best if he stopped playing with fire. Although soft-spoken, Minho was a devil that knew too well how to push his buttons. He wouldn't be able to stop himself if they got too far.

The first touch of the cold, wet brush against his skin sent a shiver rippling down Jisung’s spine, his breath leaving him in short, uneven puffs. Minho was gentle at first, moving slowly, giving Jisung the chance to relax.

He didn’t relax.

Instead, Jisung swallowed every sound that threatened to escape him, praying Minho wouldn’t notice that every subtle flinch of his back muscles was his desperate fight against the arousal building beneath his skin.

But he lost that battle the moment Minho shifted, becoming completely absorbed in his art. His inner thighs dragged along Jisung’s sides as he moved, settling on top of him, pressing his pelvis into Jisung’s glutes to reach his shoulders with long, deliberate strokes.

A moan broke from Jisung, utterly betraying him.

Minho paused, turning slightly to glance down at him with a raised brow, made clear by his lack of glasses. He didn't even remember him taking his glasses. Mortified, Jisung hid behind his forearm, the rough edge of his cast digging into his forehead.

“Are you okay?” Minho asked. Jisung would have thought he was actually concerned about him if it wasn't the playful undertone to his question. 

“I’m fine,” he muttered back, sulking behind the makeshift shield.

“Yeah? You didn’t sound so fine a minute ago,” Minho teased, poking his side, eliciting a sharp jolt from Jisung’s body and a satisfied giggle from the older boy.

“You’re an ass,” Jisung grumbled, voice muffled by his arm.

“And this,” Minho retorted with a grin, pressing his hips forward sharply and dragging Jisung’s whole body across the bed, “is your ass.”

Jisung gasped, his cock fully hard now, twitching with need.

Summoning whatever remained of his composure, Jisung muttered beneath his breath, “Please don’t tease me if you’re not going to do anything about it.”

The vulnerability in his voice made him sound small, almost broken, reduced to begging because Minho wouldn’t give him what he needed. He was dying inside.

A gentle kiss landed on his shoulder, followed by Minho’s hand squeezing his bicep in soft reassurance.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of you.”

“You don’t have to if you’re not ready,” Jisung shot back quickly, his tone laced with concern.

“I’m ready.” Another kiss, this one even softer, was pressed to his shoulder before Minho returned to his position, settling back on Jisung’s butt, wielding a smaller brush with a quiet intensity.

The anticipation pooled in Jisung’s stomach, thick and slow like honey, his breath hitching as Minho’s brush glided across his skin—touching, tracing, but never quite where Jisung most needed it.

It felt like forever and yet not long enough, lying there immobilized as Minho painted, his focus absolute, the room silent save for their uneven breathing.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Minho leaned back and announced with satisfaction, “I think I’m done. Stay down, big boy. I’m getting my camera.”

Jisung stifled a groan as Minho climbed off him, his hips involuntarily shifting for friction, craving any relief.

It was embarrassing to be this undone by Minho. Jisung—always the one in control, on top of every situation, of every person—now willingly letting Minho hold all the power, guide him, tame him.

Would he ever get used to it?

His body jolted again when Minho climbed back on top of him, resting his weight on Jisung’s thighs, the meat of Minho’s own legs pressing firmly against his sides.

“This is torture,” Jisung groaned.

“Be patient, it’s almost over,” Minho teased, delivering another playful smack to Jisung’s ass, fully aware that he wasn’t helping Jisung’s fraying composure in the slightest.

Jisung sighed in frustration, adjusting his arms under his head while Minho fussed with his longish hair, arranging it the way he wanted for the photo. Seemingly satisfied, Minho shifted to accommodate his weight.

Then, the faint sound of the camera shutter was barely audible over the deafening thrum of Jisung’s own heartbeat.

“Do you wanna see how it turned out?” Minho asked cheerfully, sitting on Jisung’s butt again, all nonchalance while Jisung’s sanity teetered on the edge.

Minho was doing it on purpose, testing how much Jisung could take before breaking.

Jisung hated him for it. And he loved him for it.

“Yeah,” Jisung managed, not moving from his prone position—he couldn’t, not with Minho still seated atop him.

Out of all the options he had, Minho chose to be a menace. Like he did every time. Driving Jisung to the edge of his rightful mind just for the fun of it. There was something in their nature that would always lead them into this forever push and pull.

Minho shifted carefully, spreading his knees wider and lowering his body fully onto Jisung’s back—avoiding the wet paint—his strong arms bracketing Jisung’s head as he brought the camera closer.

Jisung peeked out from behind his forearm, his cheeks flushed, forehead damp with sweat—an open book that Minho read with a knowing smile.

“You’re beautiful,” Minho whispered, scrolling through the pictures. “No art can compare to the real thing.”

Blinking past the haze of carnal need, Jisung tried to focus on the photos. Minho had painted his back as if his skin had been peeled away to reveal his insides: an abstract swirl of reds and blacks, an eruption of fiery orange, jagged guitar strings, and a faintly discernible shape—a hand.

Jisung smirked. “You’re gonna call it ‘Hold My Hand’ too?”

“No… I think I wanted something that felt like burning, because that’s what I feel when I’m with you.” Minho shrugged, but Jisung saw the pink shade his ears turned into. “Maybe... Volcano?”

Jisung liked the sound of that. “Am I your volcano? Overly hot and sometimes a little destructive?”

Minho looked back at him with a rare, sincere softness. “We both are—matching magma, damaged on the inside, catastrophic wherever we go… but we embrace each other's wounds and burn together.” He put it beautifully, whispering the most passionate confession of Jisung's life, taking his breath away once more.

Without hesitation, Jisung lunged forward, capturing Minho’s lips with his own, craving the warmth of his lips just like every press of his body onto his, caged by strong arms and the love he could feel building between them, slow like their kiss, searing hot like their growing volcano.

They moved together slowly, molten and deliberate, their kiss a testament to everything they were building: something messy, something volatile, something breathtakingly alive.

Jisung could spend a lifetime like this—moving his lips against Minho’s, licking at their seam, meeting his tongue halfway to taste each other, molding, melting.

Minho was the first to break their kiss, his lips spit-slicked and swollen. He leaned his head out of Jisung’s reach, eliciting a groan from the younger.

Giggling, Minho let his body fall to Jisung's side. “I should clean your back. We’ll get paint everywhere.”

“Who cares about the fucking paint?!” Jisung had reached his limit, using the older boy's moment of distraction to turn them around and climb on top of him.

He clearly hadn’t thought this through, awkwardly balancing himself on his left forearm to keep weight off his injured wrist. The crinkling of the plastic beneath them was loud among their shaky breaths.

Before Minho could bail, Jisung dived in for another kiss—deeper, less urgent—savoring the mint of Minho's toothpaste and the lingering soda on Jisung’s tongue. It took all of Minho's resistance, his fingertips hesitantly trailing Jisung's bare silhouette, goosebumps rising in need as Jisung failed to keep calm and still, his torso trembling with something he didn’t fully understand.

He wasn’t scared. He could never be scared around Minho. But his body didn’t know what to expect—of himself, of his feelings, of having sex with the love of his life.

“It’s okay,” Minho said, his hand caressing Jisung’s waist, his sparkly eyes assertive as he looked up at him. “I told you I’d take care of you.”

Jisung breathed a sigh of relief, letting his guard down and allowing Minho to hug him close, turning them around again, laying him there carefully, as if afraid Jisung might break beneath him.

“You're mine to take care of now,” Minho reassured, leaving a peck on his lips before bracing himself on the bed to place a kiss on Jisung’s ‘cursed’ tattoo—right where his heart was thumping rapidly, because of him, just for him.

His stomach filled with warmth and, in a stupor, he felt the need to say, “You're also mine to take care of now.” Jisung brought one of Minho's hands to his lips, kissing his knuckles—an oddly affectionate gesture. He was learning.

“You do, always.” Minho smiled sweetly, but then he knocked Jisung's knees apart to fit between them, promptly breaking their little moment. Jisung snorted. “What? You aren’t the only one desperate.” He pressed his hips into Jisung's, their hard cocks rubbing against each other.

The twin groans they let out were enough to make all thinking leave their minds, Jisung closing his legs around Minho’s strong ones, rutting up with equal vigor. No strange feelings shaking his torso anymore—just wrangled noises and the unyielding urge to have more, to have Minho.

Plump lips found his again, their kiss messy as all they could do was pant and share moans while their hips moved in sync.

“Hmm, Minho… don't wanna come like this,” Jisung admitted, not sure if he’d spoken the words aloud, feeling downright delirious from the pent-up arousal.

“How do you wanna come then?” Minho asked, pausing, his fluffy blonde hair falling onto his face as he gave Jisung a second to think it through.

“Want you inside.” It was mumbled and shy, Jisung going against his ego to have what he truly wanted. Screw the rockstar persona and his reputation. Within Minho’s realm of comfort, he didn’t need to hold back—he had learned that much.

Wanting to reward Jisung, Minho leaned in to place a wet kiss on his lips again, never getting tired of it, enjoying the butterflies ruffling in their stomachs every time they kissed, feeling their love through such an intimate connection.

“I’ll give you everything you want,” Minho promised, the words leaving his lips even before they separated, engraving the promise into Jisung’s skin.

Like this, nothing else mattered—not the fresh paint on Jisung’s back glued to the crinkling plastic beneath, not the smearing of Minho's artwork, nor Jisung’s inexperience. Minho was there. Everything would always turn out alright.

To prove it, Minho pushed himself up to kneel on the mattress, trying to get rid of the upper part of his overalls and shirt, blessing Jisung with the vision of his toned chest and soft tummy.

His dick twitched, reminding Jisung how desperate he actually was. He couldn’t take it anymore, hands fumbling at the button of his jeans. Minho helped halfway through, both of them tossing the jeans aside.

It was funny to see Minho like this—shaking with arousal, eyes roaming up and down Jisung’s body, bottom lip trapped between his teeth, wanting.

Jisung’s ego liked it, how much the older boy desired him, making him an equally horny mess.

“Come here and kiss me,” Jisung demanded, pulling him closer by the loops of his jeans.

It wasn’t the first time they were in this situation—Jisung opening his legs wider to accommodate Minho between them, squeezing him with his thighs, arms looping around his neck, pulling him flush against himself, defying Newton's law that two bodies couldn’t occupy the same space.

Their kiss was desperate, wet tongues finding each other in searing-hot love that both of them got drunk on. Sometimes Jisung needed, and Minho was most often indulgent in his urgency to have.

“No teasing retorts about how eager I am?” Jisung lifted an eyebrow, his feet dragging Minho's pelvis forward to rub against his cock, the thin material of his boxers soaked with warmth and uncontrolled desire.

Minho smiled deviously. “Do you want me to?”

“Maybe I do. This Minho is too soft for my liking,” Jisung teased, his eyes glinting, a wicked grin threatening to break across his lips. He would never change.

Fortunately, Minho wouldn’t either—halting the friction against Jisung’s cock abruptly, raising a challenging brow. “I’ll go harder on you then. Can you take it?”

The implication had heat spreading through Jisung’s core. So fucking ready after weeks of make-out sessions that led nowhere.

“Break me.” His answer said it all, looking into his eyes, taking the challenge. He knew Minho would never hurt him, he trusted him, even when the older didn't trust himself. This was a reminder of how tough he liked their love to be.

Minho separated their bodies, fetching lube from the bedside drawer, stripping off his pants in the process, giving Jisung a full view of his bulging muscles and soft spots under the midday sun—light and shadow dancing across his skin.

So enthralled by the sight, Jisung jolted when Minho climbed back onto the bed, knee-crawling between his legs, eyeing Jisung’s boxers as if they personally offended him.

“Where’s my eager boy? I thought you’d get rid of them for me,” Minho cooed, voice sticky-sweet and condescending. Jisung gulped, anticipating what would come next. “Don’t worry though, I’ll fix it.”

And Minho didn’t disappoint—balling his hands in the fabric and ripping it apart in one swift motion. Jisung could only lay there, wide-eyed and speechless, his cock exposed to the bedroom light, a bead of pre-cum trailing down the shaft.

God, Minho was so hot.

“Much better.” That smug, satisfied smile made Jisung’s belly do somersaults.

The beautiful dichotomy of this soft-looking man, with his fluffy blonde hair and plush pink lips, being the most sinful of angels—wicked and malicious, gentle and rough. Jisung wanted him to consume him.

Their lips met again, sensually slow, dirty, debauched—lasting only a few seconds before Minho pulled away, leaving their skin tingling with want, a touch of anticipation keeping them rooted in their uncomfortably lustful bodies.

He opened the cap of the lube, his sharp eyes fixed on Jisung, parted lips glistening with a sheen of sweat, the heat outside combining with the simmering tension between their bodies. Minho wanted Jisung to know exactly what was about to happen, but to also trust that he was in complete control.

With deliberate precision, Minho coated three fingers, slick like his lips, curving into a smirk—a visual promise of the rough gentleness he would use to claim him.

Jisung's whole body was on edge, sensitive, anticipating Minho's every move, trying to predict when he would finally touch him. It was their favorite game, though one-sided; Minho always had the upper hand. He was stubborn enough to let his clean hand rest leisurely on Jisung's thigh, caressing the expanse of skin, groping it possessively. Inch by inch, he moved closer to Jisung's balls, gently holding them in his palm, his eyes lazily crawling up Jisung's body until his hungry, dark gaze met his.

Their eyes burned into each other, distracting Jisung just enough for Minho’s slick fingers to find his entrance, the wet pad rubbing against it before breaching, slipping in before Jisung had the chance to tense.

Jisung gasped, his entire body shivering at the intrusion.

“Is it too much for you?” Minho teased, his voice dripping with condescension as he slid his finger deeper, his tone blurring Jisung’s senses.

Jisung’s eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open, trying to watch Minho mold him to fit.

His torso shivered again as Minho's finger sank all the way in. Jisung mustered all his strength to keep his composure, locking eyes with Minho, the dare in his gaze burning just as fiercely.

“Hm, I can take way more than that, baby,” he taunted, breathless but defiant.

Minho bit his lower lip, his finger stuttering for a moment before he swiftly added a second. It burned—a little—but Minho was patient, giving Jisung time to adjust before resuming his slow, deliberate thrusts.

Before this, Jisung had never given a second thought to butt sex. But now, having Minho rocking two fingers inside him, scraping deliciously against his walls, was the most oddly arousing experience of his life. And the way Minho watched, ravenous, his eyes fixated on where his fingers disappeared, only fueled Jisung’s need.

When the third finger slid in, Jisung couldn’t help but throw his head back, eyes squeezing shut as he bared the challenge, his body trembling but enduring. Minho paused a beat, letting him breathe and adjust, waiting for the telltale signs that Jisung was ready.

It didn't hurt, but it did feel a lot, an eternity until his body molded comfortably around his fingers, a lingering promise hovering over Jisung's heart that Minho would never hurt him.

Then Minho moved his fingers and stars burst behind Jisung’s closed eyelids, his back arching sharply off the bed, hips trying to thrust toward Minho’s hand, desperate for more. Minho obliged, thrusting again, more precisely this time, hitting Jisung’s prostate dead-on.

A broken cry tore from Jisung’s throat, his cock twitching helplessly against his stomach, a wet reminder that this was only the beginning.

Impatient, his eyes fluttered open, searching for Minho’s face. He swallowed hard, his heart clenching when he saw Minho looking just as wrecked, pupils blown, lips swollen, chest heaving.

“God, Minho… fuck me. You’ll kill me if you don’t.”

Was this considered begging? Jisung didn’t fucking care.

Minho blinked, as if snapping back to reality, trying to regain control of his own spiraling arousal. “We can’t let that happen,” he whispered, smirking as he removed his fingers carefully. “Rock is alive… and so are you.”

A lazy smile curled on his lips, bright as his blonde hair, his pale skin glowing under the golden sunlight that lit up the room.

Jisung grinned back, his stomach fluttering with hungry butterflies.

“You’re talking too much and dicking me too little,” Jisung snapped playfully, extending his arms so Minho could fall into them, wrapping around his neck while his thighs enclosed tightly around Minho’s hips.

Minho kept smirking, but now one hand was between them, aligning himself, slick sounds filling the heated air as he guided the head of his cock to Jisung's entrance.

Jisung closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, letting himself relax as he was engulfed by the vanilla scent of Minho’s room and the radiating warmth of his body. Among all his favorite places, this was the epitome of safety and comfort—the place where all the good decisions were made.

He let Minho take charge, felt him push in slowly, deeply, choosing one good decision after another. It was definitely overwhelming—but in the best way.

When Minho was fully seated inside him, Jisung opened his eyes again to find Minho hovering above him, eyes shut tight, face contorted in pleasure, lips parting in a silent moan.

Jisung vowed then and there that he would never hold back from going after what he wanted again.

He pulled Minho down, crashing their lips together, savoring every jolt of pleasure they shared.

Having sex with Minho changed him, Jisung realized, as his hips started moving instinctively, urging Minho to follow his rhythm. They found a pace together—at first too soft for their liking, but then it shifted, like everything in their relationship: rough yet gentle, loving but teasing. It was the best thing he had ever experienced.

Jisung screamed when Minho hit his prostate again, unable to keep kissing him, panting, eyes rolling back, spine arching in pure ecstasy. Pleasure washed over him, his mind filling with cotton, floating him to cloud nine.

Minho seemed just as wrecked—grunting softly, breathing heavily against Jisung's skin, the sound of their bodies colliding echoing loudly in the otherwise quiet, immaculate room.

And yet, deep down, Jisung knew exactly what he needed to finally break. He fought through the dryness in his throat to manage a feeble, “Choke me.”

Minho understood immediately.

It was the only time Minho complied so obediently, pushing Jisung’s legs even higher around his hips, driving into him relentlessly. His torso gleamed with a sheen of sweat as one hand left Jisung's thigh to gently circle his throat.

Everything clicked into place the moment Minho’s hand tightened just right around his neck, cutting off his breath in that perfect, practiced squeeze. A final moan tore free from Jisung before he was sent hurtling into orgasm, his body spasming violently with the greatest pleasure he’d ever known.

It felt like forever, his cock twitching and spurting as electric shocks rippled through him, Minho’s grip tightening for one last, delicious second before Minho followed, groaning deeply, a desperate cry escaping his lips.

No walls. No façades. Just Minho and Jisung—sweaty, breathless, bodies locked in a tight embrace, hip to hip, chest to chest, cheek to cheek.

Like this, they were rocks, deep in the sea of all the feelings still unsaid between them, emotions so alive they could light up the entire ocean. Jisung couldn’t hold himself back anymore.

“I love you.” They weren’t even looking at each other, but his words reverberated through their shared ribs, touching their hearts at the same time.

He felt it—the moment Minho’s heartbeat skipped. Even if Minho didn’t say anything right away, Jisung could trace the ‘I love you’ already etched onto his heart, spoken in every touch before words could catch up.

On shaky forearms, Minho lifted himself to put some distance between them, searching Jisung’s face with wide, surprised eyes.

His bangs were sweaty, clinging to his forehead in damp clumps, lashes blinking rapidly, his entire face glistening in daylight. He was beautiful—and Jisung loved him.

“I love you too,” Minho finally whispered after a few moments of stunned silence, his ears flushing an adorable shade of pink. Jisung smiled, perfectly content.

He looped his arms around Minho's neck, pulling him down for a soft peck on the lips, then maneuvered them so Minho’s head rested on his chest. They lay together like that, their heartbeats gradually slowing, their breaths syncing.

Since he was a teenager, Jisung had searched for rock to make him feel whole again. He’d waited for the day his soul would finally be back in his body, when he could live with purpose, smile easily at life because he felt good.

He never expected that it wouldn’t be rock that gave him that—but a blonde, cocky normie with a wicked grin and a heart large enough to hold all his broken pieces.

He wished he could feel like this forever, relying on the simplicity of skin, breath, and love to keep him sane.

“I’m never letting you go,” Minho whispered, threading their fingers together and placing their joined hands over his rapidly beating heart. “No matter where you go or what you do, I’m never letting you go.”

Jisung understood where this was coming from. The last time they had been naked together in this very bed, basking in the afterglow, he’d freaked out and run away. But he wouldn’t now. He didn’t want to run anymore—not from Minho, not from his feelings, not from rock. They were all here, within reach, even if it was scary to take them and claim them as his own.

“I’m not going anywhere. I love you, Minho. I’m yours,” Jisung said firmly, squeezing his hand to make sure Minho felt every bit of it, so their flesh and blood could be the physical reminder of his genuine commitment. “You can’t get rid of me. I’ll bother you forever.”

Minho chuckled softly. “I’m glad. I wouldn’t want to let go of my favorite rock stuck in my shoe, bugging me wherever I go.”

Jisung laughed, a little fond, a little teasing, his heart aching in the best way.

Drunk on love and fucked-out bliss, he whispered, “I don’t know where life will lead me, or you, but I promise I’ll always come back… right into the ropes of your hold.”

It was a thought that had been haunting him lately, with the upcoming tour just around the corner—three months on the road, away from Minho. This was his dream, but the idea of leaving Minho behind after it had taken them so long to come together made him ache.

“Don’t worry about that now,” Minho said gently, always the one to pull Jisung from the somber woods of his mind. “We’ll figure it out when it comes.”

For good or bad, Minho was his anchor, always trying to keep him above the surface.

Jisung exhaled deeply, letting the worry melt away, breathing in the comforting scents of vanilla, fabric softener, and sex—all of it marking the previously pristine white sheets beneath them.

Outside, the day moved on, the sun shining even brighter as nature lazily shifted alongside them.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

What was Jisung doing, being dead all this time, when living felt so good?

Beyond unresolved teenage angst and the weight of rock’s future on his back, Jisung loved being alive. Breathing in the stale air of the basement, the scent of vanilla candles, or even Jeongin's overwhelming perfume—the world had so much more to offer him than he ever allowed himself to believe.

He was taking baby steps, living each day as it came, refusing to make promises he couldn’t keep. Not because he was a fuck-up, but because he was learning not to be one.

Nothing was quite right, but he was trying.

And that meant brushing the dust off his suit again—putting it on, styling his hair, adding pins, chains, and rings. His heart still thumped nervously in his ribcage, Jisung trying to physically shake off the anxiety that set into his limbs as he stared at his reflection in the mirror.

Tomorrow, the future of rock would be tested by their ability to perform in front of a big crowd. Seemingly, everyone in the city was excited to have a rock festival again. But would they be enough? Would they make a difference to their oldies, usually content to bask in the nostalgia of eighties’ bands? Would they manage to rise rock in their generation?

Too many questions. No answers. Jisung was trembling with anticipation—finally, he was pursuing his dream.

Minho, ever intuitive, convinced him to go see the art opening of the exhibition he was part of, inviting their friends too, so they could all take their minds off the big day ahead.

That’s why Jisung pulled the suit out of his closet. Once, it symbolized death. But now, just a sniff of the fabric at the neckline transported him back to the day Minho stood before him, composed and beautiful in his own black-and-white suit, talking about art, climbing the concrete blocks of the national theater, sharing about himself. The two of them enjoying the moonlight and the winter wind at the top of the world.

And he was about to make memories again with it, taking it for a trip to a different gallery, kissing his love while he spoke about his addition to the exhibition, and watching the different art pieces with his friends. He hoped this was enough to brush off all the death smell from it, the last piece of his past.

“You look handsome.” His mom startledhim, standing by his bedroom door, crossing her arms as her lips quivered in a teasing smirk. “Say hello to Minho for me.”

Jisung snorted. “Sometimes I think you like him better than I do.” He gave one last look at the mirror.

“Probably yes,” she shrugged, the smile not leaving her lips. “The boys are downstairs waiting for you. Have fun, darling.” 

“Thanks, mom.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek as she passed her on the doorway, sighing happily that they seemed so much better than a few months ago.

It was odd seeing his members in his living room, well-dressed in suits and hair styled. Changbin's muscles bulging in his blazer, Felix wearing a corset along with his white suit, Chan trying to add earrings to Jeongin's ears and the younger whining about it.

All the important people in his life were connected somehow and Jisung sighed, heart feeling full of gratitude for the nth time in the past days.

He wasn't ready to tell any of them that, afraid they would think he grew a second head or tease him.

“Yah, took you long enough!” Changbin screamed as soon as he saw him descending the stairs.

“I don't want to be there earlier than the hosts.” Jisung rolled his eyes at him.

Clearly it wasn't true, Minho was there since morning, making sure everything was done and the right people were going, wanting their opening to be a success. Jisung had sent a mirror selfie earlier and asked to see Minho's outfit as well, receiving a ‘it's a surprise’ in return, the older telling him all about his day instead.

On their way there, listening to psychedelic seventies rock, crammed in the backseat of Chan's car, Felix gathered their attention, “Guys, we should head to Bad Decisions later. It's a Friday after all.” 

Jisung smiled at him. They wouldn't play today, but the club didn't need them anymore to stay alive. A new band would rock their Friday night, letting the History continue its course.

The jitters were gone as soon as he saw Minho in the gallery. It was smaller than the national museum, so he was able to spot blonde fluffy hair right away when he stepped inside. 

He was beautiful. Jisung always knew that, but it felt so good to think freely about it, well-aware that he was his. A smile spread through Minho's serious features when his eyes followed the commotion on the front door, Changbin and Felix extremely loud as they made their way inside. His eyes only had one target though.

“I'm glad you came.” His hands danced on the front of his blazer, hesitating to kiss Jisung in public, afraid the younger wouldn't want it.

Jisung did it for him, standing on the tip of his pointy shoes to place a quick smoosh to his lips, returning to his original place to watch Minho's ears turn a cute shade of pink to match Jisung's cheeks.

Would the butterflies ever stop ruffling their wings in his belly as their lips touched? 

“I would never miss it.” He grabbed one of Minho's hands to intertwine their fingers. “Walk me through it?” 

In the distance, the members had found Hyunjin and Seungmin, their laughs loud in the quiet place, a few guests scattered here and there, some of them looking at the screaming band like they were crazy.

No one of them cared, laughing even harder, happy just to be there and support their friends.

Jisung and Minho didn’t join them, preferring to do their tour alone, fingers intertwined, their eyes finding each other in quiet, tender moments.

The photo of Jisung’s back was there, split into six separate images that connected to reveal the planes of his back: his longish hair, arms folded under his head, and the bright white cast standing out beneath the mess of dark strands. At the edge of the two bottom prints, Minho's jeans-clad knees could be seen too.

Jisung’s body grew hot, remembering what they did after, how aroused he had been, how his body had reacted to every touch of Minho’s fingers, making art in so many different ways.

“Is it weird that it makes me feel horny all over again?” Jisung whispered, only for Minho to hear, hoping the elderly couple nearby wasn’t close enough to catch their conversation.

Minho lowered his head, chuckling softly. “Only if it’s weird that it’s making me feel horny too.”

A little plate sat beside the piece, listing the title and Minho’s name. ‘Volcano’, it said in bold letters.

It was fitting—how the two of them were always simmering, on the verge of eruption, burning hot whenever they were together. Jisung wanted to shove Minho into a closet and ravage him right then and there.

Instead, he sighed, reigning in his hormones, leaning his head on Minho’s shoulder and groaning.

“It sucks that we can’t do it right now.”

“Hmmm, so well-behaved today.” Minho teased, giggling when Jisung scowled at him. “If you keep being good for me, I’ll reward you later.”

It did nothing to tame the monster growing inside Jisung, earning another pained groan from his lips.

“You’re mean.”

Minho must have pitied him because he brought their joined hands up and kissed each of Jisung’s knuckles tenderly.

Then Jisung remembered, “The boys want to go to Bad Decisions after. If you want to, we can go. Make some bad decisions ourselves.” He finished with a teasing smirk.

Being around Minho was so easy now, their laughter and affection flowing naturally between them. Jisung had deprived himself of this, afraid he’d lose a part of himself in the process, but it was quite the opposite. He had found himself through the love he felt for Minho—the missing piece of his existence.

He relished in the comfortable emotions Minho inspired after a full day of stressing and chain-smoking when no one was looking. Being with him felt like coming home, every time Minho closed his eyes and let out that full-bodied laugh—not perfectly composed as usual, but raw and unguarded, allowing Jisung to glimpse the real Minho through those small, beautiful cracks.

They walked through the exhibition like that—hand in hand—Minho patiently explaining a few of the pieces to Jisung's admittedly uncultured self, indulging his jokes, letting him poke fun at some of the more abstract ones.

Eventually, Minho drifted away to talk to a journalist who would be writing about the exhibition, mingling with a few important guests.

Jisung liked to stand off to the side and watch him work—graceful, self-assured, his long lashes sweeping as he listened attentively, hands gesturing with slow elegance. He could never get tired of how beautiful Minho was.

“You’re so whipped.” Changbin suddenly materialized beside him, making Jisung jump slightly.

Rolling his eyes, Jisung used the opportunity to inquire the drummer about his lingering glances towards one of their artist friends.. “Look who’s talking. You think you can fool us, but we know you’ve got your eyes set on Hyunjin.”

Changbin choked on his spit. “What?!”

Bingo.

Jisung hadn’t expected it to be that easy, letting out a few amused chuckles in response. “Yeah, my guy. We can all see it. Go for it. Hyunjin’s been eyeing you too.” He patted his friend on the back, thoroughly entertained by the situation.

By the time the art opening drew to a close, it was near midnight—Rock is Dead’s special hour.

Jisung loved how poetic it was: the eight of them, all dressed up in ridiculous shoes not made for walking, making their way to the club for the first Friday night in ages when they weren’t performing.

He was there simply to watch, just another little ant among the crowd of drunk rockers. The red lights were still the same, as were the grimy walls and the irresistible pull they all felt to embrace their worst versions of themselves.

But tonight, it wasn’t them on stage. And this was the first time Jisung truly got to see what a performance looked like from this side. The tables were turning. He hoped that it would make a difference in how they played the following day.

Before his anxious thoughts could take root, Minho grabbed his hand and pulled him to dance, arms draping over Jisung’s neck as the groove of a slow, sensual song enveloped them in the good acoustics of the place.

“How does it feel, being here instead of up on the stage?” Minho asked, raising his voice over the music.

“It’s… different,” Jisung shrugged. “I mean, not being the center of everyone’s attention.”

“Well, you’re certainly the center of my attention,” Minho replied, biting his lip in that wicked way Jisung already knew all too well.

They kissed. Right there, in the middle of the red-lit, drunk crowd of Bad Decisions, surrounded by the sounds of another band keeping rock alive.

An entire crowd was nothing compared to the intimacy of sharing tongues, spit, and heavy breaths like two nobodies under the stage. This—this was truly the top of the world.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

If Jisung had felt on top of the world before, now it felt like free-falling into an infinite abyss, making him painfully aware that he was finally alive.

The adrenaline coursing through his veins beat steadily in his eardrums, just like the roaring sea of tiny people waiting outside the curtains of the main stage.

There were so many people. Jisung was panicking.

Realistically, not much could go wrong. But it didn’t matter—the black forest of his thoughts was hard to ignore when he was about to touch his dreams, taste them, and have them.

The physical craving for rock to beat at such a steady pace that it would never die again or his thirst for power—all of it was coming together in a real, living moment.

Minutes ticked by as a DJ played eighties rock to hype up the crowd, the sun setting in the distance, almost kissing the horizon and signaling the beginning of the night. Those minutes passed through Jisung’s mind in an anxious frenzy, stealing his breath away—but not in a good way.

He sat down, trembling hands itching for his pack of cigarettes, but knowing it was best if he didn’t touch them. Minho was supposed to show up soon after spending the afternoon at the art gallery, proudly walking his guests through the exhibition, texting Jisung every time someone complimented his back muscles.

Yet, all the weeks spent in therapy, all the meds—none of it seemed to help at this moment. He wanted to flee. He wanted to be dead again.

His leg bounced up and down as he looked around, trying to self-soothe or at least keep the panic from clogging his airways. His therapist had taught him that focusing on others could help in situations he couldn’t avoid.

So he looked at his bandmates.

Felix was fixing his makeup for the nth time, unable to tear his eyes away from the mirror. Changbin kept rolling his drumsticks between his fingers, a deep frown etched into his face. Chan was pacing, peeking outside every so often. Even Jeongin, who was usually so calm and collected, was nervously biting his nails while scrolling through his phone. A tense silence hovering over them all.

No one ever said that pursuing their dreams would be easy. But damn, they were experts at making it the hardest.

Sighing, Jisung got up, gathering words in his weirdly dry mouth to try and cheer up his members. It was the least he could do after all they’d done for him through the years.

“Ahn… This is going to sound insane. I swear I’m okay,” he started, already defending himself because he could never be too sure.All of them turned to look at him. “Look,” he cleared his throat, not exactly sure what he wanted to say. “Thank you. I know you all worked so hard to be here, and I’m glad. Without you, Rock is Dead wouldn’t be more than just a dream. Most of the time, you guys believed in it more than I did. And, for never giving up on rock—on me—I want to say… Thank you.”

Jisung could see Felix’s eyes sparkle wetly, threatening to spill, his shoulders sagging in surprise. Chan too had tears welling at his waterline, but he held them back. Jisung’s heart soared at the sight of his friends like this.

“I just want to say… I’m proud of us,” Chan said, swallowing down his emotions as he stepped closer, throwing his arm around Jisung’s shoulders. But it was clear from how his nose was turning pink that he was struggling to keep it together. “Especially you,” he added, looking at Jisung. “You’ve come such a long way to be here, and I’m proud. The brown-haired teen you used to be would be so proud, too—to see you here, achieving your dreams.”

Chan didn’t mention Jisung’s father, and Jisung was grateful for that. He didn’t want to ruin his eyeliner by bawling his eyes out. They didn’t need to say anything about him. It was etched on their faces, in their bittersweet but happy expressions, mirrored in one another.

“I want hugs too!” Felix came in like a hurricane, wrapping his skinny arms around both Jisung and Chan, squeezing them tightly. “I love you all so much,” he said, sobbing in between, unable to contain the flood of emotions.

A tear escaped Jisung’s eye as Changbin and Jeongin got up to join in, wrapping them all into one big group hug.

“I used to say Rock is Dead succeeded because you were fucked in the head,” Jeongin said, squeezing Jisung’s shoulder, his tone so fond it almost made Jisung ugly-cry alongside Felix. “But I was wrong. We’re better like this—on the road to becoming healthier. Rock needs to live, and so do we.”

Jisung rested his head on Jeongin’s shoulder, feeling safe within the circle of his friends.

“I don’t have anything emotional to say,” Changbin suddenly declared, “but, God, let’s kill this stage and rock people’s world!” He shook them all side to side in his strong hold, making them laugh and breaking the tension.

They let go of each other just in time for Chan to place his hand in the middle for a huddle. All of them followed suit, hands stacked together, screaming as Chan shouted, “Rock is Alive!”

Among animalistic cheers, they didn't notice when somebody joined them backstage, fluffy blonde hair only being acknowledged when he was already inside, long eyelashes ruffling on his high cheekbones as he blinked confusedly at them.

Jisung smiled, his cheeks coloring in embarrassment because, without context, they looked like monkeys fighting in a zoo cell.

“We were making a huddle,” he murmured to Minho, looking rather sulky and mortified. The older laughed.

“Okay,” he only said before placing a quick peck to his lips, clouding Jisung's senses with vanilla and fabric softener, making him itch for more. “Hi to you guys, I guess.” 

Jisung wasn't afraid of showing public affection when he was around his members, throwing his arms around Minho's neck while the blonde talked to them. Nobody batted an eye, because they all supported their love.

With his mind less fogged by the smell of comfort coming from Minho, he heard Changbin say, “Yah, we have to thank Minho too! He was the one who got us a chance to revive rock.” 

He had a point and Jisung hummed, “No need. I know just the right way to thank Minho like he deserves.” The wicked grin that made its way up to his lips, completely mesmerized by the beauty of the man in front of him, had everyone blushing, including Minho.

God, when he became such a horny sap?

Taking Minho by the hand, he guided him out of the backstage room and into the hall behind the stage, finding the bathroom to lock themselves in it. Completely driven by the beating heart that he kept in his pants.

“What's gotten into you?” Minho asked, huffing when Jisung shoved him against the door to keep him pinned there.

“You.” It was all he said before colliding his lips onto Minho's, savoring the taste of mint toothpaste and something warm that was incredibly Minho.

Like this, there were no loud crowd or dark thoughts in his head, everything emptying themselves to worship Minho's skin and soul. No rock, no decisions. Just the two of them, chests mingling, heavy breaths, hands that gripped biceps and ass, dying to have a chance at a little bit more than they should've.

By the time they parted to breathe, Jisung was rock hard in his pants, pressing it up on Minho's tailored pants, hearing a hiss when he accidentally pressed both of them together, rutting shamelessly to make his point across.

“Hmmm, thank you. For always being a rock for us. For being the one to revive rock. We wouldn't be anything if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be anything if it weren't for you.” Jisung, drunk on lust, let his mouth run free, hips and lips in sync.

Minho's hands on his ass moved to grab his sides, stopping him. Jisung opened his eyes to protest, but immediately found the older’s fond gaze staring back at him. He leaned in to brush their noses together, earning tickling giggles out of his rocker boy. Then, he placed a delicate kiss on his lips, lingering for a few seconds, conveying everything he had to say.

When his mouth started working sensually slow against Jisung's, he sighed, less desperate than before, stopping the world to savor this moment.

“Thank you, Jisung. For allowing me to heal myself by taking care of you. To make me realize I can love in a non-harmful way, to realign my purpose in life, to let myself be taken care of too, to trust. It's all thanks to you.” 

Everybody was making it so hard not to cry. Jisung groaned.

“Please, this was supposed to be just a thank-you blowjob.” He was definitely whining, knowing full well none of their talk had done anything to will his dick down. Minho chuckled.

“I think it might be poetic to be down on my knees instead, like so many before me were. Even if we don't have Bad Decisions’ sign up our heads or the pavement of the club's back alley.”

“I want this to be a different memory though. A fresh start.”

He bit his lip, fighting back the urge to get too sappy, focusing instead on the pulsing heat in his pants and the dark, wicked glint in Minho’s feline eyes.

In one fluid movement, Minho spun them around, pinning Jisung to the door, stealing his breath with a bruising kiss before dropping to his knees.

Fuck, Minho was so beautiful like this: hair perfectly tousled, big eyes glancing up through thick lashes, and lips parting as he worked open Jisung’s pants.

Jisung didn’t want to die, but if he had to go, this would be the way—finally touching heaven after so many years in hell.

Minho didn’t waste a second, pushing down Jisung’s underwear and wrapping his lips around him, sucking gently at first, making a broken sound escape Jisung’s lips as his legs trembled.

The sight of Minho, so effortlessly skilled, so willing, nearly made him come right then. Jisung gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to look down too often, knowing that watching Minho’s plump lips wrapped around him, taking him deeply, would push him over the edge too soon.

But the tight, wet, velvety heat of Minho’s mouth was too much. Jisung gasped, letting his fingers tangle in Minho’s soft blonde hair, guiding him gently but insistently, marveling at the way Minho hummed in satisfaction when Jisung tightened his grip.

He didn’t want to hold back anymore.

Jisung met Minho’s bobbing head with eager thrusts of his hips—shallow at first but growing bolder, driven by a need he could no longer suppress.

this meant so much more, breaking the patterns, letting the past go, their egos. Minho, who swore to never submit like this, Jisung who said Minho would never have what he wanted, both coming together in throaty moans and the slick sound of his dick getting sliding into the older's mouth.

There was nothing more poetic than finishing where they started: tucked in some dark corner, finally allowing themselves to have what they thought was impossible, knowing that rock was just a curtain away.

His orgasm didn’t approach slowly, like it usually did. No, this time it was a full-speed train wreck—unstoppable, overwhelming, free-falling into the abyss, embracing the infinite.

He was fully in the future now, cumming so hard he saw stars explode behind his eyes, his body convulsing with the sheer intensity of it, unable to warn Minho as he shot deep into his throat.

Minho barely faltered, swallowing around him, but coughed softly after pulling away, still holding Jisung by the hips, steadying him, knowing full well Jisung’s trembling legs wouldn’t support him.

In his post-orgasmic daze, Jisung blinked slowly, regaining just enough awareness to look down at Minho. And God, he had never seen anyone look more beautiful. Tear-tracks gleamed on Minho’s sharp cheeks, his lips swollen and slick, his hair disheveled in the most perfect way.

Jisung wanted to pull him up, kiss him senseless, devour him. But fate had other plans, Chan knocking on the door to announce they needed to get on the stage now. Jisung groaned, throwing his head back against the door in frustration.

Minho just winked at him, cheekily wiping the corner of his mouth before leaning up to peck Jisung’s lips. “Well,” he whispered against his lips, “I guess you’ll have to finish it later.”

Then, he helped Jisung get redressed, fixing his clothes with gentle, practiced hands, willing Jisung's nerves down, his mind quickly providing that he had sucked it all out of him.

By the time Jisung caught his reflection in the mirror, he smiled—loving the way he looked: wrecked, flushed, thoroughly loved.

Even outside of Bad Decisions, Jisung owned the stage. Especially when he could recognize a young audience up front, his usual fangirls, people who he liked to call little ants under his feet worshiping him. Not anymore. Today, he was immensely grateful for their support.

He used to think there was no feeling compared to stepping on the creaky floorboards of the stage and passing a thousand and one cables to reach his microphone, in the middle, the center of everyone's attention. But now he understood it was much more than this.

None of it mattered without his members there beside him, without Minho watching from the wings, without the crowd of rockers cheering them on.

There was no kingdom to be ruled and Jisung was no king. They were all there gathered to rock the world, collectively. And this, for sure, was an addiction Jisung couldn't get himself clean from.

He took in a moment after reaching the microphone pedestal, hearing how loud the horde of people under the stage was being for the sake of rock. 

This was it then. Rock's rebirth.

“Good evening, widows!” Jisung’s lips curled into a smirk, voice cutting through the noise as the cheers swelled. “Isn’t it a lovely evening to make Bad Decisions?” The crowd erupted. He had to say it, to remember where they all come from. “We're here to guide you through it and make sure you guys remember: we are Rock is dead !”

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.