Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

— 12:33 AM, Wednesday

The leather briefcase is heavy with clinking items clashing against its walls with every step Jisung takes.

In the enveloping darkness, a dazzling flash from a pair of headlights momentarily hinders his vision. Only then does he realize that it’s raining, cold droplets pitter-pattering as they repeatedly hit the ground, giving it a wet smell that lingers in the air. His vision is blurry, the half-moon lenses of his glasses impersonating a running track for the racing beads of water.

A sigh. Deep, tired, regretful— the car passes by, further drenching him from the waist down. That doesn't stop him. His legs keep on moving, despite screaming at him to slow down, to take a break, to stop. How could he? It’s late.

He should’ve arrived home more than half an hour ago, but given that he’s not yet used to living in a big city, he got lost.

One step, two, four, fifty more and he’s in front of the apartment complex building, heaving in short, quick huffs. He climbs up the flight of stairs that lead to the hefty glass doors, pulling the one on his right open.

Inside, the air is warm, and there’s a prominent smell of cleanliness. That would explain why the marbled floor is squeaky with his shoes scraping against it. Rain is rolling down off him, painting the pristine white dirty. He shivers, lavish clothes unbearably sticking to his skin.

Jisung makes it to the elevators. In between the two of them, there’s a paper framed on the wall, informing, ‘Elevators are out of use after midnight till 6 AM’.

Well.

The stairs are to his left. It’s a hassle to go up a hundred of them after having walked thousands of steps, but it’s not like he has a better choice.

Thankfully, it’s not long till he makes it to his floor. He enters a long, narrow hallway with doors on each side, and walks up to the one that should have 425 tagged on it.

Fishing for the keys in the inside chest pocket of his wet coat, he makes sure to be careful when he inserts it into the keyhole.

It doesn't fit. His eyebrows scrunch together.

He flips it around, tries again, tries three times more, and when it still doesn't work, he bangs his clenched fist against the hardwood, the soft pads of his glasses slipping lower down his nose. Ouch.

Behind the locked door, a voice sounds in the silence of the building. Frail, curious. “Appa?”

“Rieon?”

That’s when he finally lifts his head, coming face-first into the number on the door. 325.

Shit!

Like any other person would do after unintentionally attempting to break into someone’s house in the dead of night, Jisung flees the scene.

The silence is daunting, almost scolding. Instead of that, he focuses on the tremor in the light’s noise coming from the fluorescent tubes on the ceiling, a vibrating hum that floats through his head. A constant reminder.

It’s only three minutes after and he’s inside his actual apartment, soaking wet. His skin is itching all over. He doesn't know if the itch can be scratched. It’s all too much, suddenly.

He drops his satchel on the parquet, leaving it there beside his wet shoes. The coat is hung on the rack, adjacent to Rieon’s own significantly smaller jacket. He walks further inside, but not before locking the door two times.

Unsurprisingly, the entrance to Rieon’s room is open, a faint light coming from inside.

When he passes by it, there’s a voice. Familiar, disappointed. “Appa,”

Jisung feels his heart trying to break free from all the blood vessels in a futile endeavour to crawl up his throat and choke him until he’s devoid of guilt.

“Rieon,” he whispers. Walks until he’s by his son’s bed, looks down at him with apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“You promised, Appa,”

“I know,”

Rieon tries to hide his wobbling lip, but Jisung knows.

“Want me to stay with you?”

In response, he receives a mere nod.

“Okay. Let me just–” he hurries to the hallway, already unbuttoning his sopping shirt. “Change.”

There’s no time for a shower, his son as impatient as him, so he only brushes his teeth and slips into navy blue pyjamas after drying his prickly flesh off with a towel. The glasses are too foggy for him to see well. He wipes at them with the end of his shirt and puts them back on.

“You’re back,” Rieon says when Jisung strolls into his bedroom. Like he didn't believe he would be.

“Yes.” Jisung rounds the single bed and takes a seat next to his child, freshly nine. “I’m back.”

“Mm.”

“Sleep now, bumblebee,”

“Okay,” he mutters, stretching with the power of a yawn. “Will you stay?”

His thin fingers slide through the brown strands, stroking his hair. Jisung stares at him with a loving, sorry gaze, and doesn’t expect a forgiving one in return. “Yes. For as long as you need me to.”

“‘Night, Appa.”

He watches as Rieon’s eyes fall shut, eyelashes constantly caressing the chubby cheeks as he fights the urge to blink. He watches as Rieon inhales and exhales in a steady manner.

With each breath his boy takes, Jisung regrets. Regrets a lot, if not everything.

It’s easy to let his mind spiral. It’s always been. Maybe that’s what makes him unapproachable— being stuck in his head for too long. It’s a shame, really.

There was a time when he didn't know how his life could ever continue. That time was when Han Rieon was brought into this world by Yi Nari, a graceful lady just a month younger than Jisung. Nari is now a neurologist at the Asan Medical Centre, where she met her prospective spouse, and Jisung couldn't be happier for her.

Truth be told, Jisung and she were never meant to be. They never wanted to be.

As cruel as it might sound, Rieon was an accident.

They were young and stupid, nineteen and still discovering the blessings of the world, best friends and partying out late every Saturday.

It just happened.

Jisung was devastated because he knew his closest friend wanted to pursue a medical career. She had just been accepted into a high-end university; saying the pregnancy felt like the end of the world was an understatement.

Despite that, Nari decided to keep the baby. Jisung was there for her throughout those endless weeks. Held her hand when she was wailing on the hospital bed, fed her food when she was too exhausted to do it herself.

She gave birth to a healthy, plump boy on the 10th of April, the next year. Her mother came up with the name. She was more supportive than Jisung’s parents had been.

For the first year, Nari and Jisung moved together into Nari’s one-story house, but when Rieon was nearing eleven months, she had to leave for university. She started getting busy, frustrated, and stressed out, so ultimately, the final decision was for the father to raise his son on his own. He carried his name, after all.

He had rented a flat ten minutes away from his best friend’s house, and joined a Facebook club with tips on how to be a great parent created by single mothers. They were welcoming and helped the best they could.

At first, it was a hassle for Nari. She didn't visit them much. Though as she started getting used to her new life (Uni courses all day, gym at night, girl days out on the weekends), she started spending more time with her son, like she had on his first year on this planet.

Eight years later, she sees Rieon almost weekly, and sometimes, he even sleeps at her house.

A light snore manages to breach through Jisung’s thick skull, and another glance at the young boy confirms that he has fallen into a deep slumber.

Jisung sighs, this time affectionately. “Good night, my bumblebee.” He caresses Rieon’s cheek and silently gets up, closing the door behind him when he exits.

The floor creaks under his feet as he beelines for his own bedroom that is situated just down the hallway. His glasses get thrown on the nightstand, forgotten. He rubs his eyelids until the applied pressure makes it hurt.

Laying in bed at night unable to sleep is one of the difficulties he has to face every time. There are too many itches.

Life is still extremely hard for Jisung, but now he’s a composer at a big company and friends with two of the most loved music producers worldwide. Bang Chan and Seo Changbin.

Nari and him are still close. They love each other the same way they did when they were kids. Albeit time is a thief and they don’t see each other as much as they’d like to, at least Rieon gets to spend some time with his mother.

Jisung falls asleep thinking about Nari, and how happy she must be that she’s now engaged and having her wedding in summer. Not only, but she also became exactly who she wanted to be— a successful doctor.

And him? Nobody.

-`ᯓ★´-

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Jisung smiles. He dabs his hands on the kitchen towel and steps up to Rieon, messing up his bed head twofold.

Whining, the boy wiggles to get away. “Stop!”

“How’d you sleep?” he laughs, feeling the softness of his hair as he roughly dishevels it before stepping to the side.

“Okay,”

He beams at him again. Then, he goes back to the omelette on the electric stove, checking to see if it’s ready.

Rieon takes a seat at the maple table, drumming his fingers on the wood. Jisung has his back turned to him, all of his attention on the food he has to not ruin.

The kitchen smells like eggs even with the window open and the envigorating air making its way inside. Jisung, still in his thin sleepwear, feels the raw coldness picking at his skin.

It’s seven, and Rieon has school in about one hour.

“You didn't stay.”

Jisung pauses. He doesn't turn around— the unhappy look in Rieon’s eyes would be too much for his chest. It might crack open. “I’m sorry,”

“‘S okay, Appa.”

“Do you want toast, too?” he asks, placing the plate in front of the kid who’s impatiently swinging his feet under the table. “I think I do.”

“Yes.”

Not wasting any time, he lets his portion go cold as he cuts four slices of bread and crams some ham with cheese inside, making two chunks. He grabs the toaster from one of the drawers and lets the sandwiches get scorched until cheese is melting out of them.

“Here.”

“Thank you,” Rieon gives a small beam when he’s handed the toast, half of his omelette already eaten on the plate. “Yummy.”

“Eat well.”

The fork screeches against the ceramic. There are drops of water dripping from the tap. A bird just bumped into the now closed window. The kitchen still smells like eggs, and burnt toast.

His shoulders droop down as he chews on the food, thinking about the number of things he has to do today. He has to be at the company at nine o’clock. Meet up with Chan to work on a song. Grab lunch with Changbin. Go back home and cook something.

Quicker than ever, Rieon finishes his breakfast and stands up. He picks up the empty plate and discards it into the sink, leaving with no other words.

It’s weird. He’s been acting weird these past few days— Jisung isn't worrying too much, though.

He’s nine, and they just moved into a new place almost one month ago. It’s okay for him to be a bit disoriented. Things will be fine.

Jisung washes the dishes, scrubbing them clean with a yellow smiley sponge. It looks back at him with hollow eyes that mirror the feeling inhabited deep in his bleak heart. He squeezes it.

“Rieon!” he shouts once done, petting down his hands on his shirt, fingertips imprinting as wet spots on it. “Get dressed!”

There’s no answer, though he doesn't need one anyway.

He ignores the heavy feeling wrapping around each of his ribs and heads towards the bedroom to get dressed for work. He chooses a black buttoned shirt with some tight slacks, taking everything into the bathroom where he brushes his teeth.

The mirror smirks back at him, and he pats himself on the shoulder, content with his reflection.

“Appa, I’ll be late,” Rieon says from outside the bathroom.

“Coming!”

Jisung exits after one more minute of turning around and checking himself out, now facing a very restless young man.

“Ready to go, prince?” he asks, putting on a dark brown coat, subsequently handing Rieon his jacket.

“No,” Rieon fondles with the zipper until it’s all the way up, catching his father's eyes. “I miss Eomma. She has a nice car.”

That’s a slam to Jisung’s core. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs, dropping to his eye level to tie his shoelaces. “Maybe she can take you this weekend.”

Again, he receives nothing as a reply, so he simply unlocks the door. Both of them make their way out of the flat, Rieon waiting for his father as he fumbles with the key.

As embarrassing as people make it out to be, Jisung doesn't have a license, nor a car. They usually take the bus or the subway.

They bow their heads when they pass by an elderly neighbour when they walk towards the elevators.

“Eomma would have stayed,” he says once the automatic doors slide closed, trapping them inside the metallic stall.

“Do you–” Jisung turns to look at him, but he can’t catch his wavering eyes. “Do you want to live with her? Permanently?”

“No, Appa,”

“It’s your choice. You can if you want.”

“I don’t wanna,”

Jisung sighs, holding out his hand in the air between them. “Whatever you want, bumblebee.”

The chestnut-haired boy grasps his father’s fingers, humming a tune he learned in school the other week. They exit the tenement. Everything feels like an iced bucket of water outside.

“Can we get ice cream later?” Rieon invites. “In the park?”

“Sure,” Jisung doesn't promise. He initiates the two of them to walk on the main sidewalk, away from the traffic. Everyone is rushing to get to work or school.

A car honks as a fluffy, long-haired calico kitten runs from one side of the street to the other, making it safely. The boy gasps.

“Poor kitty,” Jisung mumbles under his breath. “Must’ve been scared.”

It’s almost eight now and the air is getting warmer and warmer. The bus station comes into view soon, the vehicle already waiting to be filled with passengers.

They hurry to get on it before it has the chance to drive away.

It’s full. Old people are occupying more than half of the seats, then a few youngsters the rest.

Jisung rises on his tiptoes to check if there’s at least one more empty chair, and he’s successful in finding one next to a girl who seems to be around his son’s age from this distance.

“Hurry there,” he points to the spot, following right after him.

Rieon grumbles as he plants himself next to the juvenile lady. Jisung lightly slaps him on the back of his head, mouthing a simple manners.

The girl, with long moonlight dark hair that appears to be blue in the subtlest bit when a ray of the sun lies on it, is happily kicking her feet as she watches the outside world.

Now that he can see her from up-close, Jisung realizes she might be younger than Rieon. They could still be friends. Rieon needs a friend.

He doesn't attempt to introduce the kids to each other. She seems content on her own with a glittery pink backpack strapped to her back, making her sit a bit further away from the seat. Rieon is grumbling to himself.

Ten minutes later, when Jisung’s legs are starting to ache from having to anchor his body so he wouldn't go scrambling every time the driver steps on the brake, the bus comes to a halt.

“C’mon,” he takes Rieon’s hand and leads him to the doors closest to their previous spot.

Once they’re back outside and about to walk towards the school, Jisung feels a tap on his lower back. He turns around.

“Sorry, my father told me to ask for help,” a little girl says, the same one from the bus, shyness seeping into her voice and making it quieter. “Can you help me?”

“Of course,” Jisung puts on a gentle smile, fully turning around to face her. “What happened?”

She’s as tall as Rieon. Her hair is half up, half down, tied with a butterfly-shaped hairclip. Her eyelashes are long and naturally curled, perfectly framing her big black eyes.

Another glance and Jisung realizes that her hair is, in fact, blue-ish. He can’t tell how.

“I’m a first-grader at this school,” she shows the emblem attached to her bag. “Help me get to it?”

Jisung squints his eyes (he forgot his glasses at home), trying to read the name. It seems familiar, and he finds out that she goes to the same one as Rieon. He lights up.

“My son goes there, too!”

A toothy grin. “Neat,”

He laughs. Neat.

“Appa, I’ll be late,” Rieon tugs at Jisung’s hand, trying to get him to move.

-`ᯓ★´-

— 12:59 AM, Saturday

‘Elevators are out of use after midnight till 6 AM’.

Jisung doesn't know why he expected the poster to change. It’s been here for longer than he has. He sighs and goes for the stairs, climbing them up with rushed steps. His hands tremble with exhaustion.

The keys fall to the floor when he reaches for them, loud and unsettling in the quiet building. Everyone must be asleep. He knows Rieon isn't.

“Shit,” he mutters under his rapid breath. His back creaks when he straightens himself up. He reaches for the door handle, trying to get the key to fit inside. It doesn't.

It shouldn't be surprising to him to see the number 325 on the door again. It really shouldn't.

“Shit.” Jisung says again, turning on his heel and walking away.

Just as he rounds the corner to get to the stairs, he hears a door open. It closes after a few seconds, but Jisung is already running up the staircase.

When he enters his apartment, Rieon is in the kitchen holding his stuffed toy— a grey bunny— looking out the window from a chair he must’ve moved himself.

At the sight, Jisung gasps, the briefcase filled with music sheets and different types of pens dropping on the floor. “Rieon,”

The boy looks at his father, eyes filled with tears to the brim. Jisung hurries to engulf him in his arms, trembling hands cradling the back of his neck. He leans his chin on his head and stares at the street below them.

“What happened?” he whispers, rubbing at Rieon’s nape, trying to provide comfort. “What’s wrong?”

“I missed you,” Rieon sniffles, wiping at his face with his sleeve. It comes back snotty and wet.

Crack.

They hug for two more minutes, and only stop when the kid’s eyes run out of tears. Rieon pulls away and heads back to his room with no other words.

Jisung sits down on the chair, sweaty palms supporting his head. He scratches at his scalp until it hurts. Bites his lip until he tastes metal. Sways back and forth until he gets dizzy.

That lonely night, after a cold shower and relentless hours spent looking at the dark and boring ceiling of his bedroom, Jisung realizes that he has not only failed as a person, but also as a father.

-`ᯓ★´-

On the weekend, Jisung apologizes by taking Rieon out for a bonding time. They’re on the subway, heading towards the closest mall.

“I want to watch a movie at the cinema,” the boy had said months before.

It was hard to find time as an adult with a consuming job— composing songs is definitely harder than thirteen-year-old Jisung thought it would be. He managed, though. He had to.

So. Now they’re on their way to get new clothes and watch a movie. Or two. Or however many Rieon wants.

Gangnam district. Jisung hasn’t been here in so long, and Rieon has never.

The vehicle makes a sharp stop at Exit 6.

Rieon, who was trying to show his Superman strength by standing upright for the whole fast ride, is shoved off his feet and into the back of a stranger as the train halts.

From beside him, Jisung grabs his arm and yanks him back under his wing. “Careful,” he scolds, his tone holding no irritation. His glasses fall lower down his nose at the hullabaloo.

“Appa,” Rieon mumbles, wrapping his hands around his father’s left forearm just as the stranger looks over his shoulder to see what the sudden commotion is about.

“Sorry.” Jisung feels the need to apologize.

Not because it’s the right thing to do, but because the man standing before him is breathtaking.

His hair is a golden brown, like an autumn leaf dipped into saccharine honey. His eyes hold depth as profound as the dark colour of them.

“It’s alright.” he says, arranging his red tie. He’s wearing a suit, looking way too fancy to be taking the subway. His voice is just as sweet and entrancing as his face is.

Jisung’s mouth remains agape, words too scared to fall off the steep edge of his tongue.

Another man, about as tall as the enchanting one, takes him by the hand and says, “Seungminnie, let’s go.” and then he’s gone into the next carriage and Jisung has missed his exit because the doors close and the subway begins moving again.

“Appa, I told you we should leave,” Rieon pouts.

“It’s not the end of the world,” he sighs.

This ride feels shorter. Jisung can still see the man from earlier, from where he’s standing in the middle of the crowd. He quickly looks away when, whom he assumes must be his boyfriend, catches his gaze.

They disembark just to round the station in order to get on its other side and embark on the next ride back to Exit 6.

Rieon is huffing by the time they’re waiting for the underground tube to send a blast of wind so powerful it would completely mess up their hair. It’s Rieon’s favourite thing. It used to be Jisung’s too.

“Stay back here,” Jisung demands, holding tighter onto Rieon’s sweaty hand. “It’s dangerous.”

The ride back is not so crowded. He finally has time to enjoy his personal space, even if it’s for only a few minutes.

Thankfully, the sun came out of her hiding spot behind the grey-ish clouds while the two of them were underground. The air doesn't feel as cold as it did before.

“Are you happy?” Jisung asks because he feels like it.

“The happiest,” Rieon smiles, walking with his head up high. His cheeks puff out and can be seen even from the side. “With you, Appa.”

There’s a dumb smile on Jisung’s face— one he doesn’t want to hide. He’s happy, too, with him. This is his son. The same blood that pumps Jisung’s heart runs through Rieon’s veins.

“Let’s go crazy, bumblebee. Appa got his paycheck.”

Rieon raises his fist in the air. “Appa got his paycheck!”

It’s not until six o’clock that they’re heading back home, with Jisung carrying two shopping bags in each hand and Rieon a huge, white teddy bear. It’s almost as big as him, with glassy eyes and a soft tummy.

Jisung takes in a long breath, welcoming the crisp air into his lungs to serve its purpose, then letting it go with a deep exhale once it’s not needed anymore.

Sometimes, you have to let things go. Jisung had to let his youth go when he realized that his pull out game was, in fact, not all that great. He still feels incredibly bad for making Nari go through that at a fragile age, but Rieon is their blessing and he loves him and Nari loves him too.

Sometimes, Jisung wishes he could give his son the life he deserves.

To be woken up by music blasting from the TV in the living room. To eat a rich breakfast— flavoured yoghurt warmed up on the radiator, toasted bread with butter on it, an omelette with avocado and roasted flax seeds, vegetables with cream cheese. To listen to motivational podcasts while they, the three of them— a mother, a father and their child— participate in this mundane routine. He’s watched one too many movies, probably.

What his son gets instead are leftovers from days before (because Jisung is a horrible cook so they just eat whatever Jisung’s mother occasionally sends them), or simple dishes that they're both sick of.

And Jisung regrets. Regrets a lot, if not everything.

“Are you happy?” he asks again, for good measure. Rieon isn't at the age where he can fully grasp the meaning of happiness, and Jisung knows that it’s a visiting guest.

It’s maybe an aunt, like Auntie Hana, who stops by every once in a while to greet good morning and then leave, or seldom sip on a warm black coffee. It’s fun when she’s over, and when she’s not, it’s like she never was. He can't really explain it.

“The happiest.” a bleak smile into the teddy bear’s head, now named Nabi. He hopes his heir will still be the happiest two, five, ten years from now, when he’ll realize his childhood consisted of a family that never had the intention to be one.

“Appa is also happy, bumblebee.”

The subway’s last wagon appears to be emptier than usual, so they take a seat, Jisung keeping the bags on the floor secured between his legs.

A few more people and one minute later, the vehicle sets off. They’ll get down in a few exits and walk home. Jisung will spend the evening working on a song and Rieon will make a mess of his room with his new toys and clothes.

“Did you like the movie?” he asks, his free hand holding onto the metallic bar to his left. “I did.”

“Yes! It was so much fun!”

One corner of his mouth curls into a proud smile. The other one remains down to keep him anchored to the harsh reality.

“We can do this again whenever you want.”

“Really?” Rieon’s eyes light up, sparkles shining in them. Jisung knows that it’s just the reflection of the flickering lights.

“Really.”

“Thank you, Appa! You’re the best!”

Jisung pats him on the shoulder. Lets him rest his head against his arm. Clenches and unclenches his fist as the underground train stops and starts moving again. Rubs his soft cheek to wake him up once they're back to the Exit they began with.

“Mm?”

“We’ll be home,” he stands up, gripping the plastic handles of the bags firmer. “Soon.”

Rieon yawns, his throat closing up and creating a frog-like noise. He rubs his eyes and jumps off his seat, holding Nabi close to his chest. Jisung would hold his hand, but both of his are busy with what was once money.

They go up the stairs, leaving the metro station through a covered entrance. It’s not a long walk, and Jisung is thankful for that because despite it being so early, Rieon is sleepy and he keeps tripping over his feet and bumping into Jisung.

The cars that pass by are as slow as they are with how heavy the traffic is at this hour, and Jisung is really, really glad that he never cared enough to get a driving license or a car.

Well, he wouldn't have had the time for it anyway.

Moments later, after they round the huge park, they make it to the apartment building. Jisung lets out a sigh of relief. Rieon is too immersed in watching his feet move against the coloured pavement to notice they’ve already arrived.

In the elevator, Jisung leans against the wall, tiredly checking the numbers on the screen as they go up. A ding lets them know that they’re on floor four.

Once they’re in front of their little home, Jisung asks Rieon to unlock the door for him, and he gladly accepts.

They spend the next hour putting the new clothes into the washing machine and arranging the other belongings (toys and school materials) in Rieon’s room.

Jisung didn't buy much for himself. He likes spending money on the people he loves. Especially as an apology.

Just as they settle on the couch with two mugs of hot chocolate burning their fingertips, a phone starts ringing. There’s only one phone in the whole flat. Jisung grunts when he gets back up to head inside the hallway to get it.

Channie Hyung

He doesn't hesitate to answer, thumb swiping the greasy screen.

“Hello?”

“Good evening!” Chan says, a smile definitely adorning his face. “You know I hate to do this, but are you free right now?”

“Uh,” Jisung gulps, tapping his nails against the wall. “I’m with Rieon.”

“I need you here for an hour or two. I’m sorry.”

There’s nothing he can do about that. With a saddened sigh and a defeated furrow of his eyebrows, he says, “Be right there,” and thinks of what to tell his son.

But he already knows.

“You’re going?” Rieon asks, eyes big.

“I have to.”

“Okay, Appa.”

“Try to work on your homework, or if you don't want to do that, you can watch cartoons. I’ll be back home in a blink.” Jisung says, cupping his head to press a fat kiss on the top of it.

With no answer, Jisung puts his shoes and jacket on and leaves, locking the door twice behind him. He’s not worried about leaving him alone anymore. Rieon is very good. They also ate at the mall, so he doesn't have to tear the skin of his lips off at the thought of Rieon starving. The only thing he worries about is the cold chocolate milk he’ll have to throw out when he’s back.

He takes the bus this time, having to wait ten minutes at the station for it to show up. Another seven to stroll to the company and another four to get to the last floor where Chan’s room is. His studio.

Jisung knocks and he’s welcomed in by a beaming face and a shake of a hand. He bows, fixing his glasses once he’s standing straight again.

“You called, hyung?” he walks in, sitting down on the couch that faces Chan’s desk with a big TV above it.

“Indeed.” Chan sits down in his chair, rolling it around so he’s facing Jisung instead of the yellow wall. “One of the freshly debuted groups needs a new title track song. The other one wasn’t good enough, said their manager.”

“Oh,”

“Changbin and I already started working on it, but we decided to consult with you before making any definitive decisions.”

“Show me what we’re working with and I’ll be more than glad to help.”

An hour changes into two, and two into two and a half. Jisung’s vision is blurry by the time they wrap the evening up and part with a pat on the shoulders. His eyes hurt, driving him to take off his glasses. He forgot to bring his briefcase where the glasses case is.

The walk home is dreadfully long. There’s no bus available at this time. Jisung takes it as an opportunity to enjoy the air and the night and everything that life is. So beautiful, yet so tristful.

He thinks about other changes they might have to make to the song, how they have to compose three other ones by the end of the month.

Jisung loves his job, though sometimes he dreams about being on the stage and singing those songs to thousands of people. It’s a silly thought that latched onto his brain like a parasite, refused to leave.

Whatever. It’s too late for that now.

The royalties he gets from this are enough to have him live a relaxing life. He can give Rieon whatever he wants. Everything. Everything but a family, that is. What he needs the most is unachievable. Jisung hates himself for it.

Nari helps with money, too. She buys Rieon nice clothes and sends Jisung a monthly income for having agreed to take custody of him. Jisung rejected the offer at first, but when being a mere songwriter back then wasn't enough, he accepted with his tail between his legs.

It’s not midnight yet. Jisung chooses to climb the stairs anyway, because he's not quite ready to see the disappointment on Rieon’s face again.

His thoughts are meddling with his steps, tangled and uneasy. He feels anxious for a reason he doesn't know for now.

The multiple keys dingle as he pulls them out to unlock the door, but before the proper one even breaches the keyhole, the door opens.

He looks down, expecting Rieon to have opened the door for him, only to find thick thighs blanketed by some brown slacks similar to his. He startles.

“You—”

Jisung’s eyes rise at the hasty tone, making eye contact with what actually is the most beautiful human alive.

Pink lips curled at the top like a rabbit’s, sharp nose with a steep tip, high cheekbones with little strand spirals reaching them. Beautiful brown eyes stare back right into his. Long eyelashes become a protective curtain for them when he repeatedly blinks, as though to hide the obscurity in them. Jisung gets lost in trying to part them and sneak inside to find all the mysteries they hold and the ones they don't.

The fluorescent lights of the hallway are a contrast to the dark vestibule of the man’s apartment, casting gentle shadows across his features and presenting them to Jisung.

“Who are you and what do you think you’re doing?” the handsome stranger speaks, voice shrill and gentle at all the same, regardless of the awkward situation Jisung has found himself in.

“I, um,” he stumbles over his words, tongue forgetting its purpose. He instinctively looks down at what the other resident is holding in his hands, unable to read the label, though knowing that it’s some sort of cat food from the aspect of the package.

“You what?” Jisung’s neighbour from floor three crosses his arms. “I don't know who you think you are, but quit showing up. Isn't this the fifth time this month? Are you some kind of creep?”

Jisung feels his jaw go slack, mouth opening and closing, trying to find the right words to say. “No, that’s not– I’m–”

Just then, an even higher-pitched voice comes from somewhere inside the apartment, and immediately, a child comes into sight. “Appa, who is this?” the young girl’s hand tugs on her father’s hoodie.

“Go put your jacket on while I handle it,” he beams at her, and Jisung takes a step back. He should leave. Why the hell are his feet glued to the ground? Why the hell is he here? He lives on floor four, for god’s sake!

She nods frantically, flashing Jisung a shy smile before leaving. Now that he looks at her, he’s seen this face before. He can’t recall where, but he has. Once.

“Are you going to stand there and say nothing?”

“I’m not a creep.”

Great. Very convincing.

“Why do you keep setting foot in my apartment, then? What’s your problem? Are you the mailman?” the stranger checks him out from head to toe, gaze lingering on his torso. Rieon dropped pasta sauce on his shirt at lunch.

“We’re neighbours,” Jisung attempts.

“Right. Neighbours.”

“I’m above you,” he says, and the man quirks an eyebrow. “I mean– your apartment. I live above.”

“Then what are you doing on this floor?”

“I’m so sorry. I'll, uh, go now.”

An inhale coming from the other. He doesn't appear to be as mad as he seemed to be at first. Still, there’s doubt in his piercing stare. “Get some sleep.”

Jisung’s silly heart speeds up. He gives an embarrassed nod, feeling all of the sudden blood rush to his face. He turns around and walks away, shame settling deep in his chest.

Distantly, he manages to hear that childish voice again, and he speeds up towards the staircase leading to his actual floor.

It’s almost ten o’clock when he passes by the threshold of his front door, letting the keys dangle from it after shutting it locked for the night. He organizes his shoes on the rack and hangs up his black puffer jacket. Jisung runs a heavy hand through his dark brown hair, messing it further. He fucked up.

Work has tired him to the core. He loves what he does, of course, but it’s exhausting when it’s paired with taking care of his son on his own.

His feet slip inside his fuzzy slippers with pandas on them, dragging him towards Rieon’s room. The door is open, and dim light illuminates it with all its power. Jisung is ashamed.

“Hey,” he whispers, dropping to his knees beside the low bed with red sheets. “Is everything okay?”

“Feel sick,” he mumbles back, eyes closed.

Now Jisung is the one feeling ill, stomach uncomfortably turning. He checks the boy’s forehead with the back of his rough hand, and it feels a bit hotter than what he would call normal. Fear runs down his spine as he caresses Rieon’s skin with his thumb.

“What’s wrong? What do you feel?”

“My tummy hurts. Feel tired, Appa.”

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’ll go make you some tea. Where does it hurt?”

Rieon stays still for a few seconds to think, then reaches his hand lower on the right side of his stomach, pressing down on it. “Here.”

“Okay,” Jisung sighs. Rieon is pointing to his appendix, he knows that much. “Is it bad?”

“A four out of ten,” he says, distant eyes catching Jisung’s.

“Alright.”

Jisung straightens himself, glancing one more time at his son before hurriedly leaving the bedroom. He heads to the kitchen, where he takes a kettle and boils water. Rieon’s favourite mug is one that represents a reindeer (he got it for Christmas from Nari), so Jisung pours the hot liquid into it and hangs a tea bag. Chamomile tea.

When it cools down a little, he incorporates the honey he fetched from his parents and mixes it with a teaspoon.

He makes his way back to Rieon, placing the warm mug on the nightstand that matches its colour. “I have to go take a shower. Shout if you need me, okay?”

“I will,” he gives a simple smile. “Can I watch cartoons?”

“Of course. Drink your tea, yeah? Don’t let it go cold,” he makes him promise, and Rieon nods his head.

The shower does little to help his mind. As he scrubs his body with soap, the man who lives just below him snakes into his mind. The way he looked leery yet gentle. The way he handled the situation with ease, as if Jisung wasn't a complete stranger who kept turning up at his home. He didn't accuse him of anything. He didn't call the police on him. Hell, he didn't even look that upset.

Once the water turns cold, he presses down on the tap and exits the shower. He wraps a big towel around himself, wiping his skin dry. The stranger stubbornly remains settled inside his mind.

God, he really embarrassed himself.

There are more important things Jisung should be worrying about. He feels guilt lurching inside his veins when his son’s face appears in his mind.

Once he’s done brushing his teeth and changing into pyjamas, the stranger is still running through his head. Even after he drops on the couch next to Rieon and watches Scooby Doo with him. And especially when he tucks him into bed and returns to his own, now all isolated with his thoughts.

His hazy eyes are on the ceiling, fixing on the static figures floating around.

A singular tear falls from the corner of his left eye, rolling down the side of his cheek and getting lost in the strands of his hair.

He’s going to talk to Nari tomorrow. She’ll know what to do with Rieon’s sickness. Jisung wishes he, too, knew. Maybe he wouldn't regret everything if he knew.

Once his eyes are closed, his hot neighbour reverts into his brain, and Jisung dreams about him.

The night is restless. He turns and moves and tosses until light seeps through the curtains.

It’s almost seven now. He’s given up on sleep, so Jisung gets out of bed, stretching his limbs until they pop. He opens the window and leaves his room with a bundle of clothes in his hands, making his way to the bathroom to freshen up.

Rieon is still asleep when he passes by his room wearing long shorts and a tank top. He’s going to eat breakfast later with him, so he only chugs down a glass of water before putting on his shoes and stepping outside of his apartment. He walks down the stairs and to the park, that being his warm-up.

Outside, the air is fresh, chilly in the slightest bit. The sun is shining brightly, the chirping of birds growing louder and louder as he approaches his destination.

When Rieon was younger, Jisung used to go on a lot of walks and runs alone. It was something he enjoyed doing to keep his mind clear.

He hums a song that he single-handedly wrote for a boy group, legs picking up the pace into a lazy jog. His breathing picks up to help his heart regulate its pulse, hands closing into tight fists.

This park has a lot of paths. Some have more flowery scenery than others, which only have big trees blocking out the sun. Jisung loves flowers and the sun, so he chooses one that goes East.

There are only a few elderly people enjoying a simple breakfast on the benches, gossiping about their past and whatnot. He passes by them in a hurry. He doesn't quite know what he’s in such a hurry for.

Jisung runs and runs until his lungs beg for a pause. He slows down after ten minutes of nonstop jogging, beads of sweat clinging to his neck. It’s gotten warmer since he left the apartment, bees flying through the air, attentively looking out to not hit any obstacles.

A white bench stands lonely under a tree, and he decides to chaperone it during his short break.

The phone he bought back in September last year is back at home, which leaves Jisung to figure out all the colours of the family of flowers that live right in front of him. A bunch of pink and red tulips that lean towards the sun. He copies them.

His eyes close, inviting the rays to kiss his honey skin. He could fall asleep like this. He actually could.

Unfortunately, he cannot, so he forces his eyelids open and tries to ignore the burn of having to re-adjust to the radiant light.

As he gets up, he shakes his legs, beginning to walk again until he rounds a curb, now on another path, until he’s dashing in a race with a squirrel jumping from tree to tree.

This trail leads to a playground, next to it being the stalls of some seniors selling homemade snacks and beverages. He sometimes stops to buy something for Rieon.

A man wearing a similar outfit to his is waiting in the three-person line. His face isn’t visible from this angle. Jisung ogles at the broad back and huge thighs, merely stopping when he physically can’t turn his head back once he has passed fully by him.

The walk home is boring and feels shorter than usual.

He takes the elevator, making sure he presses the fourth button, and when he’s in front of his door, he checks twice if it’s 425. It is. Only then does he unlock the door and head inside.

Rieon must still be sleeping. The grey clock on the wall says that it’s eight, and then eight past half when he walks out of the bathroom, freshly showered in sweat-free house clothes. His stomach grumbles, demanding to be filled, and Jisung sighs.

Maybe he should cook something light for Rieon. He settles on rice with boiled eggs and fish cakes he had bought from the supermarket two days prior.

By the time his son is awake, the breakfast is done and ready to be served. It’s not much, but he’s trying, and that’s important too.

“How do you feel now?”

“The same,” Rieon sighs, fork scraping against the plate as he drags it aimlessly, barely touching the food.

Jisung frowns. “I cooked this for you, I’d appreciate it if you ate it,” he tries to resonate with a smile, enunciating his sentence with a mmm.

“My tummy hurts.”

He places the fork down on the table, his eyebrows scrunching together. “I’ll call your eomma, then.”

“Eomma is busy.”

“Never too busy for you.”

Weekends are leisure days for Nari, especially Sundays. She's usually out of Seoul, visiting the mountains and admiring nature with her fiancé.

“Eat your breakfast, Rieon.” Jisung points to his food. “I want to see it licked clean, alright?”

“Okay, promise.”

A promise is a promise, Rieon starts taking bigger bites. His eyes light up when he realizes that the food is good.

He nods in response, picking up his fork too. He only eats half of his portion, leaving the rest for later in the fridge, and washes Rieon’s empty plate.

“Can you bring my phone?” he calls loudly when he’s done, patting his hands dry on the kitchen towel. He hears footsteps fastly drawing near. The boy walks inside with Jisung’s phone, handing it to him with a smile. “Thank you, bumblebee.”

“Can I say hi to Eomma?”

“Of course you can.”

The phone rings for maybe fifteen seconds before Nari picks up with a groggy voice Jisung knows all too well. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Doctor,” Jisung smiles dumbfoundedly, having missed his best friend.

“Eomma! Eomma, it’s me, Rieon-ie!” Rieon takes the phone out of Jisung’s hand, shouting into the speaker. Nari laughs on the other side of the screen, her voice cheerful.

“Hi, baby,” she says, and Jisung lets him hold the phone. “How is my perfect son? Are you being good? Is Appa treating you well?”

“Yes! Appa and I went shopping yesterday!”

Nari hums. “How was it? What’d you get? Nice clothes?”

“Mhm! I had so much fun,” he bobs his head. Jisung watches with a genuine smile, hand running through the child’s hair until it’s tangled. “I miss you.”

“Oh, I miss you too, bumblebee. So much.”

Jisung lets his son talk to his mother for five more minutes. They catch up on the last week, Rieon mostly talking about school and his friends while Nari remains silent and listens. When he’s out of breath and jumping on the balls of his feet, now bored, Jisung sends him off to the living room to play so he can talk with her instead.

“Hey,” he says, phone against his ear. He walks towards the window and opens it, looking outside at the passing cars below him. “Don’t freak out.”

“Do I have a reason to?” Nari gasps, noises shuffling as if she’s moving. “What happened?”

“Rieon had a slight fever last night, and he told me his appendix hurt.”

“Oh no,”

“Yeah. He said it was a four out of ten, so I’m not very worried about it, but I don't want to risk it. Is there any way we could get him a checkup?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she sighs. “If the pain goes up to seven or the symptoms worsen, call me. Keep him on a light diet for the time being, too.”

“Ah, Nari,” Jisung raises his hand to his face, thumb and index finger massaging his eyebrows. “Would you be able to take care of him this week, maybe?”

“I’d love to,”

“Thank you. I’ll go see if he wants to spend this week with you.”

A loud laugh, lively and young— one that takes the both of them back to high school. Jisung couldn't ask for a better best friend.

“Ring me.”

“Will do, doc.”

He ends the call before she does, setting the phone down on the table. He closes the window and listens to hear where Rieon might be.

Jisung finds him in their living room— a big space with a black couch, a smart TV, and shelves with books and framed photos. The carpet is grey and it covers most of the parquet. Rieon is on his tummy, colouring on a book he got yesterday from the mall. His head raises at his father’s presence.

“What’s up?” Jisung asks, sitting on the couch. He grabs the remote and switches the channel to the news.

“I miss Mikan,” he decides, holding up the open book to Jisung. On the coloured page, there’s a brown cat playing with a yarn ball.

“Mm, do you?”

“Yes,”

“You did a great job colouring that. I’m proud of you,” he points two finger guns at him and a wonky wink. Jisung still doesn't know how to be a father. “I have good news.”

“Are we getting a cat?” Rieon asks, attention fully on the older.

In return, Jisung grins. “No, Rieon-ie, you know I’m allergic.” he takes a look at the television presenter who’s currently reporting a theft at a grocery store. “But you will be seeing a cat this week.”

“I will?”

“Mikan,”

“Really?!” he scrambles off the floor, jumping straight onto Jisung, forearms wrapping around his neck. He’s a bit heavy, and Jisung tries not to let it show by repeatedly rubbing his back, curled lips never quivering.

“If you wanna, you can stay for the whole week at your mum’s house.”

“I wanna!”

Jisung tightens the hug, resting Rieon’s head in the cleft of his shoulder. His thumb runs up and down his nape in calming motions, feeling the boy’s body go limp in his hold.

Despite the circumstances, there’s so much love Jisung has built over the years for his son. Like a tiny snowball pushed downhill an abrupt slope, accumulating more and more snow ‘till it becomes a huge white glacial mass.

Nine whole hard yet beautiful years spent with an angel of a kid— he’s utterly glad to have been blessed with him. You can't change your written destiny.

“Pack your bags, then,” he speaks quietly into his ear. “Your notebooks and school supplies.”

“Can we watch a movie and eat popcorn afterwards?” Rieon moves from his previous spot, his bottom lip pulling down into a pout. He looks so much like eight-year-old Nari.

“You know that there’s no need to ask for that.” Jisung pecks his forehead. “Go while I call your mother.”

They don’t end up watching a movie, because Rieon opts for cartoons instead. The two of them watch Tom and Jerry, Pororo, and Tayo the Little Bus even after the sun goes down, and then it’s time for Rieon to leave.

Stronger and more muscular, Jisung carries his school bag down, holding his hand inside the elevator and up to the front glass doors.

Nari’s car, a black Kia SUV, is parked in front of the building. The woman walks out of it, putting on the brightest smile she can muster at the sight of her son.

Rieon pulls away from Jisung’s hand, running to hug his mother. They don’t part for one minute, and when they do, it’s to say goodbye.

“Take this, it’s everything he needs for school,” Jisung says, nodding towards the bag as he hands it to Nari. “Call me if he– or you– need anything.”

“Will do,” she smiles, rushing the boy to get inside the car. She fastens his seatbelt for him and throws the bag on the seat next to his. “Go inside, Jisung. It’s chilly.”

“Alright.”

Jisung walks up to the open door of the car, pressing one last kiss to Rieon’s cheek. “Goodnight, bumblebee. See you soon.”

Once he’s in bed and surrounded by crippling loneliness, Jisung lets out an audible sob fall from his mouth.

-`ᯓ★´-

The week goes by fast. He skips the morning run on Tuesday and today, deciding that he’s way too tired to get out of bed.

Today is Friday, and because he’s supposed to be at work in five hours, Jisung deems that he has enough time to bake something. It’s time he learned how to make simple desserts— it can’t be that hard, can it?

Jisung takes the needed ingredients for his planned pastry and looks up a video tutorial on YouTube. He scrolls until he finds one with a lot of likes, checks the comments, and only starts watching it when he’s satisfied with the feedback. A woman is talking over as she shows the recipe elements, presenting them one by one. He’s relieved to find out that he doesn't need to go grab groceries.

He puts up his phone on the counter, resting it against an upside-down glass, and gets to work.

To him, it doesn’t seem to be that hard. He follows the instructions vigorously. Makes sure he’s got the measurements right, just like the professional baker currently explaining that to get the perfect result, you need to let the batter rest inside the fridge for a few hours.

That’s fine. He can get ready for work while waiting.

Showering is his favourite thing to do. He likes the way the constant droplets of water run down his body. The way it makes his shoulders relax.

However, it also makes him miserable. It’s the only time he lets his mind run free, lets the thoughts roam through his head at whatever speed they want.

His thoughts are either a) about the regrets, b) about how he’s a horrible father, or c) about how he hasn’t been touched slash in a relationship in literal years.

In his whole twenty-eight years of living as Han Jisung, he’s had maybe two relationships in which one couldn’t be considered serious because he was in kindergarten, and the other was with a guy who only wanted to check if he was gay (he was not) (Jisung was about seventeen years old during that time). He’s gone out with some strangers these past years, trying to find someone to fill the hole in his heart, but none of them felt right.

So, he’s actually never felt this peculiar thing called romance.

To open your eyes in the morning and have the love of your life already staring at you. To kiss them, feel every texture and fissure of their lips. To eat a cold breakfast in the morning and a warm dinner at night. To go on fun dates and continue them back at home. To love and to be loved.

It’s not a need he has, Jisung swears to himself with his eyelids down while he lathers his hair with citrus shampoo. It’s simply a human want.

The suds manage to get into his eyes when he opens them for one second to reach for the chocolate-aromatized soap. He groans, immediately splashing his face with water.

Exterior to the shower, the air is cold and unwelcoming. Jisung shivers and wraps himself in a black towel, quickly drying off his body, then throwing on some underwear, cargos, and a grey hoodie.

Even though he's supposed to wait at least forty more minutes, he takes out the bowl from the fridge and gets back to watching the video. It says that he needs to prepare the pan— which should have seashell-like shapes— so he grabs the oil and a basting brush, pretending he’s a painter painting the most ethereal piece of art.

Aaand

there goes his milestone of two days.

His hot neighbour manages to wriggle through his brain crevices again. The synapses of his nerve cells reunite, creating an image that could not be painted even by the world’s greatest artist.

Damn himself and his loneliness.

“Dude, you need to get laid.”

Changbin, tipsy and tired, had said a few weeks ago, when Jisung was freshly moved in and celebrating it with his two guy friends.

That’s not what he needs, he thinks. Wholeheartedly believes it.

Jisung isn't the type to do one-night stands. He doesn't want to get fucked by someone whose face would remain a disintegrating memory of what was once a good ephemeral time, or to fuck someone who would be gone the next morning.

Yeah, definitely not what he needs.

What he does need to do now, though, is pay attention to the dessert he’s making instead of getting distracted by each and every thought.

It’s not that hard.

Madeleines are special because their crumb brings delicacy with a sweet taste that contrasts with the additional flavour of choice.

Ever since he was a kid, even younger than Rieon is, Jisung has always liked mandarines. They’re juicy and nectariferous and Jisung’s favourite fruit.

It was his fifth Christmas when he first got his mouth on a Madeleine. The aroma of orange, yet not quite, exploded on his taste buds, and he’s never been the same.

He still remembers the saccharine feeling, how the airy batter melted on his tongue— Jisung doesn't know the feeling of falling in love, but he’s sure that Madeleines come close to that.

The pan goes inside the already preheated oven after everything’s done. He takes the mandarine he had skinned alive earlier (to use its zest for flavour) and fully peels it, eating the half-moon pieces of fruit inside.

Just as expected, it’s sweet and juicy. Exactly what he needs on a hot day like this one.

Oh, Jisung loves mandarines.

“Eomma, I think I messed up.”

It’s late at night. The window in his bedroom is open, letting the bustle of this part of the city inside. Jisung looks out, admires the moon and the stars and the trees and everything that he will never be.

“What is it that you messed up, honey?” his mother—his blood, his genes— speaks quietly into the phone, dodging the possibility of waking her husband up. He’s a hardworking man, after all. Always been.

My life

, he wants to say. “The Madeleines,” he says.

Something wet runs down from his nose and settles in the hollow of his cupid bow. He sniffles, but the emotions within him have been long set ablaze, and they’ve just now found the perfect time to whirl and swirl.

A fat, salty blob falls from one of his eyes. It leaves a teary trail that is almost immediately dried by the cold wind blatantly hitting his face.

“They’re flat like the envelope of money grandma gave me for my birthday.” Jisung cackles despite the sob that punches out of him. “Tasteless, even.”

“Ha,” the joke isn't funny, yet she laughs. Lively and bright. The moon at midnight in the middle of the forest. “Are they edible, at least?”

“Yes,”

“Then you didn’t mess up.”

Jisung wishes things were as simple as that. Maybe the Madeleines aren't abominable, but they’re still plain. Maybe Rieon loves him for who he is, but Jisung is still a terrible father.

His mother is all too sweet and understanding, though.

She’s not like a mandarine. She’s like burnt sugar with ravaged molecules making it sickeningly sweet. The glacé always finds a way to crystallize. Some would think that is its purpose. Jisung knows better.

“It’s late,” he whispers into the night, not waiting for a response. “I’ll drop by on Sunday, Eomma.”

There’s a big smile that Jisung can hear in her voice.“Of course, honey. I’ll make you the best Madeleines.”

“Mandarine?”

“Mandarine.”

The call ends, Jisung’s pain remains. He lets the tears fall until his eyes go arid. The night doesn't answer, even though it tries to.

In the morning, the weather outside appears to be warmer. He, however, ditches running again and decides to clean the apartment. There are still some boxes sitting around that he hasn't unpacked— maybe they can help make living here less unbearable.

His bedroom is a mixture of lacklustre white and black, empty furniture, and a hopeless smell.

Some changes must be made, is what Jisung decides.

After eating a quick piece of bread with some cheese cream on it, he gets to work. He takes the boxes from under his queen-sized bed, vertically slicing the duct tape to open a distinct small one. He takes a peek inside of it before retrieving the items one by one.

Old photos of his childhood, of Nari, of newborn Rieon. He swipes his thumb over a particular picture that was taken at the hospital right after his son was born.

He looked so fragile in his mother’s hold, with his father by the side smiling at the camera. Jisung remembers that day as if it were yesterday. He was nineteen and in his first year of college, gulping the first bite of the adult lifestyle.

Jisung regrets, but he scans each photo with so much love in his heart that it’s threatening to explode and paint his chest cavity red.

The photos go inside an envelope that he puts into the first drawer of the nightstand. He’ll read them like a bedtime story whenever sleep refuses to come.

Next, in the second box, he comes across a Supreme T-shirt that he used to wear weekly in high school. It smells stale, not having seen the light of day for years. This box must be filled with things he never got to unpack in his old home, too.

Old notebooks, a collection of seashells from when he was twelve and in Jeju, a piece of a broken receipt from when he had bought two kilograms of oranges thinking they were mandarines. That reminds him of the time when he had tried to help his mother make cookie batter and dropped a glass of salt instead of sugar in it.

One more box. Jisung finds Christmas decorations and remembers why he doesn't celebrate it anymore.

They’re red and white, like blood in snow. A dreadful reminder that even though the fireplace is burning wood, there’s still coldness outside. Would the blood be thick and warm enough to melt the snow? Or would it seep into its core and become one with it?

Jisung shakes his head and gets off the floor, holding a few framed pictures of him and his brother when they were five and eight years old, setting them on the chest facing his bed.

The books he never got to finish go on the shelves garnishing the living room, and the scented candles find home on every piece of furniture in his apartment.

At some point, bored and annoyed, Jisung turns the TV on and raises the volume to fifty, his favourite song playing. He walks back into the hallway, through a small opening in the lounge, and up to the last door, singing to himself in a quiet voice.

Looking into his room from where he's standing against the doorframe, Jisung realizes that nothing has changed. It still looks as empty as it did when he had bought the flat, even with new silk black bed sheets and a grey rug he dragged from the hallway.

Everything is too minimalistic. Too blank. There’s something missing, and Jisung knows that Rieon would only fill half of the jar called emptiness. There’s something more, out of reach.

It won’t help; he’s aware. Regardless, Jisung uses all of his force to change his bed’s direction so that it faces the wide windows instead of a white wall. He manages to do it after five minutes of moving from corner to corner and pushing until his back starts sweating and the skin of his palmar pads starts stinging.

He tries to move the closet, too, but it doesn't budge, no matter how hard he tries. Sometimes things just don't work, and that’s okay.

With a sigh, he turns around and looks at the boxes dispersed in a corner, left with a few insignificant things inside of them that Jisung doesn't have the heart to throw out. He moves everything in one box— the biggest one— slides that one from where he got it, then moves the empty ones by the front door to remember to throw them away later.

He pays attention to the parquet, shiny with both the reflection of the lights and traces of food particles. The wooden furnishings seem to be a bit dirtier than usual. A lot of dust has built up since the last time he had thoroughly cleaned. He needs a feather duster and especially a vacuum. Jisung thinks that the loud noise will be a great assassin of thoughts.

It takes him way too long to brush off everything that has accumulated, and once he’s finally done, his arm aches.

Anyhow, he still has to vacuum, so Jisung starts with the kitchen, where tiny pieces of bread are scattered under the table. He moves all the chairs away, one by one, with his left hand, the yellow machine sucking in everything standing in its sight. Jisung wonders if a black hole is technically a vacuum.

Humans are scraps. They’re like the crumbs of food fallen on the floor, little and insignificant when they’re face to face with something greater than them. They shrink and shrivel.

When Jisung finishes the first room, the vacuum cleaner stops all of a sudden. The high volume of the TV scares a gasp out of him, his hand instinctively planting on his chest. His pulse is fast.

Although he loves rock songs and particularly this band (that his father had met once during his rockstar days), Jisung finds the remote and turns down the sound until it’s loud enough that he hears the lyrics, yet quiet enough that he doesn't get too overwhelmed by the melody.

When he looks over at the device to see why it decided to stop, he finds that he might have accidentally unplugged it when he yanked at the handle.

Sighing, Jisung goes back into the hallway where the outlet is. As he’s about to plug it back in, he hears commotion outside the front door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A shiver turns his blood blue. He looks at the source of the noise, at the Hoover, and back at the door. He wonders if this little thing could suck in a whole person. Maybe— he had seen something like that in an anime like that a long, long time ago. The fleeting thought fills his heart with nostalgia, his blood turning to its normal colour again.

Knock knock!

“Coming!” he shouts, regrets it immediately when he realizes that it could be a serial killer looking for a perfectly working liver.

Nonetheless, Jisung pulls the door open after unlocking it. His eyes widen, and he shuts it back closed on pure instinct, running a hand through his sweaty hair, chest shaking.

“Wait! Hello?” the man— his hot neighbour— says in a muffled, uncertain tone, and Jisung opens the door once he considers that he doesn’t look as miserable.

“Hi,” his voice breaks in two, each half taking a path. Up, and down. “Again.”

“Could you keep it down, please? It’s–” he politely mutters, eyes dropping to his forearm. He checks his wrist, where an expensive black watch is wrapped around it. “It’s almost nine in the morning, and my daughter is sleeping.”

“Oh my god,”

The taller stands before him, a gentle curl twitching in the corner of his lips. He watches Jisung with a curious gaze, eyebrow pitched.

“I am so sorry. I didn't realize that– I thought– it didn't cross my mind. I am genuinely sorry.”

The smile he receives is intoxicating.

Jisung’s mouth goes slack. He stares at him, feels the way his own heart betrays him by speeding up. His body trembles, because it’s cold outside his apartment, and his back is wet and his yellow T-shirt is sticking to his skin and he’s all red now.

This is the point where Jisung should close the door and never look back. Probably move out of the country or die a painful death.

Instead, due to his very enthusiastic mouth and too-slow brain, he asks, “Would you like to come in for coffee?”

What kind of person just invites a stranger into their home? After being caught (unintentionally, really!) breaking into theirs?

“Ah, I’d love to,” is the reply that comes after fifteen more awkward seconds. “But I have some work to do.”

“Sorry,” Jisung lets out a very ashamed laugh, scratching at the back of his neck, fingertips coming back moist. “Can I make it up to you with something sweet?”

He nods, bangs falling onto his forehead and covering it. “I like sweets.”

“Good! Wait here one second,”

Embarrassed out of his mind, Jisung walks into the kitchen where the Madeleines are on a white porcelain plate. He searches for a small container and finds one that was once full of Lee Felix’s brownies. That’s Chan’s lovely boyfriend.

As quickly as he can, he drops a few pieces of the cake into the container, closing it afterwards. He hurries back, tripping over one of the boxes from earlier and almost falling face-flat in front of the man.

“Careful,” Jisung hears him say. Sees his hands flailing out in reflex to help him— they never make contact with his skin, and Jisung detests that.

“My bad,” he bites the inside of his cheek, stepping up to the front door, which is now wide open. “Here.” Jisung hands him the container with not very appetising Madeleines. The handsome guy kindly thanks him anyway.

“Madeleines?” he asks as he takes the receptacle and safely holds it in his hands, glancing back at Jisung after he’s taken a good look at its contents.

“My favourites.”

“I like them too. Especially with tangerines.”

“I think mandarines are better,” Jisung challenges with a cocked brow.

“Sure.” a shrug.

Maybe he’s imagining things, but there’s a flush covering the other male’s neck and ears. Jisung would like to believe that he’s flustered as well, that it’s not just himself who’s freaking out.

“I hope you’ll like my mandarine Madeleines.”

“I have a feeling that I will.”

For the rest of the day, Jisung replays their conversation over and over again. He thinks of what he should have said while he vacuums Rieon’s bedroom, cringes at the way he almost fell as he cleans the shower cabin, giggles when he thinks about how his neighbour is probably enjoying his snack as he takes a bite out of a Madeleine-wannabe-cake.

But then he remembers. The fact that he is a father didn't settle in his brain before. Now it seems to be riveted to it.

He’s thinking too far, alright. An ethereal being like him must not be single. Jisung kind of wants to die when he thinks about it for too long.

(Yes, he’s dramatic like that. It’s not a bad thing as long as he doesn't make it into one.)

(The bad thing is that he doesn't even know his name, yet Jisung is already obsessed with the idea of this man.)

On Sunday after Jisung is back from his parents’ house, Rieon comes back in the evening, and Jisung gives him three Madeleines to munch on, because his kid likes them just as much as he does.

Chapter Text

— 2:50 AM, Monday

Jisung’s eyes stick out of their sockets when they settle on a chest barely covered by a black top, leaving a whole lot of room for interpretation. “Oh my,” he breathes without meaning to. It’s quiet. It’s not quiet enough.

Rieon is gone again for the week. Now that it’s May, in approximately one month Nari will be officially married to Eunhyeok, and in two months she will be off to Japan, where they’ll celebrate their honeymoon. Jisung decided it’s better for Rieon to spend as much time as he can with her now. With a heavy heart, he dropped him off yesterday, then returned to a vacant home.

He sucks in a breath so sharp that his lungs squeeze his heart. “I’m sorry.” a pathetic little sigh, barely getting out of the cage that makes his mouth.

The man looks at him with a half-there gaze. His brunette hair strands take every direction, some sticking to the sides of his face matted there by sweat. There’s a red flush in the indent of textured cushion fabric on his right cheek. “It’s–”

“Three,” Jisung completes, embarrassed, feet stuck to the marbled floor. “In the middle of the night.”

His hand—now without a watch wrapped around the wrist— raises to rub at his face. His eyes fully open and he takes Jisung in. The slightest curl of his lip appears. “The Madeleines were good, if that’s why you’re here.”

Unbelievable. This man is straight out of Jisung’s wildest dream. Something like a rose petal that gracefully dances its way down in the air as if it were a ballerina in a past life. It might have been.

How can he be so calm? It’s absurdly late, and the same stranger who almost broke into his apartment (more than one time, back in April when they were freshly moved in) just reappeared after three weeks. Jisung doesn't know why he ended up here again. It’s not intentional, he swears.

What makes it worse is the fact that this man is hot. Like, really hot. The type of hot that burns your tongue until the papillae are completely damaged. The type of hot that could set a forest ablaze in seconds. The type of hot that is addictive to touch. Jisung’s fingers twitch by his side.

“I’m sorry for, uh,” he frowns. He can't meet his stare. Even if he wanted to, his eyes are too tired, his vision too blurry. “This. Again.” he should've left already. Why isn't he leaving?

“You know,” the alluring man says in an all-too gentle tone. “If you weren't so…” he stops, gaze moving from up to down, void pupils scanning him thoroughly.

Despite the black coat Jisung clad himself in, he feels completely naked. Feels like his skin has been peeled off. With a small tremble of his voice, he gulps, “So what?”

A beam. Vibrant and radiant, further charring him up. “Get some sleep.”

Yeah. That’s exactly what Jisung should do. Go to sleep and preferably never wake up again. He has already embarrassed his whole bloodline.

But humans will never, ever be satisfied. They will always try for more. More of everything. They’re greedy, like that. It’s in their nature to be. And it happens that Jisung’s brain is a very greedy one, probably possessed by some clown of a ghost, leading him to mortify himself further.

“I never got your name.”

“My name,” his neighbour sleepily hums in an amused response, languidly leaning against the doorframe. His stupid biceps bulge up and Jisung’s stupid stomach flips. “Minho. Lee Minho.”

“Minho,” he rolls it on his tongue. It’s heavy, and it burns. “I’m Han Jisung.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

His skin catches a shade of dark red, spreading down to his neck. Is this real? Is he hallucinating? Jisung has no idea, and he doesn't really want to know.

“I’m sorry for bothering you.”

Minho laughs. A quiet giggle followed by an even quieter haaa, accentuated by his high-pitched voice. “Do I seem bothered?”

Jisung is awkwardly standing in front of his open door, alternating his weight from one leg to the other. He’s exhausted from work and from walking for so long. He still doesn't make an effort to leave.

“Are you?”

“Not as much as I should be.”

“Oh,” he nods, aching. Okay. He can be normal about this. He has to be, anyway.

“Mm.” Minho buzzes softly, reminiscent of a cat’s purr. “You should really go to sleep, though. You look tired.”

Tired. Jisung wants to laugh. “I wish I were just tired.”

“Get some rest, alright? I’m sure your son needs a functional father.”

“Ah, um, yeah, right.”

How Minho knows that he has a son, Jisung doesn't know. He doesn't ask either. It doesn't concern him much.

“I promise this is the last time I show up unprovoked in the middle of the night.” Jisung promises. This time, he will try to keep it. It must feel so weird; to be awakened in the middle of the night by some neighbour.

“Don’t threaten me like that, Jisung-ah,” Minho smirks in the subtlest way, feline eyes turning into crescent moons that surely reflect the galaxies and the stars and everything that the universe holds.

Once Jisung is in bed, freshly showered and changed into white pyjamas with tiny bananas on them, he thinks about Lee Minho and his searing persona and how he must have imagined their whole interaction, because there's just no way.

-`ᯓ★´-

The digital clock is the first thing Jisung sees when his eyelids wriggle up. 12:55 PM written in red.

Holy shit. Jisung hasn't slept this late in literal years.

He scrambles off the mattress, standing upright for a few seconds to regain balance. The room spins until it doesn't, and he fishes for his glasses that had been neatly placed on the nightstand last night. Everything settles into place.

His gaze wanders to the time again as he retracts his arm close to his body. 3:52 PM. He double-checks, wiping at his eyes under the lenses of his half-moon glasses. Did that much time pass, or is his mild vision condition worsening?

Today, there's not much he has to do. He’ll stay at home, in this very lonely apartment, and continue the lyrics that have been overflowing his brain for the past week.

Yesterday, he visited his parents, this time with Rieon, who was pampered with kisses and food. It was fun. His father handed him a basket full of strawberries—strawberries from Jeju, single-handedly raised by Jisung’s grandfather— Jisung thanked him with a bone-crushing hug.

And then he went to work after leaving Rieon to Nari, because Chan called him and he couldn't say no.

Outside, through the window Jisung opens, the air feels warm. Suiting for a day in the heart of May. The sun is out, gracefully watching the world from every possible angle, scarcely hidden by thin clouds. Jisung copies her, scrutinizing cars passing by from his apartment.

A sweet aroma mingles with the wind and wafts inside his bedroom, manipulating his brain into remembering a nostalgic period. He shuts the window, walking away from it and into the bathroom across from his room.

There’s sweat making the shirt he’s wearing cling to his back. He must’ve had another nightmare. Not an awful one, given that there’s no memory of it. His body is used to mediocre bad dreams.

Jisung takes off his drenched t-shirt, throwing it into the laundry hamper by the door, already crammed. He doesn't bother covering himself up, stepping out of the bathroom with his chest puffing up once he’s done using the toilet and brushing his teeth.

The refrigerator is full of food cooked by his mother— Eunhae, fifty-five in August. A lovely woman living a lovely life. She’s a florist somewhere in the outskirts of the city, right at the border with the countryside towns, one in which she and Junho live happily.

It’s been a long while since Jisung’s had a rich breakfast. He heats up some galbi tang and cooks rice as a side dish.

Rieon isn't here to entertain him while he eats. The flat is too silent, only the boisterous world on the other side of the walls reassuring him that he’s not completely solitary.

Unfortunate. Jisung doesn't like feeling alone.

The soup is heavenly, its rich flavour of beef melting on his tongue. The rice is only half-done. He eats it anyway, stomach grumbling in annoyance.

From the other edge of the table, his phone beeps. He stretches his arm out to get it, chest knocking over the bowl and moving it further on the table. He curses, heart banging against his ribs at the bombshell.

Everything’s fine. The soup didn't spill. Nari just sent him a photo of Rieon enjoying a corndog. It looks yummy.

With one hand he raises the spoon to his mouth, the other slowly typing a cheerful ‘is my cute bumblebee enjoying his afternoon?’. If Rieon were here, he would whine at that, call his father cringe and embarrassing. Jisung would smile. He smiles anyway.

When the bowl is empty and there’s no more rice to eat, Jisung soars from his seat to the sink where he thoroughly washes them until the porcelain dishes are squeaky clean and glistening.

He eyes the cocoa powder jar that is settled high on a rack nailed to the wall. He reaches for it, and next the milk, which he warms up on the stove, and then his favourite mug.

Jisung walks into the living room. Sits down on the left part of the modular couch, the one closest to the window, where sunlight seeps through tree branches and their flowery leaves. There’s an overbed black table next to the armrest, and he rolls it so that it's in front of him now.

A pink journal with different sketches of cat breeds as the cover, a slim black-inked pen, and hot cocoa— Jisung’s perfect afternoon.

Skilled fingers flip the pages three by three until they stop at a blank sheet.

Usually, his inspiration comes from movies and books and pretty sceneries. He finds a soft, underlooked action, a cheesy line, a panorama of waves overlapping on the shore, and turns it into metaphors. It’s easy. It doesn't require thinking.

His hand moves, fingertips secured on the pen, and starts writing down whatever comes to mind. He writes about glowing eyes, airy laugh, sculpted body. Forbidden love. Unbeknownst sentiments. Jagged timing.

One sip, then another lyric. This one’s about flaming hearts, burning souls. Curbed emotions that erupt.

Before Jisung knows it, he has written down at least half of what could become a song. His eyes scan over the verses, analyzing each word, each letter, with prudent attention. A smile curves his mouth. It's okay to be a little selfish sometimes.

Jisung decides to keep this as a draft, all for himself.

After three more chugs of his drink, he turns a few pages back. Another song he had started writing ages ago. Changbin had asked him to help with the lyrics for a girl group.

He writes down only a few more words about cherries and how love turns the world red (which, by the way, he disagrees with, but that’s the concept the group is going for, it’s not really his choice). His thumb and pointer wrap tighter around the pen, and just as he curls the letter T of a word, he hears the faint sound of three knocks.

With teeth dragging against his bottom lip, Jisung moves the table back to its original spot and makes his way to the front door. The fact that he’s shirtless, pants low on his hips, doesn't catch up with his brain until he opens the door and there stands Lee Minho holding a container in his hands and a smile on his handsome face. Jisung feels mortified.

“Hello,” Minho greets, gaze moving down just once and never again. There’s a twitch in the fat bags of the skin under his glossy eyes that can’t be omitted.

“Hi– hello,” Jisung stammers, gulping. Crosses his arms across his torso as if that would hide the blush his skin isn't even trying to resist. Tries to skulk behind the door without making it obvious.

“I baked you something.”

There’s an explosion in his chest that expands. Blood races through his veins, reaching the capillaries. The oxygen he inhales is suddenly too little, too insignificant. Jisung feels like he’s seventeen again, holding hands with his boyfriend for the very first time.

“You did?”

Minho is fucking gorgeous. The mortal light coming through the window at the end of the hallway can’t reach this spot, too far away, but Minho still fucking shines. “That’s what I said, isn’t that so?”

“You didn't have to,” he swallows nothing, arms clasping the receptacle. “You truly didn't have to.”

“I wanted to.”

There it is again. His face reddens and his hands start sweating. His hair clings to his forehead. Jisung must look so stupid with his glasses low on his nose, digging into the skin of it. So stupid standing there with a bare chest.

“Thank you,” Jisung mumbles, grateful.

“Mm. I hope you and your son will like them. My daughter helped me make them.”

The portrayal of Minho, an apron around his waist and bangs clipped back, in the kitchen with his adorable daughter, makes Jisung’s poor heart do a flip. He doesn't tell him that Rieon is not home.

“Want to come in for some coffee?”

“Next time,” Minho promises. Next time. There will be a next time. “She’s waiting for me at hagwon.”

“Next time it is, then,” Jisung nods with a grin so wide that it hurts his cheeks. “Thank you again, and sorry for my appearance.”

Minho tries to wink, but his eye does something funny instead. It’s precious. Like the seashell on Jisung’s desk that he had found when he was five years old. “Don’t overthink it too much, Jisung-ah.”

“Okay. I won't.”

“Good.”

Ten more seconds of pure silence. Minho stares into his eyes (and tries visibly hard not to let his gaze stray down), and Jisung stares right back (and doesn’t even attempt not to check him out).

Nice outfit. A full black one. Minho’s never looked better.

“I think I should go now,” he breaks the silence with an apologetic sigh.

“Of course. Your daughter is waiting.” Jisung clutches the little gift with all his might. As if it might disappear. “Thank you so much.”

“See you.” Minho waves his hand in the air and turns around, walking away.

Jisung kind of hates the fact that Minho didn't spare another glance at his body. He also hates his mind for heading in that direction.

He closes the door, rosy cheeks feeling hot to the touch. When he passes by the mirror, he looks at his reflection for one minute to try and see himself through Minho’s eyes. Once he deems that he looked good enough, he goes into the kitchen to check what exactly is inside the container. He opens it from the sides, and oh.

Madeleines. A note with the signature of a wonky cat on it.

With mandarines, because you like them

better than tangerines.

Enjoy.

Oh, Jisung’s ribs drip with red. Like honey on a flower.

-`ᯓ★´-

These Madeleines are the best he’s had in three weeks, the last ones having been his mother’s.

They have the same rich flavour of suavity that is overpowered by the mandarine zest, making them the perfect combination of sweet and fruity. The batter is soft with a raised bump in the middle. Jisung has to physically restrain himself before he eats the whole serving.

It’s nine o’clock and he can't sleep. Eating usually helps calm his mind, but tonight it didn't. He tried writing some more, too. That didn't help either.

Left with incredible boredom, Jisung throws on a hoodie over his t-shirt, wraps a blanket around himself, and opens the door to the balcony attached to his bedroom.

He wishes he still lived in the countryside, away from the pollution of the city. He longs to see the stars and listen to them twinkle. He wonders if they even sing nowadays. When he was little, they did. It sounded like diamonds clinking against one another, or like beads of melted ice rolling off the tip of stalactites in a hushed cave.

Jisung would go outside at night, lie on the wet grass in the garden with all the bugs and the flowers, and admire the unreachable.

Now, he stares at the numerous buildings in the distance, at a black sky illuminated by only a bright moon, at his future.

It’s pretty cold. Regardless, he stays seated on the grey bean bag, letting his mind rest. He doesn't think about anything. Just enjoys the smell of spring, the cold air, the rustling of leaves as the wind dances with them. He wonders if the trees miss the leaves when they’re blown away.

They might. Like the stars miss the sun when the night comes to an end. Or like the flowers miss their petals when they start to wither away.

Or they might not. Like the stars that envy the sun. Or like the flowers that die on the spot.

Ten minutes later, when the lampposts lower in intensity and the apartments afar lose light, Jisung feels that his mind is finally at peace. He gets up and steps back inside where warmth engulfs him. Caresses his icy cheeks and makes them sting.

The forest green hoodie stays on as he gets into bed after cleaning his mouth, and he tucks himself in, placing his glasses on the nightstand. He turns off the light by flipping the switch next to the outlet his phone is plugged into.

Today was a successful day, even though it started much later than usual.

Chan didn't call him to the company. Nari sent him numerous photos of Rieon. He managed to stop the procrastination habit and wrote almost a full song. He saw Minho. Embarrassed himself a little, but he still saw Minho. And ate Madeleines made by him.

Madeleines are his favourite dessert when they’re made with mandarines. Minho knows, and it makes his heart swell.

Wednesdays are never fun. Jisung looks up to tomorrow, though, because he’ll get to feast on more Madeleines. And maybe see Minho again.

Next time.

It runs through his mind until it exhausts his brain.

Next time.

A promise that must be well-kept in a cage.

Next time.

He falls asleep with thoughts about glowing eyes, airy laugh, sculpted body.

-`ᯓ★´-

It’s peaceful to run at seven o’clock in the morning, when the sun is not strong enough to burn your skin and you’re mostly all by yourself.

Jisung’s wearing baby blue knee-length shorts and a white tank top that is a bit too loose on his waist. It’s chilly, the wind hitting his uncovered skin repeatedly.

He switches to jogging as soon as he steps into the park, the soles of his feet starting to hurt five minutes in with the force his legs use.

A daffy thought passes through his mind. Something stupid like, I’ll see Minho and run with him, because Jisung is sure he caught sight of him a few days ago, in this very same park, at this hour.

They could be running buddies. They should be. Go out together on an early morning run. Doesn't it sound fun? That sounds fun. Even if they’re strangers.

Would people assume.. things? Would they see them laughing as they jog side by side and elbow each other with a smile? Would they judge them for taking up all the space up on the pathway?

His body clashes into something— someone— causing Jisung to stumble back with a groan, hand grabbing at his chin. His eyes unblur to focus on his surroundings, a hardship without his glasses.

Facing him stands the guy from the subway he had seen a long time ago. The one with the scary boyfriend.

What a small world it is.

“I am so sorry,” Jisung bows his head when he recognises, thumbnails picking at the cuticles of his fingers. All he feels is shame. His neck is stiff and flushed. He finally warmed up, but at what cost?

The man, with a young face and soft features, stares at him from the bottom to the top. He inhales calmly, palms wiping at his sports jacket. He has a baseball cap on that shifted at the collision. He lets the breath out through his nose and locks eyes with Jisung. “Be more careful next time.”

That’s all.

Jisung doesn't have the chance to apologize again because the stranger walks away immediately, rolling his shoulders. He does not follow him, instead turning around on his heel and running straight back home.

He only stops when he’s in front of the apartment building, panting with his hands on his knees.

What a shame that he didn't get to see Lee Minho and made a fool out of himself in front of a handsome, taken man.

In the elevator, Jisung calls Changbin. They’re close enough, he thinks. Jisung considers him a close friend. An older brother who’s always eager to help him. He doesn't know if Changbin feels the same way, but he sure hopes so.

“Hyung, hi,” he whispers when Changbin answers after fifteen seconds, pressing his thumb onto the button with number four on it.

“Han Jisung,” Changbin asks with a booming voice. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Yeah,” he drops the phone from his ear to check the time then brings it back up. “It’s almost eight.” The automatic door slides open and he steps out onto the hallway, heading towards his apartment. “Good morning, hyung!”

A grunt that sounds more like a whine. The sound of the shuffling of sheets reaches his ears as he makes it home, resting the phone against his shoulder and twisting the key.

“What is it?”

“Just wanted to talk,”

“You never just want to talk, Jisung. Spill before I end the call.”

“Will we be able to hang out any time soon? With Chan hyung too, preferably,” Jisung murmurs, walking inside and crouching down to untie his shoelaces. His left hand is a bummer, accidentally bullying them into a tight knot. “Shit.”

Changbin hums. There’s a slap against his face that can be heard. “Chan hyung is going to the company at twelve, I was told to be there at four,” he says. “We can grab coffee and go together, if you want.”

“Sounds good.”

Silence. Jisung takes off his other sneaker and tries to untangle the white rope lace from the left one. Changbin seems to be moving around, the sound of footsteps echoing.

“Sounds phenomenal, man.”

Jisung blurts out a laugh. He finally frees his foot and throws both of his running shoes away in exasperation.

They talk for five more minutes, in which three about the weather and the remaining two about how Channie hyung is working sooo hard, he should take a break. With an emphasis on the sooo.

Just as Jisung is pouring soup into a saucepan to warm it up, Changbin says, “Shoot, my boyfriend’s home. Gotta go annoy him.” he chuckles to himself. “Bye, ‘Sung. See ya.”

“Your wha-!” Jisung doesn't get to finish his sentence.

The call ends with three beeps that reverberate over and over again inside Jisung’s brain. Changbin has a boyfriend. A boyfriend. As in a.. boyfriend?

Cool.

He definitely doesn't feel blue by the fact that after so much time knowing each other and constantly hanging out, Changbin decided not to tell him about his romantic life.

His heart is weak. It hasn't pulsated enough to be all-knowing. It’s young.

Still, Jisung occasionally wishes his two friends would trust him more. He’d love to know about how they spend their free time, what store they get groceries from, what ice cream flavour they prefer, what their favourite colour is and why.

Human connection, or something like that.

With a sigh, Jisung settles down at the kitchen table and starts eating the same thing he ate yesterday. Like the forlorn father he is.

While he eats, he wonders what Rieon is up to. He must be at school now, socializing with his classmates. Rieon doesn't have a best friend either.

Despite physically looking more like Nari, Rieon has taken a lot from his father. Jisung sees himself in him every day, and sometimes it drives him nuts.

Not that Jisung doesn't love himself. He does— maybe a bit too much at times— but that’s because he learned how to appreciate his imperfections. He made peace with his mind when he was twenty-four, and ever since then he’s been living a nice life.

Nice and simple. Like Madeleines.

Minho’s Madeleines are heavenly. Jisung grabs the container and picks up one piece of mandarine cake, letting the bite he takes out of it thaw on his tongue.

So far, there are three things Jisung knows for sure about Lee Minho:

He’s very hot and very handsome

He’s a very good baker

He’s a DILF with a very exemplary composure

DILF is a term he didn't know the meaning of until Felix had told him about it two weeks ago. Jisung doesn't remember what exactly they were talking about. Jisung does remember asking Felix if he could also be considered a DILF, since he has a son.

Felix had slapped him on the shoulder. Exclaimed yes. He’s crazy like that.

Jisung eats two more and then pulls away. He needs to save them for later, else he won't have any more, and everything that happened would merely be the ghost of a heartwarming gift. He can't really put his finger on why exactly he feels this way. Why he doesn't want this feeling to perish. Maybe it will go away one day.

The tap water comes too cold, making shivers run underneath his skin, through his dermis. He quickly shifts the handle towards the left and tries out the temperature with his fingertips. When he deems that it’s good enough, he starts washing the dishes. Two plates and three glasses.

Whilst he concentrates on the plate he’s currently washing to not slip out of his clumsy hands, Jisung thinks about what he should do till four. He could watch a movie or continue the series he’s been trying to finish for a few months now.

Thankfully, all the dishes make it out alive from Jisung’s venomous grasp. He arranges them on the drying rack next to multiple other glasses.

Now left with no tasks to do, Jisung settles on relaxing on the couch. He draws the grey curtains closed, pivoting the room into a cosy dark space. Jisung likes it that way.

Sometimes, the light is too blinding. It makes his head hurt.

His current anime is one about delinquent teenagers fighting each other. It’s fun to watch. He thought about buying the manga volumes, too, but decided against it when he realized that he’s pushing thirty and should be focusing on his job and taking care of his kid rather than flipping the pages of a comic book. The inner child inside of him is, however, not very pleased with that decision.

Jisung turns on episode four of season two and lies down on the couch, getting comfortable under a thin white blanket.

He doesn't remember much from the last episode, given that he had watched it maybe a month ago. He thinks that it’s whatever, not that important.

Most of the time, Jisung feels like he hasn't grown up. He still feels seventeen and exploring the world. He still has no idea how adult life should be lived, let alone how he should act.

Childish, his father once called him. He was fifteen. He was a child. He remembers it so vividly because it hurt him. His father hadn't meant to hurt him.

Then, his thought jumps onto another train that derails to the right, entering a lush forest. Has he ever hurt Rieon?

Probably would be the likely answer. Not intentionally, of course. It happens. He hates that it happens, but there’s not much he can do about it other than pay more attention to what leaves his mouth.

Two characters begin battling over something insignificant. Jisung huffs through his nose and tries to fight the sleep that teases at his eyelids. He’s not quite the winner.

Soon, he drifts off with his cheek pressed against the sofa cushion and his whole body enfolded in warmth.

It’s hours later when he wakes up. The TV is still on, on a news channel. He might've clicked a button on the remote in his sleep. He does that sometimes.

He lifts himself, centering the force on his hands, shoulder blades hurting with the pressure they face in favour of holding his body up. He looks for his phone on the coffee table, under him, on the floor. He doesn't find it anywhere, so he flops back down and closes his eyes for what feels like another five minutes.

Would it be too late to sign Rieon up for swimming classes?

It's a frequent thought. Jisung doesn't know how to swim, therefore he can't ever fully enjoy the experience of swimming in the sea or in a deep pool. He's always been envious of people who could swim. Swimming helps with physical growth. It has a lot of benefits.

Regardless, he’s a bit afraid. He feels as if it's too late for Rieon to learn how to swim now. Most of his classmates had already started when they were four years old.

Rieon also didn't seem to be too appealed by that thought when Jisung had asked him months ago, but that's simply because Rieon is just like his father— a hater of sports. They’re both couch potatoes.

There's nothing particularly wrong with that. Though Jisung still worries. He always worries.

As soon as he's had enough of the sweat rolling down his back and soaking into his tank top, Jisung gets up. He waits a bit for the dizziness to go away before walking towards the kitchen where he had last seen his phone and glasses.

Two o’clock. Lunchtime. His stomach cries out, as if the eyes seeing the time and the brain associating it with food suddenly brought his awaiting digestive system to life.

Instead of eating now, he decides to take a shower. He sweated a lot in his sleep. Again.

Sighing, Jisung makes his way to the bathroom. He grips the bottom of his top and slides it up. It drops to the floor on the cold tiles. His shorts and boxers follow.

The mirror, long and not so tall in the shape of a rectangle, is above the sink. From where he stands, Jisung can see as low to his belly button. His abs are almost fully gone, covered by a delicate layer of fat. When he flexes his left bicep, his flesh is flabby. He thinks he should get back into the gym. Decides to go tomorrow. The gym eases his mind. He loves it there.

Jisung hops into the shower, layering his body with lukewarm water before pouring soap into the palm of his hand. Squelch. He finds difficulty in washing his back, and in moments like this one, he wishes that he had someone to do it for him.

A lover.

Maybe this forest is too dense and that’s why the train keeps on taking the wrong path. It gets lost. Jisung thinks about how cordial that must feel— to have gentle fingertips run down your back. Soft hands caress the castile into your skin. He is burning with want.

It makes him envious. What does he not have? He’s hot. Jisung is incredibly confident in himself. Has always been.

What is it that drives people away, if not his physical appearance? They never really stick around for long enough to fully grasp the whole of him. The structure of his brain. The stardust that he was.

To understand him, and who he is. He itches.

Why his heart beats at the pace it does. Why he likes going on morning runs when he hates running. Why he used to love winter but now he prefers spring. Why he likes mandarines so much.

One day. One day, he will find the one for him. The one to check his temperature and make him tea when he’s sick, to brush his teeth when he’s too tired, to touch him in a way that stretches out all the long way to his soul.

He steps out of the shower, smelling fresh, a pleasant aroma of fruits evaporating off his body and into the air.

There’s steam fogging the mirror, so Jisung can’t ogle himself. (ogle = try to find why all of his potential hookups ditched him at the last moment) (he’s even now very embarrassed because of that, by the way)(it hurt his ego).

Jisung leaves the tiny window above the toilet ajar and vacates the bathroom in a towel hung low on his hips.

The coldness bites at his moist skin where beads of water still haven't dried off. He shivers. Slips on the parquet. He doesn't fall, but his breathing picks up anyway, body startled. He continues his way up to the wooden closet with two bi-folded doors, looking through the mess to find something to wear to work today. He doesn't feel like dressing up formally, so he chooses some baggy jeans with a fitted t-shirt that shows off his strong chest.

He quickly throws on some underwear and then the clothes. The short sleeves don't cut off the circulation around his arms anymore.

It’s almost half past two now. Jisung walks into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. He cuts two slices of bread, layers them with cream cheese, lettuce with mayonnaise, some ham, and melted cheese.

Not toasted. He’s too lazy to take out the toaster and then clean it. This will do.

Changbin calls after ten minutes that Jisung spent walking around his apartment with no purpose. Just for the sake of it.

“I’m leaving my apartment right now,” Changbin says, the clinking of keys in the background. “Meet you at the park? Near the playground?”

“Hi,” Jisung says, stepping towards the rack with shoes. “Sure. I’ll be there.” He takes some pastel pink sneakers (that don't match with his outfit) and fits his feet inside them.

“I mean, you better be.”

In response, Jisung laughs. A bit forced, but a laugh nonetheless. “Will do, hyung.”

The call ends just as Jisung steps out of his flat. He locks the door twice and heads towards the elevator.

He checks Instagram while waiting for the lift to get him to the ground floor. He thinks the ride is way too short when it abruptly stops just half a reel in, and when his eyes raise up and the sliding door slides open, his breath halts.

“Oh,” Minho beams, stepping inside. He keeps a reasonable distance. “Hello, Jisung-ssi. Nice to meet you here.”

Goosebumps. Jisung gets goosebumps at the sight of Minho unashamedly raking his gaze all over his body, stopping on his torso for a second too long before ultimately settling on his eyes.

Inhale. “Hello,” Jisung puts on a shy smile. Exhale. “Fancy seeing you too.”

Minho is clad in a dapper outfit. Simple, by any means not extravagant. He, on the other hand, looks grand. It might be on the grounds of the way his hair is styled— curled against his skin, full at the top of his head, with bangs falling into his eyes— or that handsome face of his.

“…is nice today.”

Jisung, caught red-handed staring at the man’s thighs, gets out of the hazy trance at the sound of his voice. Shit. His irises move up. “Sorry?”

“I said,” Minho hums. There’s a smirk pulling at his mouth, Jisung can tell as much. “That the weather is nice today.”

“Ah. Yeah.” Jisung presses his lips together, embarrassed. “Truly is. It’s hot, too.”

“I bet.”

Ding. The elevator ceases its movement on the ground floor where an old lady is waiting outside of it. They leave together and walk outside together. Minho stops. Jisung stops too.

“My car’s parked underground. I’m off to pick up my daughter.” he explains, pointing a thumb over his shoulder that is covered by a white t-shirt.

“I’m meeting a friend,” Jisung mumbles, gaping at the way the sunlight kisses Minho’s skin. His orbs pick a different shade and his nose appears to be sharper, the pores on his skin completing his beauty. “Going to work.”

He gets a nod in reply. “Mm. Neat.”

Neat. A laugh bubbles out of Jisung. And some spit. He’s going to jump in front of a speeding car. Minho doesn't mention it, staring back at Jisung with a soft look.

“Well, she must be waiting for me,” Minho says apologetically. “I’ll get going. It was nice seeing you, Jisung.” he grins.

“Lovely, yeah,” Jisung answers. Awestruck. The rays hit Minho’s face just perfectly. “Meeting you, I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“Imma, uh,” he cackles awkwardly. “Go.”

“I should, too,”

They stare at each other for five more moments before splitting into two paths. Minho rounds the building while Jisung waits for the traffic lights to change to green and then he crosses the street.

Jisung doesn't look back at him. He does think, though, about how Minho could’ve continued his journey in the lift (which is the faster way to get to the underground parking space), yet he decided to walk outside with Jisung and waste his time on him.

If he weren't so greedy, Jisung would feel bad. He makes it into the park with a dubious simper plastered all over his face.

Changbin heavily drops his palms against his thighs, getting up from the bench he was resting on. Jisung watches him make his way over with a frown. They meet in the middle.

“Hyung, hi.” he bows his head, glasses sliding down his nose. He fixes them with his index finger.

“Don’t ‘hi’ me.” the shorter man grumbles. “I’ve been waiting for five minutes.”

“Exaggerating, as always,”

He receives a powerful slap on the shoulder. Jisung was already anticipating it, so it comes as no surprise. “Hyung, be nice to your dongsaeng!”

“This dongsaeng will soon experience a meet-cute with my fist.” Changbin threatens, fingers curling against his palm. It makes him look adorable, if anything.

“Yah, what will Channie hyung think of this?” Jisung laughs. Watches as Changbin’s hand lowers by his side. “Mhm, that’s what I thought.”

They saunter in the park until the end of it, crossing the street to enter a narrow pedestrian zone filled with small stores and cafés. Jisung often stops by to enjoy some cheesecake or an iced americano before work.

“Which one do you like?” Changbin asks while they walk in the direction of the sun.

It’s hot and it chars Jisung’s skin even through his clothes, but the blowing wind caters for it. Jisung breathes in the warm air. It caresses his lungs in all the right places. He points, two minutes later, at a small dark green bistro built between two taller, yellow buildings.

“There?”

A hum. “Mhm.”

They bump into each other while trying to both fit through the full-glass door. The cashier— a young girl with short dyed blonde hair and long acrylic nails— giggles behind the counter. Hayun.

She straightens her composure by putting on a nonchalant expression. Jisung walks up to her, Changbin trailing behind him. She snorts.

“Hello,”

“Iced americano for me,” Jisung squawks when the feeling of a finger pressing in between his shoulder blades shakes it out of him. “And a knife.” he adds.

“Oppa, our policy does not condone violence.” Hayun says, a smile cowing to bite at her lips.

“Does your policy condone poisoning a customer’s drink? Do I have to pay extra?”

“Mm,” she raises her pointer finger to her chin, seemingly deep in thought. Changbin wraps his hand around Jisung’s nape, squeezing as if he were a cat. “You don’t have to pay if you bring the poison yourself.”

“Oh, amazing,” Jisung whistles. It morphs into a whiny wail at the touch. His head snaps to the side, eyes glaring at the older. “Hyung!”

“Are you going to get anything or keep making a scene? People are looking.” Changbin grumbles.

There’s no one else inside the café. Whatever. Jisung takes out his wallet from the back pocket, searching inside. He pulls out cash. “As I said, I want an iced americano, make it sweet, and for him–” he elbows Changbin in the stomach.

“Yujacha, and a slice of carrot cake, please.”

“Coming right up!” Hayun sing-songs, tightening the forest viridescent apron around her waist. “Pay when you leave.”

The two men pick a spot by a large window, sun rays cracking through the clouds and splaying onto the dark wooden table.

“You really chose tea as an afternoon beverage,” the need to pick fun at Changbin pricks at Jisung’s skin.

“Yeah, I prefer sleeping rather than tossing around in bed for the whole night,” he deadpans, eyes shining in the light. Changbin is so beautiful. And talented. And muscular. No wonder he has a boyfriend.

Right.

“Ah! You never told me you had a boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend,” Changbin giggles dreamily until he snaps back into it. “I did tell you, Jisung.”

“No, you did not.”

“I did. A week ago. In the studio. When you were too busy drooling over your neighbour.” he hmphs, then dramatically adds, “Chan hyung is the only person who actually listens to me.”

“I was not–!” he shouts, high-pitched, just as Hayun comes over to their table. She sets down Changbin’s carrot cake, his austere drink, and lastly Jisung’s coffee. “Thank you, you sweet soul.”

“Oppa, you better leave me a nice tip. Nari unnie usually does.” she tries to wink and leaves when she’s unable to.

Changbin looks at his friend with a questioning look. Something like, bro, what the hell? And Jisung scoffs in his face. He wraps his lips around the black straw and swallows.

“She’s like, mine and Nari’s child.” he clarifies. “I used to babysit her when I was fifteen. Nari helped sometimes.”

“Fifteen?”

“Yeah. She’s from my town.”

“I see.”

Jisung gives a sly smile, “It’s good that you see, hyung.” and receives a brutal kick in his shin under the warm table. “Ouch, hey!”

“Our policy does not condone violence!”

Changbin pays for everything despite Jisung’s efforts to convince him not to.

-`ᯓ★´-

“Chan hyuuuuung,” Jisung fusses, throwing the pen on the desk. He looks at Chan, who’s beside him, and gives his best pout. “I’m hungry.”

“I’m also hungry!” Changbin shouts from the couch behind, awoken from his nap at the mention of food. Changbin is bulking, so he’s trying to overdose on protein— is what Jisung believes. Jisung also believes that Changbin’s body is hot, in a very bro way. The bulk is undisputedly working.

“You’re always hungry!” Chan cries out loud, the black headphones falling off his head and onto his lap. He looks at his younger friends, jabbing his words at the both of them. “We have to work,”

Jisung mocks with a pitched voice resembling irony, “We have to work,” and ducks away with the rolling chair to not get smacked. Chan’s also been bulking.

“Han Jisung.”

A gulp. Jisung claps his hands and sits up, grabbing the oversized black leather jacket he had forgotten at the studio a few days ago, and lets it swallow his body. “Let’s go get some meat.”

Changbin is the second one to stand up. “Fuck yeah,” he says as he stretches his limbs.

Chan sighs through his nose. “What about the song?”

“The song should get some sleep, too, hyung.” Jisung exclaims, putting out his palms in front of Chan. Chan, still sitting down, grimaces up at him. “Come on up!”

Eventually, the oldest agrees. He could say no to Changbin, but he would never be able to say no to Jisung, and Jisung always takes advantage of that.

They soon leave the studio. Chan locks it and drops the chained keys inside the pocket of his own denim jacket. They walk to the elevator, and don’t talk while inside of it.

Outside of the company building, the streetlights are dimmed. The smell in the air is unpleasant.

Since it’s only eight, on a Tuesday evening, there are a ton of people walking, swarming the street. The three of them keep close until they get to a station with cabs.

“I’ll sit in the front,” Changbin announces, making his way to the passenger door. Jisung stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Hyung, no, that’s my spot.” he says. Chan intervenes, parts them with his hands on their shoulders.

“I am the oldest, therefore I will be sitting there.” he smiles and opens the door, sitting down and starting a conversation with the man behind the wheel.

Jisung and Changbin take the backseat, with the former behind the driver’s seat and the latter behind Chan, who’s currently setting the destination on the car’s screen. A robotic voice shouts through the vehicle.

“You're too short to be sitting there, anyway.” Jisung murmurs.

The ride is longer than it should be due to the miscellany of people there is. Everyone must be rushing home at this hour. Jisung spreads his legs and turns on his phone, opening Instagram.

He scrolls through the exploration page filled with cute animals, piano covers, and occasionally funny memes, waiting for the time to pass.

It’s nearly fully dark outside by the time they make it to the restaurant—a barbeque place they’ve come to once too many times. It’s cheap and good. A steal, really.

Their waitress is the same every single time. She already knows what each of them wants. Regardless of that, she still asks, “Welcome, what would you like?” as she sets up the grill.

Chan orders beef tenderloin with pajeori. Changbin orders samgyeopsal. Jisung orders galbisal with fried rice. They all order soju.

When Rieon is home, Jisung refrains from drinking. His alcohol tolerance is close to the negatives— even a few sips can get his head to spin. He doesn't want his son to see him red in the face and stumbling over his words. That would add to the list of why Jisung is not a good father.

Owing to the charcoal grills fixed in the middle of all the tables, the temperature is high inside. Jisung takes off his jacket and hears Changbin whistle across from him.

“Chan hyung, did you know that this friend of ours is hiding a crucial secret?” Jisung speaks, eyeing the doors that lead to the kitchenette.

“Huh?” Chan hums, setting his phone down on the edge of the table. He looks straight at Jisung as Changbin snorts. “Does he?”

“Yes. He has a boyfriend, apparently.”

“Ah! Kim Seungmin-ie?”

Changbin stares at Jisung with a smug grin, who cannot believe that Changbin was actually right earlier today; had Jisung really not been listening to his friends’ conversations?

“Kim.. Seungmin?” he mutters. The name rings a bell, but the idea is immediately blown away when the waitress walks towards their table with three small green bottles. He thanks her politely. “I can't believe this.”

“Maybe if you weren't so busy thirsting over someone’s father.” Changbin shrugs, twisting the red cap and pouring the liquid into a shot glass.

“Woah, woah, woah there,” Chan looks up from his own drink to Changbin right next to him. “What is going on here?”

“You don't know?”

“I don't,”

Jisung pouts. He takes a swift gulp, the beverage running down his throat and uncomfortably burning his oesophagus. He doesn't stop Changbin. It is true, no matter how many times Jisung tries to deny it.

“The reason why our Jisungie hasn't been paying attention lately is because..” Changbin attentively watches Jisung’s face. Tries to tempt him to bite back. “Well, the man he kept bugging by showing up to his apartment, admittedly as an accident, has been taking a toll on Jisung’s mind.”

“I know that much.” Chan’s stare switches from his left to across from him.

“Said man is a father.”

Chan remains silent. He drinks from the glass in one go and wipes his mouth with the rough back of his hand. He turns to look at Jisung. A condescending look. “Is that so, Hannie? You’re into dilfs?”

“Yah!” Jisung yips, a bit too loud. A few people turn their heads towards his direction. “Stop talking like Felix.”

The meat is soon placed on the table. Chan stops the waitress from leaving with a hand in the air and the clear of his throat. “Can we have some gochujang too?”

“And a portion of kimchi,” Changbin adds. Jisung doesn't order anything else.

His eyes stay fixed on the grill, where Chan is holding a sliced piece of his meat with chopsticks. He lowers it down and leaves it there to cook. Repeats with the other slices, leaving no room for anything else.

Three tiny glasses of soju in, and Jisung is already growing tipsy. Lost in his thoughts. He thinks about how he must absolutely pay attention to the button he’ll press once inside the elevator. He doesn't want to embarrass himself further. It’s a man with a kid, after all.

“Jisung-ah, Jisung-ah,” Changbin pokes his hand with one chopstick. The end of it burns. He flinches away, eyes moving up.

“Mm?” he hums, all voices temporarily blocked out. Chan is already eating his food.

“Grill. Do you plan on eating raw meat?”

Shaking his head, Jisung picks up a few slices all at once. They end up on the scorching hot grate. He busies himself by eating some of the rice with a deep-bowl spoon. He doesn't like this spoon. It looks more like a ladle.

Despite the little alcohol running through his system making him drowsy, he still pours another sip down his throat. It’s bitter, but his tongue is starting to get used to the taste after so long. He decides that he’ll drink just two more, because the glass is small, and so far he’s drunk not even half of the 375-millilitre bottle.

“So, Jisung,” Changbin nags him again while he eats a lettuce wrap dipped in sauce. “Are you planning to hit on this man?”

“Of course not,” he shrugs, watching as his beef is starting to change colour. “But he baked me Mads.”

Pause.

“Mads? As in Madeleines? As in, your favourite food?”

Chan’s eyebrows raise at Jisung’s previous statement, at his friends’ conversation. He looks over, observing with a quiet gaze.

“Yeah. Mads.” a sigh, and then a whisper, “Made with mandarines.”

Chan shoots up from his seat. Changbin jerks. Jisung bats his eyelids.

“With mandarines!” the eldest exclaims, attracting the attention of everyone nearby. “Sheesh,” his hand with the chopsticks raises in the air, calling for the waitress. “One more bottle of soju, please!”

Changbin laughs. Tugs at his shirt to pull him down. “Dude, you’re wasted.”

“Not.”

“He isn’t,” Jisung sighs, massaging his temples with his thumb and middle finger. The middle finger is secretly directed at his hyungs. A move he last pulled in high school. “That’s Bang Chan for you. He gets like that sometimes.”

They do get another soju. Jisung doesn't really know what they’re celebrating, and he doesn't drink any more either. He gives the rest of his beer to Changbin, who happily welcomes it. “God bless you, Jisung-ah.” he lauds.

“He blessed me with that hot neighbour already.”

“That’s the spirit, man!”

Even though Changbin begs to pay, Jisung meddles and snitches that he had already paid today for their hangout. Jisung doesn't even try to convince Chan to let him pay, because he won’t budge. Chan pays for everything.

They take another cab home, which is currently waiting on the curb at the end of the street. Jisung is staggering on his feet, head spinning every now and then. Changbin is no better. Chan cannot walk perfectly in a straight line, but he’s the soberest out of them. Somehow.

The ride home is tiring. It’s half past nine and the roads are still filled with cars. Jisung is sure that at some point he fell asleep, because when he lifts his head from Changbin’s shoulder, he’s in front of the tall building he lives in.

“Bye, kids, stay safe and sound,” Chan calls from the passenger’s seat as the two of them scramble to get out of the car.

“‘Night, hyung,” they say in a chorus, and then the taxi drives away, disappearing into the sea of cars.

Changbin pats Jisung on the head. “I’ll go now, gotta meet my boyfriend early tomorrow. We have a date. A fun date.”

Jisung stares at him with a scowl. “I don’t really care, but I hope you two will have fun.” he deadpans, “Goodnight.” and walks away, up the stairs that lead to the main entrance.

He takes the elevator. Makes sure that it’s heading to the fourth floor.

And the doors do open to reveal the hallway with a big four on one of its walls, but— why is Lee Minho walking towards him right now?

Oh god.

His own jacket is hung low on his elbows, naked biceps bulging out with how he’s contracting his muscles. Unintentionally, or maybe with a bit of intention. The top he’s wearing has a stain right in the middle of his chest from sauce. His hair is probably messy, and he must reek of beer.

The automatic doors almost close in on him when he walks out of the lift. Minho notices him and breaks into a short smile.

“Hello again, Jisung.” he says, stopping in front of him with a wave. He’s wearing grey sweatpants with a t-shirt. Fuzzy slippers, too.

“Oh, hey,” Jisung replies, and his jaw clenches. Not in annoyance. “Did I– did I get the floor wrong again?” he asks, glancing at the number on the wall. It’s a four, indeed, but the booze running through his blood might be tricking him.

“No. No, you didn't.”

“Oh, um.”

Minho sighs through his nose and awkwardly scratches his nape. “I did.”

“You did?”

“Kinda,”

Jisung laughs. He doesn't know why. But he laughs. He wraps his arms around his abdomen, because laughing with a full stomach hurts, but he still laughs. Minho looks at him like he’s crazy for a few seconds, and then breaks into a laughing fit too. One a bit too loud for this late hour.

That voice comes back. It says, this dilf matches your freak, sheesh! And Jisung knows that it belongs to Felix.

“Ah,” Jisung moans, trying not to throw up. He hopes that the feeling inside his body is not caused by the remains of food crawling back up.

“It’s late,” Minho affirms after a few more thorny seconds. “Not that late, though.”

“Yeah,”

“So. How are you?” he tilts his head.

The embarrassment Jisung feels is physical. His heart races, his hands start sweating, his feet are teetering on needles and his face warms up impossibly fast. “Good,” he mumbles. Then, louder, “Was out with the boys.”

A snicker. Not an arrogant one, though. “The boys,” he repeats. “Was it fun?”

“Mm, my hyungs took extraordinary care of me.”

“As they should.”

Whatever that means. Jisung’s breathing accelerates in the subtlest bit. “Yup.”

“I was, uh,” Minho looks away. As if he can't hold eye contact now. Jisung wonders if his eyes might have crossed from how hard he’s staring at the older. “My daughter’s at a sleepover, so I thought I could..” he stops speaking to take a breath. “Could take you up on that old offer for coffee.”

“Oh,” Jisung inhales. His fingers grip the sleeves of his jacket. “Sounds fun. Let’s go.” he takes the initiative and walks past Minho, towards his apartment, taking the keys out of his pocket meanwhile. He tries, extremely hard, not to fall on his face or trip over his feet. He’s not drunk. He’s not sober either. He’s on cloud nine now that Minho is in his vicinity.

“I hope you don’t mind the auto-invitation.” he hears him say.

“Don’t be silly,” Jisung replies, twisting the key and pushing the door open. “I hope you don’t mind the mess that my home is.”

“Don’t be silly.”

It’s too dark inside. He flips the switch connected to the vestibule on. Minho follows him, stopping right after the threshold and attempting to take off his house slippers. Jisung stops him.

“Keep them on, it’s fine.”

Shrugging, Minho steps further inside and closes the front door behind him just as Jisung is bent down to take off his sneakers.

“I’m not going to make coffee, but I can give you a glass of wine. I don't have beer.” Jisung walks into the kitchen on the right. Feels Minho behind him with each step he takes. It’s both comforting and distressing. This man could pull out a knife and pierce it right through his skin.

For some reason, though, he trusts him enough that he wouldn't do such a thing. Actually, it should’ve been Minho being wary of Jisung. Hence the whole… getting the wrong apartment thing.

“Wine’s fine, as long as it’s red,” Minho says, stopping as Jisung wanders through his kitchen. “If you don’t have red, that’s okay too, I’ll take whatever.”

“I have red. I like red wine.” Jisung smiles to himself once his back is turned. He looks through the cupboards for two specific glasses. “I like the colour red, too. ‘S pretty.”

“Mhm, it is.”

Five minutes later, they’re sitting close on Jisung’s balcony on his bean bag chair. It’s big enough that they both fit, but their limbs are touching regardless. His skin is burning everywhere.

Jisung takes small sips. He only poured himself so little, since he was already pretty tipsy from the start. He doesn't like being drunk.

Minho sips gracefully, looking at the stars. Jisung only watches him with his peripheral vision. God who blessed me with this, thank you, he thinks.

“I didn't think you actually wanted to hang out with me,” Jisung admits, the alcohol clouding his brain and liquifying every rational thought he might’ve had left. “But I'm glad you do.”

“You seem fun, Jisung.”

“I’d hope so.”

Minho hums, taking another long gulp. He makes a little ahh noise afterwards, setting the glass down on the cold grey tiles. “Where’s your son, by the way?”

“At his mother’s. She’s getting married soon, so I thought he’d like to spend some time with her before, you know, honeymoon and stuff. They’re going to Japan.” he explains, gesturing with his hands more than he should. He almost hits Minho in the face as he does. “Rieon wanted– sorry– to stay with her.”

“Is that so?” Minho simply replies. He’s looking at Jisung with soft eyes. Jisung catches his gaze. The words die on his tongue. “Then, you’re.. single?”

Jisung’s eyes widen a comical amount. He looks at Minho for a few moments. Sees the obscured panic in the way his eyes shine and that’s when he realizes that he hasn’t answered yet. “No– I mean, yes. Yes, I’m single. Ready to, uh– I am single.” he gulps down the built-up saliva, the glass forgotten fixed down by his side.

“Understood.”

He doesn’t get a me too in response, and it bugs him. For some fucked up reason. This man is probably married, in a ten-year-long relationship. With a child. A wife.

“Your– your daughter,” he starts, not knowing what he’s trying to say. Those three microscopic sips of wine got to his brain before they got to his stomach. “Where is she?”

“At a sleepover.”

“Oh, right. You already told me.”

Minho just nods with a smile. He rests his head back against the wall, still looking at the black sky dotted with blinking stars. Jisung copies him. “You never told me your age.”

“Pushing thirty-one,” Minho says.

“I’m almost twenty-nine.”

Their shoulders touch. Neither one moves, nor breaks the serene silence. They listen to the crickets chirping down below, the dogs barking, the cars honking. It’s peaceful, and for some unknown reason, Jisung feels like he’s known Minho for a lifetime. Maybe he has, in another universe.

For the past month, Jisung has been seeing this stunning face everywhere. Whether it is at the grocery store around the corner, on his morning runs in the park, or in the lobby of their tenement. He’s not complaining. They’d exchange quiet hi’s and nods of the head. Never a full conversation. Jisung would run away before they had the chance to.

The clouds part to make way for the moon, similar to the opening of red curtains for a theatre play.

“She’s so pretty,” Jisung sighs.

“Hm?” It’s more of a vibration than it is a sound.

“The moon. She’s gorgeous.”

“Oh,” Minho replies. He looks at the moon, bright in all her glory, and smiles. “Yeah. Beautiful.”

“I think the sun is lovely too.”

“She is. They both are.”

“You’re..” Jisung sucks in a crisp breath. “Also beautiful,” he exhales, the next word heavy on his tongue. It presses down on it. Makes him want to gag. “Hyung.”

Minho’s head snaps back to look at him so hard it must’ve given him whiplash. He searches his eyes for something. Jisung would give it to him if he knew what it was. “I’m beautiful?”

“The most,” a diffident whisper. “Hyung.”

Fuck. Jisung’s gaze involuntarily moves down. To Minho’s lips. Gorgeous, stained red and shiny with spit. So, so gorgeous. Jisung’s skin itches. He blames it on the beverages he mindlessly consumed. He swears to himself that he’ll never drink again.

“Mm?” Minho’s eyes don't deviate, as though they’re afraid to.

“I’m kinda drunk,” he frowns. “Not drunk. Tipsy. I don't like drinking a lot. I’m not drunk.”

There’s an enchanting lift in the corner of Minho’s mouth that smears Jisung’s intoxicated brain with stupid thoughts. “You’re not drunk. Jisungie.”

“D’you want more wine?” the nickname echoes in Jisung’s mind over and over again.

“I don’t think you should be drinking any more. If you do, you’ll be drunk.”

“Not me,” he pouts, index finger gesticulating at him. “Hyung.”

The sparks holding his irises together get brighter. Their faces are apart, but Jisung can feel the warm bouquet exhale Minho lets out through his parted lips. Oh, those sui generis lips.

“Hyung doesn’t want to drink any more either. Has to go to work early in the morning.”

Jisung whines, leaning the side of his head on the wall. It’s cold against the skin around his brow. “Don’t remind me,”

“Okay. I won’t.”

They stare at each other for exactly eight more seconds before Jisung looks away, back at the moon. She’s still there. Watching them. Is she proud? That Jisung finally made a move? Did he even make a move? What even is going on? Are they still strangers, or did their status change? Does she know? Jisung will ask her for answers once Minho’s off to sleep.

A cloud covers her again. Like a blanket. She must be cold.

Shit, Jisung is shivering. His body is freezing. He didn't realize because Minho’s warm next to him. His bare arm is against Jisung’s, flesh clinging to flesh. They’re both too underdressed for this chilly night. They’re also too overdressed for this chilly night.

Minho brings the glass up to his mouth and sips the rest of the wine.

Jisung thinks he’s about to get up and leave, so his hand wraps around Minho’s wrist to stop him. He squeezes.

“Hm?” he looks at him keenly. “What is it?”

“Don’t want you to leave,” Jisung rustles like the leaves do. “Yet.”

“You don’t want me to leave?”

“Mhmm.”

“I’m not going to,” Minho promises.

“Wanna know more.”

“About?”

He’s out of his mind. He condemns the wine, and the beer, and the moon winking down at him in encouragement. His hand raises in the air, en route toward Minho’s face. The flash of a sober thought stops him from reaching for his hair. He stops midway in the air. Looks at Minho for something. He doesn't really know for what precisely. He’ll figure it out with time.

“Hyung.”

“Do I seem that interesting?” Minho smiles. Grabs Jisung’s waiting hand and guides it to his own head.

With doubt in his handiwork, Jisung brushes the strand that has been troubling him out of Minho’s eyes. How dare it try to hide his grandeur? “You are,” he gently bobs his head.

“Is there anything specific you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“Everything.” Minho croons. His face contorts into bliss with how Jisung is petting his head. It’s very sweet to see. Jisung wants to jump off the balcony. “I like cats. I have three. I’ve had them since I was eighteen. They live with my parents, but I’m planning on moving them here soon.” he leans into Jisung’s touch. Like a cat. Jisung terribly wants to jump off the balcony. “I also like dancing.”

“What else?”

“Tangerines,” he confesses. “But I think that nowadays I like mandarines more. I’m not sure why.”

“I love mandarines. They’ve always been my favourite fruit.”

“I know.”

Jisung tilts his head. His eyes grow big. He’s still playing with Minho’s bangs. His hand seems to have a mind of its own. Minho doesn’t say anything; lets him do whatever. “What.. else?”

“Huh,” Minho shrugs. “God knows. There’s not much to enjoy at this age. There's no free time.”

“Right. What else?”

The older scans his eyes. “You seem adamant about something. You can just ask, Jisungie.”

“Are you single?” he mumbles. The words mix together, his tongue feeling tied.

“Am I what?”

“Single.”

Minho’s eyes turn into half moons. Like the shape of Jisung’s glasses. Like the current yellow piece of cheese high in the sky. “Yes.”

If Jisung was in the right mind, he’d probably raise his fist in the air and scream hell yeah in victory. His fingers prefer to caress Minho’s hair, though. “Me too.”

“That’s good, Jisung.”

“‘S not,” he sighs, finally retracting his hand and resting it on his own lap. His organs feel cold. His lungs swell with freezing air. His heart is trembling in his throat. “It sucks.”

“Why’s that?”

“All of my friends have boyfriends. ‘M jealous, hyung. They write love songs better than I do ‘cause of that.”

“You write songs?” Minho looks genuinely curious. He shifts, turning his body sideways to catch a better sight of Jisung. “Do you release them?”

“I write songs for others.”

“That’s impressive.”

Jisung gawks at him. “You think so?”

“I wouldn't have said it if I didn't think so.”

“‘S impressive..”

He nods. “It really is, Jisung. It suits you.”

“I’ve always liked songwriting. Mum calls me her prodigy.”

“That you are,” Minho agrees. “I want to know more about you, too,” he decides, raking his gaze over Jisung’s face.

“Oh,” Jisung keeps staring into the universe he holds. “There’s nothing cool about me.”

“I disagree.”

“I’m raising my son on my own. It was my mistake, back then. I regret it, but I love him. Rieon is my blessing,” he opens up, because the wind is gentle with his hair. “I just wish that this blessing came to me later in life, you know. I was barely nineteen.”

“Barely nineteen,” Minho puckers his lips in thought. “You know what I think?” he inquires, and when Jisung blinks up at him, he continues, “That everything happens for a reason.”

“Indeed, but.”

“Mhm. I understand.”

“Then,” Jisung bats his eyelashes, which he’s so thankful for because they protect his eyes. “Embarrassing myself like that, in front of you, had a purpose?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs with a chuckle. “Probably.”

He flushes. “I also cannot handle spicy food. Like, at all. Or alcohol. As you can tell.”

A fond laugh. “I love spicy food.”

“You demon.”

The crickets continue serenading them from all the way down, in the grass. They’re having a pretty cool concert.

Minho looks down at his body, his arms. Jisung feels hot all over despite the cold temperature that surrounds them. Could Minho also be thirsting over him, like Changbin said?

No. “You seem cold. Are you sure you don't want to head inside?”

“Oh,” Jisung pouts. He presses his lips together in a tight line, his chin wrinkling and his nose scrunching. “Are you going to leave?”

“You really don't want me to leave, do you?”

“I don't.”

“Then I won't.” Minho shrugs. He stands up, bones cracking. He holds his hands out for Jisung to take. “Not yet, at least. Later. Whenever you’re ready to let me go.”

“Don’t make it sound like I’m holding you hostage, hyung.”

A wide smile. Minho urges him to latch onto his hands. Once he does, he pulls him up. Jisung stumbles. Everything spins. The butterflies in his stomach, his heart, his head. He’s dizzy.

Blood rushes to his brain and he forgets how to breathe for a second. His ears ring and he clenches onto Minho, scared he’s going to fall. Minho is there to hold him. He vaguely registers being led inside his bedroom, where the bed is unmade and there’s a meagre pile of clothes scattered somewhere in a corner.

“Drink this,” he’s handed a cold glass of water and he’s wrapped in warmth. A blanket, not a hug. What he needed, not what he wanted.

He gulps down the refreshing liquid in one big sip. Then, he hands it back to Minho. His ears are functioning normally again now that he’s sitting down on the edge of his bed. God really did bless him with this man.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Minho shakes his head. He’s crouched down in front of him.

“Shouldn’t have drank.” he mumbles to himself, rubbing his face with scaly palms. “I’m going to have a horrible headache tomorrow. Rieon will realize that I’m.. I’m–”

“Shh.”

A hand on his knee. Jisung lowers his own. Looks at Minho, a kaleidoscope of colours muddying his vision. His glasses are not on his nose anymore.

“Don’t worry your head too much about it.”

“Okay.”

Minho’s stare is delicate. It brings peace to the turmoil happening inside of Jisung. Where everything’s chaotic. There’s so much going on that he doesn't know what to overthink about first.

“It’s almost eleven.” Minho says after looking in the direction of Jisung’s clock on the nightstand. “Are you tired?”

“Very,” he nods, falling back down on the bed. He whines at the ablaze light on the ceiling. “You?”

“A bit, I won’t lie to you.”

When Minho notices Jisung’s discomfort, he immediately rises to his feet and looks for the switch. He finds it behind the open door and turns the light off.

It’s not complete darkness with the dim lamp in the hallway and the moon seeping through the thin curtains. Jisung feels the caress on his cheek, and he thinks that it’s Minho, but he recognizes the familiarity of it— it’s her. The moon. It’s always her.

“You think you’ll be okay if I leave now?”

Jisung wants to say no. Wants to drop to his knees and beg him to stay. It’s embarrassing to admit; he infallibly gets clingy and emotional when merry. Like a teenager.

Instead, he says, “Of course,” and turns his head to stare at Minho, who’s now by his side, standing up. He has to uncomfortably crane his neck to see his face and not his thighs from the position he’s lying in. “It’s late. Go to sleep.” Jisung tries to smile, but his cheek presses against the mattress. “I can manage.”

“I’m not very convinced,” he tries to tease. There's that fond mien on his face again. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me, yeah?”

“Mhm,”

“Sleep well, Jisungie. You need it.”

“I do.” he yawns and doesn't hide it. “G’night, hyung. Thank you for spending– yawn– time with me.”

“It was my pleasure, truly.” Minho says. He stands for three more minutes and just then leaves with a whispered sweet dreams, it was nice to get to know you.

Jisung hears the door close. It remains unlocked. He falls asleep thinking about fond gazes, mellow voice, pink lips. He dreams about caring hands, gentle tugs, tangled bodies.

When Jisung wakes up hungover with a throbbing head and nausea haunting his chest, he’s welcomed in the kitchen by a cold bowl of haejang guk covered with a napkin that has flowers on it, a 500-millilitre bottle of water, and a tiny note with the face of an askew cat drawing on it.

Chapter Text

—5:37 PM, Thursday

“Appa!”

Rieon breaks free from his mother’s grasp, running straight into his father’s welcoming arms. Jisung sniffles. He blames it on the pollen lost in the air particles.

“Hey, buddy,” Jisung crouches down, and his hands wrap around the kid’s back. He noses at his hair, the smell of candy filling his senses. “How are you?”

“Good! Eomma and I went to the park just now. I missed you.”

Jisung’s heart swells. He looks up at Rieon with shiny eyes and stands back up on the balls of his feet, spine straightening. Nari is staring at them lovingly, and he walks closer to her. Rieon jumps happily beside them. “Was he good?” Jisung asks.

Nari nods, leaning against the car door, her nails scratching at Rieon’s scalp. “He’s truly the best.”

She’s wearing a yellow floral sundress, hair up in a ponytail. No makeup. Jisung sees his childhood in her features. Two kids jumping from the swings, both fighting to reach higher than the other.

The wind blows powerfully. A thunderstorm was announced to hit this part of the city at seven. The sky seems to be ready for it. The clouds look mad. They’re hiding the sun again. She has to rest, too. Everyone gets burnt out from shining too much at times. Jisung understands.

“Are you up for coffee?”

“Sorry,” she shakes her head. “Eunhyeok’s waiting for me at home.”

“No worries.” Jisung smiles. He offers his hand to Rieon, whose gaze is fixed on the ground, curiously watching an ant carry a crumb of something to its family. “Ready to go, bumblebee?”

The younger engulfs Nari in a bone-breaking hug, face in her belly. Her palm rubs his nape comfortingly. Jisung waits for their moment to die on its own. Rieon needs this. It’s the end of May, and the wedding is barely a month away.

“I have to go now, sweetie.” Nari apologizes with a peck on Rieon’s forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“Tell Mikan I love her!”

“Will do.”

Jisung places his hand on the boy’s shoulder. The atmosphere is getting more and more moist, the luminosity darkening despite it being afternoon. “We have to let eomma go now, alright?”

“Okay,”

And they do. Nari climbs into her car. Jisung and Rieon climb the stairs of the building.

They head inside the elevator. Rieon is talking Jisung’s ear off about the places he visited in the few days he spent with his mother and her fiancé. They went to a Vietnamese restaurant. They went to an amusement park last weekend. Eunhyeok drove Rieon to school daily.

“I’m glad to hear that you had fun, Rieonie,”

“Did you have fun too, Appa?”

He thinks about Minho. About one week ago, when he came over at night. About how they talked for an entire hour and more. About how Minho cooked him hangover soup because he knew Jisung would need it. About how they went on a morning run together this Monday. Besides being sweet and attentive, Minho is also terribly athletic. The conclusion is that yes, Jisung had fun too.

“I did, but I missed you.”

The hallway they walk through to reach home is eerily quiet. Jisung can hear the buzzing of the electricity running through the cables from behind the walls. He hears the annoying noise of flickering light. He can smell the coldness that makes up for the empty space. The storm is definitely approaching.

Jisung unlocks the door and lets Rieon walk in first. They take off their shoes and set the pairs on the rack. Jisung helps his son with the puffer jacket he’s wearing, looping it on the hanger.

“Are you hungry?”

“I ate at eomma’s house,” Rieon says, running inside the living room and jumping on the couch.

There are no more Madeleines left. Jisung greedily finished them on Friday, when he realized that they’d go bad if he kept them. He makes two cups of tea which he brings to the sofa, placing them down on the coffee table.

Rieon is watching a cartoon, eyes riveted to the TV. Robocar Poli.

It’s good that he’s learning about cars. Or whatever this animation is about. Jisung doesn’t quite know. It's good anyway. Rieon is always so absorbed in the stuff he’s watching.

“Can appa work?”

“Mhm,” Rieon hums mindlessly, sipping on the sweet tea. Jisung sighs and pulls the overbed table closer to where he’s sitting on the edge of the couch. Picks up the pen and opens the notebook. Looks blankly at the page he stopped at. Did the words run away?

Chan told him to work on a song he had given up on months ago. He felt like it didn’t make sense. It annoyed him.

Because it’s a love song. It’s an upbeat love song about beating hearts, blooming flowers, and dying butterflies. Kind of sappy, even for someone like him. He can’t recall to which group this song will be given to, but he's aware that he needs to finish it before July begins. Not a long time left. He’s starting to get stressed out.

His eyes focus and unfocus. He tries to think of love. What exactly is love?

Humans are pretty simple creatures. They give and take. Sometimes physical objects, other times things that can only be touched by the heart— like love.

Loving has always been easy to Jisung. He loves his son, his parents, his friends, his dog. He also loves flowers, music, sweets, mandarines. He loves a lot. But. How far could this love go? Non-romantic love? It’s strong, yet not the most potent.

Romance will always be the caramelized cherry on top of the cake. Too sweet to some people, too sour to the others.

He starts writing down a few lines about being lost, like a fugitive puppy in the rain, and then continues it with thoughts about how finding oneself instead of waiting to be found is a better option.

Jisung’s brain, overwhelmed by the noises coming from Rieon gulping down his drink and the television noise, starts thinking unduly deeply.

God damn it.

He thinks about his life back in high school. When he was seventeen. Holding hands in a vacant skate park with a tall, ethereal beauty. Brown-ish mullet, dark eyes, chiselled nose. Two moles adorning the rosy skin. Hwang Hyunjin. People would call him a fuckboy, but Jisung knew better. He was a sweetheart. Brawny, intelligent, handsome. Girls would fawn over him all the time.

Their love story was complicated. Jisung was considered a nerd, for the simple reason that he loved science and was good at it. Hyunjin was on the football team. He used to play on every break. Jisung would watch from the sides and cheer him on.

It wasn’t love— it came close to it, though. They broke up after five months of dating, before Jisung’s eighteenth birthday. It was raining outside.

Hyunjin cried. Jisung sobbed.

“I’m sorry, ‘Sung. She’s so pretty.”

She was pretty. Long black hair, freckles, thin frame. She was a cheerleader. They were perfect together.

More than a decade passed from then. Jisung still remembers everything. He’s by all means over it now, but the wound still hasn’t healed. He keeps on spilling salt straight out of the sea right inside of it.

A loud thunder makes his body jolt. His head snaps towards his left, where the cracked-open window is. Rieon is clinging to his arm, startled by the loud noise.

“Let me go close the window, alright? You don’t want the thunderbolt to sneak inside, do you?”

Rieon frantically shakes his head.

Jisung gets up and walks two steps up to the wall. He grabs the brown handle and manoeuvres it around until the window is closed, creating a barrier between them and the outside world.

Looking outside, he can see a few people running in the drizzle. The sky goes white with another flashing lightning striking it. He grabs a handful of the two curtains and brings them close together, blocking everything out.

“Appa,” Rieon mutters from the sofa. He’s looking at the show.

“It’s okay, it won’t hurt us.” Jisung promises. As the years passed, Jisung got less and less scared of thunderstorms. There are scarier things life holds. His son is too young to understand that, so Jisung suggests, “Let's make a puzzle?”

“I wanna!”

There’s a box with a one-thousand piece puzzle somewhere in this lounge room. Jisung starts searching for it. He finds it five minutes later, dusty at the top of the shelf. He clambers on a chair to get it.

The image is one of a cat snuggling a grumpy bunny. White with grey fading on their faces. Adorable, both of them. He sets the box down on the carpet at its corner and reaches for the cold tea that has been patiently waiting for him for the past fifteen minutes. Rieon plants himself on his stomach next to his father, who’s sitting down with his legs crossed.

“We have to separate the middle pieces from the border ones,” the boy says, ripping open the package, sending the tabs flying on the parquet and under the chest supporting the TV. Jisung laughs and fixes his glasses higher on his nose, the rim of the porcelain cup having come in contact with it when he drank.

“Sorry.” Rieon starts to clean up the mess and sort out the edges at the same time.

Jisung lends him a helpful hand. It still takes them a lot of time, but now that they’ve finished dividing, they can get to the real challenge.

It’s Jisung’s favourite part. Call him boring— a nerd, like he was in school. Hell, he doesn’t care. He stopped taking unkind words to his heart a long time ago. When it was filled to the brim with negativity. Like a jar. Jars can break if they are too full. Nari isn’t a surgeon, nor a cardiologist, and regardless of that she still helped him seal the cracks back.

“I think these two go together,” Rieon speaks over the roar of a thunder, holding up two pieces that appear to be remotely close in colour.

Indeed, the knob fits the socket perfectly. Huh.

“These as well.” Jisung puts the pair aside. The corner pieces are the easiest to locate, since there are only four of them. Jisung finds the ones with one knob. Rieon only finds the one with two. They come across the last one together, two minutes later.

The tea is bitter now that it’s gone cold. Jisung drinks it nonetheless, taking a few mouthfuls every now and then, letting the liquid warm up in the hollow of his cheeks.

After seven more minutes of them connecting the puzzle pieces together, the storm picks up its pace. The raindrops fall down faster, aggressively dying on the clean glass of the windows. The din of the gale blasting gives an unsettling feeling, especially when accompanied by a reverberating thunder. It feels like the whole building shakes because of its force.

Rieon has calmed down, though. He does get scared at first, but once he’s gotten acclimatised to the noise, he stops startling. Jisung only got around to it in his early twenties. Rieon was just a baby back then.

Eventually, as the tempest outside worsens— the sky only showing that it’s still there by lightening up thanks to the repetitive flashes of lightning— they make progress, the puzzle starting to set into place. To take shape and form.

“Look, the cat,” Rieon exclaims. Points to what should be its face, except that many tabs are missing. “Mikan!”

“Mhm,” Jisung beams, pretending to have the same opinion. “Like Mikan.”

“Eomma said that Mikan will have a little brother. Me and her both.”

“A brother?”

“Yeah!” he tries to fit two pieces together. They don’t fit perfectly. Not meant to be since the very start.

Jisung sucks on his bottom lip. “She’s getting another cat?”

“No, there’s a little Rieonie inside her belly.”

Oh.

Nari is pregnant. With another boy. Jisung breaks into a genuine smile. “That’s amazing, bunny.”

“Ew, don’t call me that, Appa.” he scrunches his nose at him.

The image is slowly coming to be like the one printed on the box. Jisung sings a tune to himself. The rain rudely covers his soft hums.

Rieon soon starts yawning, movements getting sluggish. He looks at his father with heavy eyelids, waiting for him to notice. Jisung is too preoccupied by the puzzle.

“Appa,” Rieon pouts, shaking Jisung’s knee. “Appa, can we stop?”

“Oh, okay,” Jisung stops altogether.

“I’m hungry,”

Shit. Jisung didn’t cook anything. The fridge is empty, holding only a few eggs and half a cucumber. This week has been hectic— he was supposed to go shopping yesterday night, but it might’ve completely slipped his mind when he saw Minho walking towards the park with his daughter.

He’s a terrible father.

“You can– go to your room, or keep watching TV. I’ll go make something.” Jisung huffs as he stands up, supporting his own hips with a hold of his hands. Rieon smiles innocently at him and drags himself to the couch.

In the kitchen, Jisung breaks down. Not in tears, because he cannot keep silent and he doesn't want Rieon to hear, but in exhaustion.

His body is screaming at him to take it easy. All of his organs unite and send different signals to his brain to let it know that even if it can’t feel pain, they can. It’s a hard thing to grasp. And Jisung has a stubborn brain. A very stubborn one.

At the gym, he repeats the exercises until oxygen doesn’t reach its destination anymore. He’s been going there every day for the past week. In the mornings. At home, he writes until his fingers cannot move anymore. At work, he helps with the production of songs until his body gives up and he falls asleep.

He stirs the thoughts away and looks through the cupboards, praying to find at least one package of instant noodles. Or crackers. Or anything edible, preferably. He doesn’t come back victorious.

Take out, it is.

Jisung fumbles his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants and searches for restaurants near him. He chooses a random one and makes the call, anxiously looking out the window. The storm is still raging.

A man takes his order. Japchae, jokbal, and tteokbokki. These are all things Rieon likes, and they’re light for dinner.

Another thunder cracks just as he’s saying his address. He deems that it was understandable and ends the conversation after finding out the price of his meal. It’s cheap.

With a prolonged sigh, Jisung turns the volume up and leaves his phone on the counter, walking past Rieon in the living room and into the hallway. It’s dark. He uses his toe to press the button that whirrs the lamp with a yellow haze to life. Jisung nods to himself, content, and walks inside the bathroom.

His stomach grumbles. The tea only served to make him more hungry. Jisung hates feeling hungry. It makes him nauseous. Something about the gastric acid whirring in a beseech for food.

He sets his glasses aside after voiding his bladder and splashes water on his face, the beads running down his forearms in frail streams. Like they are outside.

It doesn't do much to ease his mind. His wet eyelashes get stuck together, heavy on his eyes. He looks at the mirror in front of him.

The stubble around his mouth is getting more and more prominent. It’s growing fast, and Jisung is too lazy to shave it periodically. Maybe he should grow it out. He wonders if Minho would like it.

Wait. Why would it matter whether Minho likes it or not?

Minho is nothing more than his hot neighbour who has a sweet personality and who can also cook remarkably well. With a cute daughter that happens to go to the same school as Rieon.

Hah. Who would’ve thought? That the apartment he kept mixing up with his own belonged to someone representing some kind of highness?

He doesn't know what true romantic love is, but what he does know is that he needs to stop his heart from beating out of his chest at the thought of him. Jisung should be more responsible.

At one point, maybe six minutes later spent with Jisung aimlessly staring at the stranger in the mirror, he washes his face one more time. Cold water. Afterwards, Jisung pats the maroon towel on his face until it’s almost dry.

Just as he steps out of the bathroom, he sees Rieon fastly approaching him, footsteps bouncing off the walls.

“Appa,” he stops in front of him. “Someone’s at the door.”

Panic emerges inside his body. Until he realizes that it could be the delivery man. It’s already been over twenty minutes, after all.

Jisung hurries to the door, wrists still moist with dried water. He grabs the cash from his leather wallet in the hallway and unlocks the door, pulling it open.

What he expects to see is an elderly man holding a steaming bag of food in his hands. What he doesn't expect to see is Lee Minho holding said steaming bag in his hands, a dumb smile on his face.

“Hello, order for Han Jisung.” he says childishly. Jisung can't help but fall into confused giggles.

“Hey,” Jisung tries to morph his face into a serious one. “What are you doing?”

“Delivering your food.”

Is that his job? Jisung doesn't ask. The curiosity eats from his flesh, making him itch.

“Well, thank you, then.”

Minho hands him the bag. Jisung holds it from both the top and the bottom, fingertips warming up. He relishes in that. A thunder claps in the distance. The cash in his hands is momentarily forgotten.

“You really made someone drive into this weather, during a thunderstorm, to bring you food, huh?” Minho teases. His tone is temperate. The apples of his cheeks lift up.

“I– I’m sorry for making you do this,”

“Oh, not me. The delivery guy.”

“Huh,” Jisung raises an eyebrow. “You’re not the delivery dude, are you?”

“Nope,” he shrugs. “The guy got the apartment wrong. Like you.”

“Like me,”

“It’s only cute when you do it.” Minho says, and Jisung’s stomach flips again. Is he flirting?

Rieon is, thankfully, here to save the day. He appears from behind Jisung, stopping beside him, looking straight at Minho. Right! Rieon has never met him.

“Oh? Hi there,” Minho extends his hand for the kid to shake. Rieon glances at it reluctantly before giving in.

“Hi,” he answers in a quiet voice, the chaos outside veiling his tone. The droplets hit the building’s facade in practiced harmony.

“He’s a bit shy.” Jisung laughs awkwardly, watching as the two shake hands. Rieon is the first to pull away.

“They’re like that,” Minho beams at Jisung’s son, and Jisung's heart skips a crucial beat.

The receipt is hanging on by a thread exterior to the plastic bag, price showing itself. Jisung didn’t pay online, because he never does— that means Minho paid. Shoot.

“Rieonie, how about you go and help me set up the table?”

“Okay,” a groan. He gapes at the stranger one more time before leaving with a bow.

Now left alone with Minho again, Jisung sighs. “Sorry about that. He’s a bit wary of.. people he doesn’t know.” he explains, eyes darting everywhere but the man’s face.

“No need to apologize, Jisung.” he says, interlinking his hands in front of himself. He’s wearing really nice jeans, Jisung realizes. Flared. They cup his thighs in just the perfect way. Jisung is ogling at Minho’s thighs again. Fucking hell.

He forces himself to look away, hues of red decorating his cheeks.

“I’ll leave you two to eat, then,” Minho decides. Jisung breaks out of the trance he was pulled into.

“Wait,” he frowns, raising the hand holding the few bucks of money he had prepared for the delivery man. “You paid for my meal, so.”

Minho looks down at the cash, then up at Jisung. The corners of his eyes melt down into a fond smile. “Keep that. Consider it my treat.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Too bad.”

And he’s walking away. Jisung watches his back muscles flex as he puts one leg in front of the other. As his body appears smaller and smaller due to the distance. Jisung takes off, rushing towards him.

The elevator is on its way down to this floor and Minho is waiting for it, a neutral expression on his face.

“Take the money.”

His head rotates, body immediately following at the sight of Jisung. “I already said no.” Minho crosses his arms. Jisung tries not to look at them.

“Please,” Jisung’s bottom lip jugs out in the subtlest way, eyebrows of opposite poles attracting each other into a furrow. He attempts to pass the money to him again, hand suspended in the air.

“No way.”

“But– why?”

A baseless shrug. The lift arrives with a ding. Minho starts making his way to it.

Jisung bites hard on his teeth, jaw clenching. “Hyung, take it,” he says with the shiest airy tone. That surprisingly makes Minho stop in his tracks, the automatic doors sliding close again.

He doesn’t turn around this time, instead granting his palm back, bending his knuckles in a silent abeyance.

“Finally.” Jisung huffs, dumping the banknotes in his hand, fingers brushing against Minho’s skin. “There you go.”

Now that he has fulfilled his purpose, Jisung spins on his heel. He hears Minho say, “Let’s go grab some meat tomorrow,” and when he turns to look, Minho is gone and the elevator is moving down.

The storm shows no signs of stopping anytime soon. When they’re seated at the kitchen table eating the take out food, Rieon asks him who that man was, and why Jisung took so long to come back. In response, Jisung shakes the smile off his face and tells his son to not worry about it for now. The food will go cold if you do, bumblebee.

-`ᯓ★´-

He wakes up at seven o’clock with a drenched back and greasy hair. The sun rays coddle his face. He rubs the sleep away from his eyes and spends a few more minutes in bed, just staring at the ceiling. When he sits up, knees to his chest and blanket sliding off of him, he sees through the gap left by the grey curtains that it’s still raining. A cold drizzle. Sun and rain.

After using the toilet, Jisung knocks on Rieon’s door with wet hands and a new t-shirt on. He doesn’t get a reply, so he leaves with the assumption that he’s still asleep.

It’s unpredictable that he sees his kid with his face and palms glued to the kitchen window, scaled up on a chair. Rieon jumps when he notices a presence behind him. Jisung apologizes by caressing his back, now looking out the window as well.

There’s a rainbow hung high in the sky. Red, yellow, blue. The colours blur into one.

“Good morning,” he whispers, voice deep, scratchy. “You hungry?”

“Mhm.” Rieon nods, climbing off the chair and moving it back into place. He stretches his arms out above his head, yawning loudly.

“I’ll heat up some leftovers from last night, then.”

Jisung cringes at the mention of last night. He barely got any sleep with the way he kept overthinking about Minho’s actions. He tries not to mull over it anymore. To focus on heating up some food. That’s what he needs to do right now.

Rieon sets up the table— plates and utensils for two.

They ate most of the food last night, but there’s a lot of remnant tteokbokki. The portion he had ordered was initially for four people. Four people definitely don’t live in this apartment.

He leaves two eggs to boil on the stove. Then, he grabs a borosilicate glass bowl and pours the tteokbokki into it.

The oven, with various programs accommodated in it, behaves like a better version of a microwave. It was expensive, and Jisung invested a lot into it. In the end, it all paid off.

Moving here, in this prestigious building, was probably Jisung’s biggest mistake and biggest blessing at the same time. He had been saving for months, working day and night. To take care of Rieon, buy him the necessities. If Nari hadn’t helped, Jisung would still be living in the small apartment he had moved into when he was twenty-two with a three-year-old.

Once the food is steaming hot, Jisung slips his hands into strawberry mitts and picks up the bowl, filled with red and melted cheese.

There’s something heavy wrapped around Jisung’s heart. A dense polymeric chain tightened so taut that it’s starting to squeeze his blood out. He plays with the rice cakes, making them swim around in the blood bath that makes the sauce. It’s a little too spicy for him. Rieon loves it.

“Hey, Rieon,” he begins, raising a dripping rice cake to his mouth. Red, akin to his ribs. “Appa might be going out later tonight.”

Rieon fixes his big eyes on Jisung. “Out? Like eomma does with my other dad?”

His skin burns, ears warming up. He chews and swallows before answering, “No, no. With a friend.”

“With my uncles?”

“Not with Changbin and Chan hyung.”

“Hmm,” Rieon fits a whole half of the egg in his mouth, storing it into his cheek to talk. “But those are your only friends, Appa.”

Jisung chokes on the sauce and jumps out of his seat to down a glass of tap water.

They continue their breakfast in peace, letting Jisung’s redundant question waft in the air between them. He’s taking Minho’s offer too seriously. Why is he taking Minho's offer this seriously? They don’t even have each other’s phone numbers. They’re not even friends.

Deemed full, Rieon gets up, leaves his plate in the sink and walks to the living room. Jisung is left to think until his stomach also fills up.

In the bowl, there’s half of a portion left. He abandons it on the table to let it cool off before putting it back inside the fridge.

Looking out the window— at the trace left by the rainbow, at the beads of rain graciously dropping on the tree leaves— Jisung lets his mind run free for just some moments, similar to a deer dashing in an open field until it reaches a forest.

What if his neighbour was actually serious? Was it an invitation?

He’ll let time figure it out. It always does. It’s Friday, and Rieon has school. It’s half past seven.

The living room is empty when he walks inside, and as he steps into the hallway leading to the bedrooms, he hears the shower running. He chooses to get dressed inside his room and brush his teeth later.

Taking a peek outside, he sees that the drizzle hasn’t stopped. Thin spurts of water soak the ground. It doesn’t require an umbrella, though he should wear something with great coverage. Like a t-shirt with a cardigan. It’s not something he usually wears. It’s something Hyunjin used to wear. He looked nice in cardigans. Jisung wonders if he wears them nowadays. Probably not.

Whatever. Jisung can also look nice in cardigans.

And he does. He buttons it in the middle, checking himself in the reflecting glass piece attached to his wardrobe. The white torso underneath compliments the beige fabric well. It all goes hand in hand with his honey skin.

Maybe he’ll attract some dilfs with this appearance.

“Rieon, did you drown in there?!”

The bus is late, and they barely make it in time for Rieon’s first class. Jisung hands him his school bag and pecks him on the head. “Good luck today, too, bumblebee.”

Jisung steps out of the school grounds through the huge gates, remaining on the right part of the street. He doesn’t get too far before he’s stopped by a black car approaching in parallel to him. The passenger window rolls down, revealing a man with sunglasses on behind the wheel, black watch on his wrist. Lee Minho again.

With the high number of times he’s seen this man lately, Jisung starts believing that he’s being stalked.

“Hey there,” Minho tries to whistle, but he only blows the warm air out of his mouth. “Need a ride?”

“Besides being a delivery man, are you also a chauffeur?” Jisung half-smiles as he strolls towards the car, voice higher to make himself heard. “Hi, Minho hyung.”

He keeps the (also black) glasses low on his nose, looking at Jisung over the frame. “Get inside,”

“I prefer walking to work. It’s close to the school.”

Minho hums, a frown tugging at his pink lips. “You sure?”

“Very,” Jisung nods, gripping onto the pillar of the side windshield of the vehicle. “Thanks for the offer.”

“‘Kay then.”

His car looks lavish. It has seats covered in black leather, a spacious console where he supports his right arm with his elbow, a steering wheel with red circling it merely on the interior. “Where are you off to?” Jisung curiously questions.

“Work.”

“Ah, right. The adult life.”

“Mhm.” Minho leans further back in his seat, arranging the sunglasses back into their initial place. “Are you free tonight?”

A breath is knocked out of his lungs at that. “Depends on why you’re asking.”

The shake of his head doesn’t sit right with Jisung. “Feisty,” Minho clicks his tongue. “My daughter wants sushi, so I was thinking the four of us could go out for some. My treat.”

Jisung really cannot stop himself from teasing. The sun is shining, the rain is minimal, and the flowers are pirouetting off the trees with the power of the wind. “Thought the two of us would go out for meat? Or did I misunderstand?”

“Ah, that’s for another time, Jisung-ssi. Are you that eager to spend some time alone with me?”

His snicker shrinks. “Hyung, you’re blocking the road.”

On a particular blow, Jisung’s hair moves out of his face. Minho looks at him mysteriously, the full cover of his eyes having a lot of inquiries running through Jisung’s mind.

“My daughter has a swimming class till six, after that we’re free.” Minho finally gives Jisung enough information to work with.

“Let’s go at seven?” Jisung suggests, the happiness in his tone neverending. It resembles the universe.

“Fantastic.”

He beams so bright his cheeks hurt. “Neat.”

It will go like this: they’ll meet in front of Minho’s apartment at seven o’clock sharp and take the elevator to the parking lot underground. Minho will drive to his daughter’s favourite sushi place. They’ll eat, introduce the kids to each other, and hopefully by the end of the night, everyone will have a new friend.

The blue building comes into view five minutes later. Jisung speeds up, inhaling the fresh air that smells like summer to oxygenate his brain. Today, he has to help Chan in the recording studio. A girl group of five has to record a song that Changbin composed. Jisung didn’t work on it, but since the original producer had come down with the flu a few days before, Chan will be the one guiding the idols. Chan didn’t ask Jisung for assistance— Jisung wants to.

So. Jisung enters the cafe built into the ground floor of the company, taking out his phone to pay for the two coffees. Iced Americanos.

In the lift, he’s stuck with a new trainee and a fuming employee. Jisung minds his own business. On the fifth floor, he finds Chan already seated at the desk in the recording room he had booked.

It’s equipped with ethical gear that probably costs an arm and a leg. He closes the heavy door behind him and bows his head to the songwriter who had helped Changbin with the song, and to the two staff members sitting on the couch.

Chan is focused on the monitor displayed in front of him, a pen trying to break free from his hand. The artists are not here yet. Jisung takes a seat between his friend and the other man, sliding the cup over to Chan. He receives a nod of the head in reply.

“Can I help?” Jisung sips on his cold drink, head thrown back.

“Not now,” the older shakes his head, curly hair bouncing. He picks up the coffee and downs half of it. “Actually, yes. Go inside the booth and see if everything’s alright. They’re going to be here soon.”

With a grunt, he reaches for the headphones and opens the door to the soundproof isolated stall. It’s his second time standing in front of a pop filter— he shouldn’t be this nervous. It’s just like the karaoke rooms he used to go to with his college friends when he was young.

Standing in front of the microphone and facing Chan on the other side of the glass screen, he fixes the headphones on his head and the mic at his mouth level, waiting for the you can go for it.

An instrumental starts playing in his ears, and then Changbin’s scratch vocal for guidance. He holds up the sheet with the lyrics and tries to match the tone, giving his all; even if this isn’t his job.

Jisung sings almost half of the song, belting the last note. Eyes shut close and all. There’s sweat already wetting the hairs on his nape. He lowers his hand from where it was playing an invisible piano in the air and falls back on flat feet. He searches for Chan’s approval and finds not only him, but an entire group of girls staring at him in awe.

Shit.

He quickly rips the headphones off his head and hangs them on a hook. Places the paper back in its place. Exits the booth pink in the face.

The girls cheer him on with enthusiastic claps. The staff (three people in total now) laugh. Chan has a proud little smile on his lips. His heart trembles because of the unexpected attention. “Um.”

“You should keep this song,” one of the girls says, mouth open in a grin. Her eyes are big and kind.

Seeing Jisung stuck on his feet with beads of sweat racing down the sides of his face, Chan intervenes. “Yeah, yeah, I know this song is not your favourite, but Changbinnie worked hard for it. Prepare to sing. You go first.” he tells the red-haired girl, who happens to be Changbin’s childhood best friend.

As everyone scatters around, Jisung sits back down on his chair and takes the iced drink to calm his body down. Unwanted notice has always been Jisung’s least favourite thing to experience.

That’s the main reason why he chose to follow a career in music production and songwriting, and not the idol life. He could see himself singing on a big stage— but the seats would be empty. No one would be there.

It’s better this way, he thinks. It wouldn’t have been possible for him to debut because he had Rieon, anyway.

“You better be paying attention,” Chan scolds, brushing his fingers against Jisung’s hand that has a vice grip on the coffee. His knuckles have gone white, a nice contrast to the red palm caused by the cold cup.

“Yes, hyung.”

Through the studio monitors, he hears a golden voice sing the lyrics he had just sung. He thinks it sounds nice enough. Chan doesn’t seem to be fully satisfied. He rarely is.

“Let’s redo the third line,” he presses the red button and speaks into the talkback mic. “Start whenever you’re ready.”

They end up re-recording a few more times, and after Chan nudges forward one of the words that was sung too early and asks the staff working for the group’s division if it’s what the manager wants, he jumps to the bridge of the song, where her next lyrics are.

She finishes her parts in almost an hour and leaves the stall content. Her group mates, now two because the others left to go get coffee, high-five her. She exits through the door with a bow, hurrying to her next schedule. This is another reason why Jisung would rather not be an idol.

The next girl is blonde. She has a lively personality.

“You seem to have the most background vocals,” Jisung mentions in Chan’s small microphone, looking over the copy of the lyrics on a sheet of paper. “We can work on that tomorrow. We’ll do the lines now.”

Chan gulps on his beverage, swirling the cup around with his right hand.

This isn’t Jisung’s first time directing an idol. He’s done it plenty of times before, alone or not. It’s not the hardest job. He listens to the girl belting, her voice cracking towards the end. He reassures her that it’s okay. Waits for her to freshen her throat with some water. When she does it the second time, Chan hums in agreement and Jisung knows that it’s exactly what they need for Changbin’s song.

It’s nearing eleven o’clock when he’s done with the second girl. He helps to direct the leader of the group, too, while Chan is taking a break in the bathroom.

“One more time, come on,” he urges. They finish quickly, thanks (or not) to the lack of her lyrics in this song. “Which one of you wants to go next?” Jisung asks the girls who are back from their little trip downstairs.

“We both have long parts,” one of them, with short blue hair, says. She turns to her friend. “You can go first, my next schedule is at four.”

By the time the brunette is inside the booth with headphones on and lyric paper steady in her hand, Chan is back with a bag of chips. They both guide her, Jisung focusing on whether the emotions she sings with are powerful enough while Chan edits some unnecessary sounds out.

“Last one,” the other songwriter invites the last member in, a long time afterwards.

Almost seven hours. That’s how long it takes to finish recording just half of the song. They have to do some more layered harmonies tomorrow and record the chorus, which is a group part. They might need to add some effects as well.

Jisung, having been napping on the couch for the past hour, awakens at the ghost of a firm touch on his forehead. He jolts up, knocking his head into Chan’s, who was bent down to look at him. He flinches away from Jisung.

“Ouch! What the f- Jisung, what was that for?!”

“Hyung!” he pouts, rubbing at his skin. Chan’s chin is pretty strong. “You scared me.”

Chan sighs. His eyes soften into silk. “Sorry. I woke you up because we have to leave the studio.”

He lies back down, grabbing a cushion and snuggling it tight into his chest. “Mm, don’t wanna. Five more minutes.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

“Hmph.”

Suddenly, Jisung feels his body standing on the edge of the steepest cliff; about to roll down off it. He scrambles, and the small pillow falls on the floor, arms flailing to hold onto safety. He yips. Chan is quick to grasp the juncture that makes his elbow.

And Jisung, oh sweet, dramatic Jisung, slaps the older’s hand away, falling on his knees next to the couch and whining, “Ouch, ouch, it hurts! They drew blood from there a while ago! I am sensitive!”

The sound of footsteps is heavy in his ears. The opening and closing of a door follows. When Jisung silences himself, he realizes that he’s now alone in the room.

Oh gosh.

He leaps onto his feet, grabs his cardigan, glasses, and empty cup of coffee, then leaves with a low tail tucked in between his legs.

Chan’s room is on another floor, not far, so he takes the stairs. His mind goes on and on about how he’s so embarrassing, so childish, so whiny. Jisung wants to believe that it isn’t true, but as soon as he walks through the door of the small studio, he’s greeted by Chan saying, “Are you really twenty-eight?”

“I’m twenty-nine in September!”

At six o’clock, Jisung is finally dismissed from work. He runs to the bus station to get there before the vehicle can drive off.

It’s raining again, big droplets of water angrily falling down. They’re dispersed, so when Jisung arrives home after walking from where the bus dropped him off at its last stop, he’s pretty dry. His hair drips every now and then, though.

Rieon welcomes him with a hug. An enthusiastic “Appa, the teacher said I was the only one to solve the hardest math problem on the test!” that makes Jisung melt.

He reciprocates the embrace, crouched down on the floor in their living room. He ruffles his hair until Rieon pulls away with a joyful cry. Says he’s too old to be treated like that.

“Whatever, bumblebee,” Jisung straightens his back and walks towards the hallway. “Come with me. Hurry up.”

Inside Rieon’s messy bedroom, Rieon sits on the edge of his bed, curiously watching his father turn his closet upside down. There are clothes everywhere— on the floor, on the chair under the white desk, on the white desk. One piece of clothing even lands on Rieon’s head when Jisung unknowingly throws it over his shoulder.

“What are you looking for?” he asks, throwing the shirt on his bed and crawling over to his father.

“A suit,” Jisung answers with an aggravated tone. “The one your mother made you wear on the first day of school.”

“The one under the bed?”

Jisung slowly turns his head to look at his son. He doesn’t know if he should scold him, lovingly so, for not saying that earlier or if he should pat his back for finding it.

“Put it on while I shower. Call me if you need help.” Jisung says as he stands up, already on his way to the bathroom.

“Are we going somewhere?” Rieon walks behind him.

“Yes. Please cooperate. I don’t want to be late.”

The cold shower Jisung takes does very little to help the turmoil forming like a tornado inside his head. He’s seeing Minho in— fuck! — twenty minutes. The water hasn’t washed off all the suds, and Jisung is already in a towel, aggressively brushing his teeth to the point his gums are in stinging pain. He steps into his room with water running down his legs. Closes the door behind too loudly. Swears under his breath when the shirt drops on the floor, out of his grip.

Fourteen more minutes. He got this.

Once he’s attired in a dark blue (like the moon reflecting on the waves of the sea, a deeper darkness that can only be beheld by those with wide eyes to see) silk button-up shirt and some black dress pants that might be somewhat too tight on his thighs, Jisung slides on his pointer finger a thin silver ring; a snake weaved in the curb. He doesn’t wear it too often. Only when he wants to look fancy.

Rieon is at the door, ready. Wrapped in a short, baby blue (like the sky before a sunrise) coat and cargo pants of the same colour. The mirror in the vestibule tells them that they look like twins. Jisung appreciates the compliment.

At 7:05 PM, they’re out the front door.

Jisung holds his son’s hand until they get to the elevator, waiting outside of it. It’s already moving up to floor four. They wait for it to end that journey and start another.

Ding!

It would be too cliche for Minho to be inside the lift again. Jisung feels silly for hoping.

“What handsome young gentlemen!” the lady, with every wrinkle on her face telling a story to the listeners, praises. A grin on her face. Jisung gives her a smile and thanks her as he steps inside.

She lives on the second floor. Or maybe she’s going there for a gossip session with her best friend. Whatever it is, Jisung cannot be stressing over that. He’s sweating over the lift going back up one story, to Minho’s floor.

Okay. Maybe it is a cliche story.

Minho, hand in hand with an adorable girl garbed in a red and black dress (like a ladybug, the metaphor for life with its dainty moves and frail wings), stops out of thin air at the sight of Jisung. Well, that’s what Jisung likes to think. This is not a movie, but surely, time stops for both of them.

“Appa, let’s go,” the girl tugs on Minho’s hand. He breaks out of his haze and walks right up to Jisung.

“Hey,” he breathes out, a crease on his forehead. Minho’s brown— wait, red-ish? —eyes focus only on Jisung’s own. Gaze not wandering. As though he’s studying him on the inside.

“Hello,” Jisung replies, lost in awe. His lungs are dry, and his heart is beating uncomfortably between them. He almost loses balance when the elevator starts descending. That’s their cue to break eye contact.

Oh. Minho’s body is adorned by a snug white t-shirt and brown (like the wet sand after a wave brushed against it; the soil alone in a storm) flared jeans. Jeans that hug his legs in all the right places. He doesn't know if he’s jealous or.. Whatever. Focus.

Rieon is yanking on his shirt. Jisung needs to focus. Focus on anything but the muscle of Minho’s thighs, that is.

“You look great.” Minho flatters, corner of his mouth lifting up. His eyes rake, this time unashamed, over all that Jisung is. “You know we’re going to a sushi place, right?”

His tone isn’t complaisant. Quite the opposite, actually. There’s a hint of curiosity in it. Jisung bites the inside of his cheek, lets it go three seconds later when the elevator stops on the ground floor for a fake call before descending again, and says, “I like dressing up. Me and Rieon do.”

“Neat.”

The girl, who has been cautiously observing everything for the past minute, lights up at that. “Neat!”

Minho breaks into a chuckle. Fond, full. Of something. Jisung doesn’t know what it is yet. “This is my daughter,” he introduces her with a twirl, the long lower part of her dress flaring up into a small circle. “Tell them your name.”

“Dalrae.” she smiles, bowing. Jisung tells his name, then it’s Rieon’s turn. Dalrae extends her hand out. There’s glitter on her nails. It’s barely visible, but Jisung, with his glasses on, notices.

“Rieon,” he replies in a shy voice. Looks at her hand suspended in the air and hesitates before trying to shake it with his two hands.

Dalrae is about the same height as Rieon. Her hair is black. Maybe a bit blue in the artificial light

“She’s seven in June,” her father adds, guiding her out of the elevator. He keeps a safe grasp on her hand.

They follow Minho to where his car is situated in this spacious parking lot, Jisung nodding along to what he’s saying. He mentions that Rieon is nine years old. The black car that pulled up on him earlier today is a Jeep, apparently. It looks nice. Small lengthwise, tall. It doesn’t take a lot of space. Shining-clean on the outside.

“Rieon, stay in the back. Be nice.” Jisung tells him, hold sharp on his shoulders. “Okay?”

To his surprise, Rieon nods neutrally without complaint. Jisung helps him climb up on the passenger's side, buckling him in at the same time as Minho does to his daughter.

Sitting in the front seat of someone’s car— worse, it’s Minho, Jisung’s hot neighbour who made him soup when he felt sick— feels weird to him. He can’t get his butt to fit right in the black leathered chair with red woven into it. His skin itches again.

It smells like Minho. A musky, citric smell. With a hint of a sweet undertone.

Minho hops into the other seat, pressing a button. The car roars to life, music playing through the radio. Jisung glances at the small screen.

“Want some music?” Minho asks as he switches the gear, reversing the vehicle until he’s got it in the perfect position to turn right. Where the exit must be.

“Rieon, do you want to listen to music?” Jisung turns his head back, looking at Rieon. His neck muscles strain, so he aborts the mission.

“I do,”

“I also wanna!” Dalrae intervenes.

Jisung hums, hand grasping onto the handle. “Music sounds great.”

“Why don’t you put on a song you wrote? Or produced?” the driver, now waiting for the garage gate to automatically open, proposes thoughtfully.

A breath gets lost on the way, making Jisung’s body go into shock for a few seconds. “Huh?”

“You write songs for others.”

“Oh. Um. Yeah.” Jisung’s palms are sweating. He takes them off the surface of Minho’s car to not stain the hard material of the door, instead resting his hands on his lap. “I’m a producer. And a songwriter. I’ve composed a few songs too.”

From the back, the squeal of a high-pitched voice sounds in the whole vehicle. “That’s so cool!” It's Dalrae, ever-so-attentive.

He doesn't reply, nervous all of a sudden. A bit timid. This is all new to him— hanging out with another parent.

Minho hits the pedal, the car going up the hill that takes them from the parking lot to the main road. He drives into it when someone flashes his headlights at him.

It’s raining. The wiper blades activate on their own, clearing the windshield.

“So, you can just search it on there,” Minho says. His fingertips dance on the screen. “Or look it up on my phone. It’s connected to the car.”

Alright. This feels.. domestic, in a way. Jisung both likes and hates it. He feels like he’s known Minho for years, when it’s only been a month. It could be because he’s been hanging out with him a lot more lately, if those five-minute-long conversations count, but never with both of their children.

Rieon is pretty bad at making friends. Dalrae, on the other hand, is happily trying to converse with him. They play rock paper scissors for five minutes before the girl jumps to explain what she learned today in swimming class.

Jisung watches Minho drive with one hand, the other relaxing on his (huuuuuge) thigh. His own fingers twitch in his lap.

“How do I– I got this,” Jisung reaches his left hand to skim over the screen, pressing on an app that looks like it’s got music. He takes a long while writing the title, because the car is moving and there is a lot of traffic. “This is a song I wrote a few months ago for a group,” he explains. Doesn't raise the volume. Minho does it for him directly from the steering wheel. “One of my friends helped me compose it.”

“Sounds interesting. Let’s hear it.”

A silent tune starts playing in the speakers. The song begins with the hum of a piano, continued by a soft voice. Jisung’s throat is filled with enough air to create a copying murmur.

During the bridge, Rieon sings along.

It’s a short song, dedicated to deeply felt lyrics and a calm instrumental— the sun slowly ascending over the horizon to warm up the sea water. To provide heat to marine life. They must be cold too, right, Appa? Rieon had asked once, when he was five.

Minho stays silent as he keeps an eye on the external mirror. He switches to the left lane. Squeezes the meat of the inside of his thigh. “That was soothing,” he breathes. Doesn’t look at Jisung, but the smile on his face has Jisung believing that it’s directed to him, and him only. What a selfish little thing he is.

“You liked it?”

“A lot. Add it to my favourites.”

His fingertips vacillate over the tiny heart on the screen. His index comes in contact with it at an abrupt stop.

In the backseat, the kids are talking about their preferred pizza flavour. Jisung keeps one ear attentive to them, the other to the current song playing. It’s a Japanese one from Minho’s playlist. It’s loud enough to cover the grumbling of his stomach. He didn’t get to eat lunch.

“Appa,” Jisung feels a tap on his shoulder.

“Yeah?” he replies in a raised tone, and Minho turns the music down with two clicks.

“Are we there yet?”

With a lighthearted chuckle, “The car’s still moving. If we were, it wouldn’t be.” Minho butts in before Jisung can reply. “Ten more minutes.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Did you eat lunch?” Jisung asks. He had some leftovers left in the fridge. Rieon is smart, he knows how to use the oven. He takes the bus and walks back home on his own sometimes. He has a copy of the keys now. He is smart.

“Of course I did,” Rieon huffs. “You’re the one who didn’t.”

Minho snaps his head towards his right, now that they’re waiting at a red light five minutes away from the city. “You didn’t eat lunch?”

A weird flutter turns his stomach upside down. “Didn’t have time,” Jisung shrugs. He really didn’t. He fancied looking good for tonight rather than eating.

“Nope.” he shakes his head until it’s turned back to face the road. He hits the pedal and taps his index finger against the leathered wheel. “Disapproved.” the car moves into a narrow street with a singular lane going east.

There are houses on either side, each decorated by people with varied personalities. Jisung rates them all in his head. “Wanted to look good,” he shrugs, scratching at his knee.

“And you do.”

He waits for the but. There’s always one. It comes a few moments later. “But you would look good regardless. It’s not the clothes making you look presentable.”

Another flutter. This time it’s intense and in the pit of his tummy. “You think so?”

“I know so, Jisung-ah.” Minho smiles, eyes still on the road. Which is sexy. There must be something terribly wrong with Jisung.

Eventually, they make it to an isolated little house at the end of the street, where the road splits into left and right. Minho goes right, then turns back at a roundabout a few meters away from the restaurant, and in eight minutes they’re out of the car. There’s no water pouring from the sky here.

Rieon walks to accommodate his legs. Dalrae fixes her dress. Minho checks his back pockets for his phone. Jisung hands him his phone.

“Thanks.”

They walk inside through the front white door. They’re met with authenticity, and a welcoming old man who hugs Minho tightly. He leads them into the main room (that resembles a living room if not for the few tables scattered around the place). Dalrae and Rieon take one of the small couches against an also white wall while Minho and Jisung take the wooden chairs across from them. Which are positioned pretty close to each other.

“You should get the fried sushi,” the girl whispers to Rieon— a bit too loud for it to be a secret— sighing dreamily. “‘S amazing.”

“Say less!”

Jisung orders for Rieon a portion of a fried sushi roll. Eight pieces. They’ll share. Minho and Jisung get a big plateau with different types of combinations. For drinks, Jisung and Rieon get soda, Minho gets milk tea and his daughter orders herself a glass of sparkling water.

While waiting, they all engage in a conversation. About everything and nothing all at once. About how cool jellyfishes are, to which Rieon lists a few fun facts he had learnt from watching documentaries with his father.

The look in Minho’s eyes is something resembling affection. Jisung jumps to the conclusion that his lenses are too fogged up, so he stands up. “Rieon, we should go wash our hands. The sushi might get here any moment now.” he says.

“Dal, you should go with them,” Minho nods towards Jisung. “You know where the toilet is.”

Dalrae excitedly agrees and takes Rieon’s hand, leading him towards the hallway with hurried steps. On the way there, they’re stopped by a short elderly lady coming out of the kitchen, a red apron tightened around her waist.

“Oh? Rahee? Is that you, angel?” she asks, voice raspy, chest heavy with the weight of her well-lived years.

“Halmeoni!” Dalrae’s hair bounces in waves as she makes her way over to hug the woman. “I’m Dalrae!”

Jisung halts his movements, watching nosily. He is soon introduced by Minho, who suddenly appears behind them.

“Halmeonim, pleasure to see you,” Minho bows. “I came here with two friends this time.” he gestures to Rieon and Jisung next to him.

“I’m Han Jisung,” Jisung quickly says, lowering his and Rieon’s head. There’s a smile on his face. “This is my son, Rieon.” he adds once he’s back up.

“Oh, how lovely. Welcome home, gentlemen.” she beams, cupping Jisung’s hands in her own. “You are so young!”

“I’m twenty-eight.”

“And Rieonie’s nine!” Dalrae tells her.

They talk for two more minutes before the woman remembers the food in her kitchen. “The sushi will be there shortly,” she pushes the door open, mumbling to herself. The smell of homemade meals and ingredients reminds Jisung of his own grandmother.

The bathroom is for everyone to use, with a toilet tucked in another room in the corner. The kids wash their hands first, both of them at the same time, and then they run off and out of the barely lit room.

“You can wash your hands first.” Minho invites. He steps behind Jisung, keeping a kind distance, and watches himself in the mirror while Jisung is busy looking down at the soap gliding on his skin. He waits for Minho to finish cleaning himself.

“This place is so..” he starts, looking on the walls at the different art pieces and pictures of people as they walk down the hallway. “Hospitable.”

Minho nods. “It’s my favourite. No one really comes around here, since it’s away from the city.” he explains, stopping to let Jisung go through the door first. “I’m, well. Close to the owners. We’re family.”

“They’re your grandparents?”

“In law.”

Ah.

On the table, there’s a plateau of five sushi rolls of six. Thirty pieces in total. The chopsticks are made of a darker type of wood, light to hold and manoeuvre. Rieon’s hot plate comes five minutes later, placed in the middle between him and Dalrae.

Jisung learns that Minho is ambidextrous. Initially, he thought he was left-handed— he mostly drives, drinks, and he’s seen him once write down with that hand. But now, with Jisung sitting on the chair to his left, Minho uses his right hand to lift the sushi to his lips.

It’s a small action that causes Jisung’s gut to churn. A bit silly, to be fair. Jisung doesn’t want to keep feeling seventeen.

“Can I try some fried sushi?” Minho asks Rieon, who looks at him, then down at his white plate, then at the plateau he’s sharing with his new friend. There are five pieces left.

“Okay,”

At the approval, Minho takes one piece and puts it down on Jisung’s plate, before taking another one for himself.

“Thanks, hyung,” Jisung mutters, chewing on it slowly to enjoy the taste. It’s really good. He’d say more if he weren’t so keen on stuffing his cheeks with food.

“Mhm.”

“Appa, can Rieon come over one day? I want to show him the kitties!” Dalrae swallows her food before asking the question.

Minho pretends to think. He looks at Jisung, cocking one eyebrow. Jisung feels poisoned.

“If Jisung allows him to, of course.”

“Jisung ajeossi, can Rieon-ie come over?”

A childish smile splits his face in two. “If he wants to, of course.” Jisung says, receiving a nudge to his foot under the table. From Minho.

Dalrae pouts. She gives Rieon a hopeful look.

In reply, Rieon jokingly says, “If your father allows me to, of course.”

Her palm raises in the air, but she never attempts to swat it at the boy. She cries out, “You guys are so mean!” and they all laugh, Jisung’s voice the deepest.

“Sorry, Aegi,” Minho feeds her a sushi piece from his big plateau. “Rieon can come over any day.”

She nearly chokes on her food at the eager squeal that escapes her body. Jisung’s lips form an upside-down rainbow. He feels Minho’s stare on him, and it feels like a knife piercing through his heart. Trying to break it in two.

From behind, the old owners of this restaurant emerge. “How is the food?” the woman asks, looking at Jisung for a response.

“Phenomenal,” he applauds. “This is the best sushi I’ve had in a long while.”

“My wife is just the best.” the man says, just to compliment his lover, as one should. He looks at her with eyes full of eternal love. “Cooking has always been her hobby.”

“Appa also likes to cook!” Dalrae adds, leaning back on the couch. “I’m full.”

“Good job, ladybug!” the chef steps over to wrap a forearm around Dalrae’s neck, side-hugging her. “That’s my girl.” she plants a wet kiss on her cheek. The kid doesn’t whine or move away.

“I have to water the flowers in the back garden, if you don’t mind,” her husband apologizes to their customers. “Minho, I like these friends.”

“I like them too,” Minho replies, putting the chopsticks down.

Jisung sighs heavily as he watches the two elders leave with their plates of food, moves slowed down. He offered to help, but his request was immediately turned down. So was Minho’s. Old people like to be hardworking, after all.

They ate as much as they could, but even with four people, it was impossible to finish the whole thing. Jisung, satisfied, leans back with his hands wrapped around his belly. He rubs at it. “I might explode.”

“Was it good?” Minho questions, staring at him.

“The best I’ve ever had, truly.” Jisung gapes back, head tilted, a smile adorning his mouth. “Thank you for taking me here.”

“Anytime.”

During the few seconds they fondly stare at each other, Jisung realizes he’s never felt more alive.

Minho pays for everything, the two rolls and the three remaining pieces of fried sushi going into a bag that now belongs to Jisung.

They bid goodbye, the old lady hugging everyone, her husband (of fifty-five years, Jisung learns) shaking Jisung’s hand on his way out, telling him to stop by sometime soon.

Outside, where darkness has already seeped into the sky, they walk around the house to get to the car, their reflection fun to watch in the tall windows. Two children with their respective fathers. Jisung keeps his eyes on the four of them. His heart flutters. They almost look like.. a family, of some sort.

He bumps into someone— Minho, into his stupidly broad back— and staggers, caught off guard.

“Are you okay?” Minho turns around, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Jisung excuses himself and circles the car to get to the passenger’s side. He helps Rieon climb into the backseat before sitting down.

Once they’re all settled inside the car, Minho asks, “Music?” to which Dalrae replies with a joyful yes. Listening to music on car rides must be something they do a lot.

Dalrae chooses a song from her favourite soloist and sings along to it. Rieon munches on the lyrics, not quite knowing the pronunciation of the English ones. Minho has a sneer on his face again as he reverses out of the parking spot and waits for the cars to pass to get on the road.

Jisung holds tight onto the bag with the casserole full of leftover sushi. His knuckles taking on a white shade is something that grounds him. There’s so much ecstasy burning within him that he itches again. Shit. This is so wrong.

Most of the ride back home is silent, if not for the music playing softly in the background. The traffic in the city at nine o’clock today is awful for an unknown reason, and they spend about nineteen minutes barely moving. Minho is calm, even when someone honks at him. He minds his business.

Minho’s eyes switch to the rearview mirror, where he sees his daughter soundly sleeping, Rieon on the verge of dozing off as well. They’re waiting for some people to cross the street. The driver inhales, his right hand on one of the black gears, fingers twitching on it. He speaks after catching Jisung’s gaze on him. “Was today how you expected it to be?”

“It was way better,” he promises, gaze pierced to Minho’s singular freckle, the sharpness of his nose, the curve of his lips, the plumpness of his cheekbones. He’s gorgeous, and the guilt that fills Jisung makes him sick.

“Rieon is a sweetheart. I think my Dal thinks so, too.”

“Dalrae is the kindest six-year-old I know.” Jisung chuckles quietly. “When Rieon was her age, he was savage.”

“Don’t let her intelligence fool you,” Minho’s teeth peek when he snickers. Jisung watches in awe. “She can lack manners as well.’

“She’s just a kid, hyung. I used to bite people at her age.”

A laugh that almost reaches his eyes. He turns the blinker on and turns left. Jisung recognizes this street. It’s probably five minutes away from home. “Interesting.”

“Isn’t it?”

“It is, Jisung.”

He returns the smile, face muscles acting on their own. He grabs onto the seatbelt across his chest to hold something. Anything. To not let his mind go loose.

For some weird reason, Jisung wants to keep talking to Minho. To keep seeing him. To hang out with him, whether it is on his balcony sipping on wine, in the park on a morning run, or at the sushi place of his grandparents-in-law. Ex-grandparents-in-law? He had said he was single. Is he still single? Jisung’s hand spasms on the seatbelt.

“What type of car is this?” Jisung tries to make conversation— to hear more of that minky, high-pitched voice of Minho’s. It’s lathered with something like peaches. Sweet, juicy, and titillating, in a way.

“A Jeep,” Minho replies. His palm moves smoothly on the wheel as he cautiously swerves to enter the downhill passage leading to the garage. A camera recognizes his license plate, and the garage door rolls up.

Jisung keeps his eyes on Minho while he drives around to find his designated parking spot. Jisung heard that to have access underground, you need to pay a ton shit of money. You can also park behind the building outside, but there’s a chance that every lot will already be taken.

“I know that it’s a Jeep.” he pouts, instinctively looking in the side view mirror when Minho backs up the car between two thick pillars. Number twenty-five, painted in yellow.

“It’s a Sahara Wrangler,”

“Like, the desert?”

Minho’s laugh is precious. He kills the engine, but doesn’t step out of the car. Stays still in his seat. Gawks at Jisung. “You can consider it that, if you want.”

“Hyung,” Jisung speaks after a short moment spent with Minho calming down, breath coming back to normal from his laughing fit. “Minho hyung.”

“Hm?”

“Will you– can I– fuck,” he sighs, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. His hands feel clammy, ears picking up on a distant ringing. Barely there, but strong enough to be heard. Minho gives him a scolding look for swearing next to the kids, who are sleeping. “Your number.”

“My license plate number? What about it?” Minho’s neck falls to the side, his lips sculpting a teasing smirk.

In the back of his mind, a bug starts buzzing. Probably a mosquito— constantly annoying, a greedy sucker for sweets. “Hyung,” Jisung whispers, batting his eyelashes at him in a slow dance. “Your phone number.”

“My phone number.”

“Yes.”

“Give me your phone.” Minho displays the rosy skin of his palm over the console, body now turned to face the passenger.

Jisung doesn’t waste one second. He fishes it from his pocket and places it on Minho’s waiting palm. He watches the older type in a number, and when he’s handed back his phone, the new contact’s name is A. Minho Hyung.

“I’ll text you.”

“Will you?”

“If you want me to,” Jisung holds in the next breath.

“Is it wrong that I want you,” Minho’s eyes flicker down for a split second. “To text me?”

“Only if we make it wrong.”

This giddying moment has Jisung sweating in his shirt. Mindlessly, his fingers play with the first button, trying to get it to budge open. Minho watches with lowered eyelids.

The clearing of a throat breaks the spell that was put on them. Rieon, now unbuckled from his seat, hands gripping onto the back of Jisung’s seat, fusses. “Appa, I’m tired.”

His body physically jerks at the startle of being brought back to this universe by an unexpected presence. The lungs that cage his sensible heart immediately fill with shame. He rotates his head, eyebrows failing to express the feeling clogging up his throat. “You’re tired? Let’s go home, then.”

“Let’s.”

Minho takes it as a sign to get rid of his own seatbelt and leave the vehicle. Jisung and Rieon are already waiting outside of it when he comes up to them holding Dalrae bridal style in his arms. She’s dead asleep.

In the elevator, they don’t speak with words, but rather with silent looks. Jisung has to remind himself that he’s holding a plastic bag to not drop it.

It’s too unfortunate— how short the ride is. How quick they have to part ways again, even though the only thing separating them is a ceiling that is also a floor.

“It isn’t wrong,” Minho reminds him as he steps out of the lift, gifting him one last smile. The doors close before Jisung can return it.

After a much-needed shower, Jisung sits at the head of his bed with his pink notebook supported by his knee.

This time, thanks to a miracle, the lyrics sit at the top of his head, on the tip of his tongue. His pinky finger brushes against the page, pen bleeding out black ink into it. He’s not a painter, like Hyunjin, but he looks good in cardigans and also owns a canvas.

He falls asleep only when his brain empties of every thought that could be built into a lyric about love, and not before sending Minho a short message saying, as long as we don’t make it to be.

-`ᯓ★´-

At seven in the morning, he’s awakened by the loud ping of his phone. He doesn’t move an inch, then realizes that no one ever texts him this early in the morning (unless it’s his parents or Chan). He deems that whatever it is, it might not be more important than his sleep, so he doesn't check it.

But then— Minho, like the snake ring Jisung wrapped around his finger last night, slyly sneaks inside his mind.

And Jisung, weak, opens his eyes. The light oozing through the curtains is blinding, but he reaches for his phone, trying to get the Face ID to work.

Indeed, Minho was the one to text him. Jisung’s yawns and opens the messages app to see the four messages he received.

Me

as long as we don't

make it to be

A. Minho hyung

That’s right.

 

Good morning, Jisung

The weather is nice today

You up for a run? At 7:30?

Jisung grunts. Suddenly, sleeping is not his priority anymore.

He sends a quick, see you in the lobby, hyung, and groggily walks to the bathroom. After he’s done with the toilet, washing his face and brushing his teeth, Jisung changes into some more colourful shorts than what he usually wears. For the torso, he chooses a white tank top.

At 7:27, he’s going down the stairs, and at 7:29, he’s waiting on the ground floor, checking his phone without an aim.

Minho exits the elevator at exactly 7:30 sharp, wearing the same outfit as Jisung, except he’s all in black.

“Hey,” Jisung bares his teeth in a beam. “Morning, hyung.”

“How’d you sleep?” Minho walks by him towards the doors. They step outside, where the cold morning air soaks into their skin in competition with the burning sun.

“Alright, I think. You?”

“I slept well.”

The traffic light for pedestrians is red, they wait at it. Jisung didn’t take his glasses from home, but even without them, he can perfectly see the shape of Minho’s pecs through his top, nipples hard and easy to be noticed through the material.

A car honks, and the gentle hold of a hand firm on his forearm gets Jisung out of his thoughts. He clicks his tongue and follows Minho on the other side of the street, towards one of the many entrances of the park.

“The usual path?” Minho asks, warming up his body by rotating his ankles and doing a few kickbacks. He looks a bit silly, and he forces Jisung to do the same. “You don’t want to hurt yourself, Jisung-ah.”

“The usual,” he mutters, kicking his foot too far back, hamstring aching. Minho laughs at the groan he lets out.

They start jogging immediately after. Side by side, only breaking into another order when someone else demands to pass by them. Jisung feels the sweat start to form at the base of his neck. On his forehead. Between the blades of his shoulders, down his spine.

The breeze hits him in the face, and it feels refreshing. Like a dunk into a freezing pool.

Once they finally get to the point where they can turn left, Minho slows down. “Want to get something to eat?” he asks, side-eyeing Jisung. “I doubt you ate breakfast.”

“You know me so well already, hyung-ah,” Jisung lightly punches him in the arm, a fond grin on his face. “I’ll pay.”

“No way.”

“You paid last night!”

“So what,” Minho breathes through his nose, fully halting into walking now. “I can pay whenever I want.”

“Not for my stuff.” Jisung needs more oxygen to pump in his blood, so he inhales faster. “I can pay for myself, you know.”

“Never said you can’t. I just like treating you to food.”

Jisung croons mockingly to hide the way the blush on his face isn’t caused by the cardio, “ You’re so obsessed. With me.”

Minho shrugs, strolling over to one of the stalls behind a woman waiting in a short queue. “Maybe.”

Chapter Text

—2:12 PM Tuesday

June is always warm. Not hot enough for the sun to burn the moles off Jisung’s naturally tanned skin, but rather a balmy weather that knows how to caress his flesh in the most gentle way.

The brunette hair strands, aper of saccharine coffee, capers with the brisk wind as he gracefully strolls down a busy street with tall buildings shielding it. The heaviness of his white duffle bag droops his right shoulder. Jisung pushes through until he makes it to one of the buildings— wider than the others, transparent windows exposing its core.

He uses his membership card to pass through the optical turnstile, giving a mere bow to the person at the reception counter.

This centre is a big establishment. A large facility of four stories that holds space for fitness fanatics, competitive swimmers, convalescent athletes, ltihe dancers. Jisung is a part of the first category: a gym rat.

It’s all the way to the third floor, just under the swimming pool. He has never stepped foot onto the last level of this building.

There are a few men walking around half-naked inside the spacious locker room. He heads to the toilet stalls, emptying his bladder and changing into his gym clothes away from everyone’s judging gaze. The room is minimal, making it difficult for him to dress up.

Once done, Jisung carries the bag with one singular hand, beelining for his given locker. It has the number twenty-five on it. He takes out the necessary stuff from his holdall: a bottle of water, gym shoes, a green towel, and his beloved headphones. He shuts the metallic door closed, walking away towards the hall that leads to the gym.

Thankfully, it’s pretty empty. Some elders are disciplining their legs on the treadmills, two teenage boys (who are definitely skipping school) are trying to bench eighty kilograms in the corner, and his gym buddy is skipping again. A friend he forgot the name of.

Jisung is off to a good start, he thinks while occupying a purple yoga mat to stretch on. He’ll work on his lower body today, because it’s been a while, so he focuses on warming up his leg muscles, which he finishes quickly.

Making his way inside the part of the gym with all the strength training equipment, Jisung grabs two dumbbells of twelve kilograms each and starts doing lunges, four sets of eight reps. He uses his phone to skip the songs playing in his ears during the one-minute breaks.

Then, he lies his tummy on a black bench and curls his calves, the pressure on his belly area uncomfortable. The smell of the heavy-duty grippy vinyl combined with the stench of sweat wafting through the open-plan space makes Jisung scowl. His hamstrings strain, and he only manages to get in five reps for the last set.

A younger male heaves when he walks past Jisung, sitting down on the machine next to his. He maxes it out. Jisung stares in disbelief and picks up his things, walking away.

If Jisung had to choose one exercise he hates the most, it would be the leg press. He sometimes gets dizzy after getting up from it. He starts his first set, hoping that it won’t happen today. His feet come in contact with the flat part of the footplate, high up and close together. Jisung maneuvers the side handles until all the weight— sixty kilograms— is pressing on his legs just as the Japanese song playing in his headphones ends.

He does a few more exercises; on the leg extension machine, and seated calf raises, finishing with barbell squats of fifty kilograms. He’s all sweaty now. It’s running down the sides of his neck, seeping into his tank top.

In the shower, Jisung thinks about what to do today. He went to the company in the morning to assist a few other songwriters on a song, and now it feels like there’s nothing left to do. He has to pick up groceries to cook something for lunch.

Pushing the tap to turn off the water is also the cause of Jisung’s thoughts coming to a stop. He dries his body with a different towel he had brought from home and slips his boxers underneath it, rushing to his locker, where he sucks a breath in. He throws on some shorts, a flannel shirt, and puts on the shoes he uses outside.

It’s three o’clock when he walks down the stairs to floor two, where there’s a small lounge area with a bar stand that only serves protein-filled snacks. Jisung drops the bag on the cream-coloured floor and looks at the lady behind the counter, trying to coax her to raise her head from the phone she’s using.

Jisung doesn’t succeed, but a breathy, clarion voice from beside him does.

“Sohee-ssi, you have to pay attention to your surroundings.”

The girl jumps out of her chair, red in the face. “Minho oppa, I thought– oh, hello, what would you like to buy?” she turns to Jisung as soon as she notices him there. In return, Jisung whirls to Minho.

“Hi,” he smiles, hair half wet. His eyes rake over Minho’s form— clad in a nice sleeveless shirt and loose grey sweatpants. He clears his throat, realizing that they’re not alone. “Uh, I want two strawberry bars, please.”

“Strawberry?” Minho elbows him, eyes squinting with the power of his smile. “I think vanilla is better.”

“It is good, yeah.”

“You like strawberries, then?”

“Mhm,” Jisung nods, reaching his hand out to take the bars and handing Sohee the cash. “Not as much as I like mandarines, though.”

“Never doubted that.”

Minho watches as Jisung crouches down and slides one of the snacks into a small compartment of his duffel bag, keeping the other one in his pocket for later. He groans, his glutes and quads aching. He’s still not used to those weights.

When he starts walking away, Minho tags along. A moth to a flame. A bee to a flower. Sea to the shore. Jisung to the gym.

“Hyung, what are you doing?”

“Hm,” he shrugs. “Walking. You?”

“Also walking,” Jisung looks at him like he’s crazy. The brightness in his eyes betrays him, though. He’s too fond. “Do you go to the gym here?”

“I work here.”

The two straps of his bag almost slip from Jisung’s sweaty fingers. “Here?”

“I’m a dance teacher,” Minho explains. They walk towards the elevators where the long spiral staircase is. “And I do work out here, too.”

“Why have I never seen you around?” he pouts, stopping when Minho stops. Jisung’s eyes follow the flexing muscles in the older’s arms. “I’ve been coming here daily for the past month.”

“I guess our schedule just never overlapped.”

“Right.”

“Are you going home now?” Minho asks, eyebrow cocked. “I have one more class to teach, and then I’m free.”

“Are you implying we should go out?”

A simple shrug from Minho has Jisung’s heart rabbiting worse than it is when he’s lifting heavy weights. “If that’s how you want to take it, be it that way.”

“I have to make something for lunch,” he reminds himself. “But!” Jisung beams at Minho’s grin. “We can meet later.”

“Sounds fine with me.”

“Good, then. We could go out for a walk?”

“Or eat dinner at my place?” Minho offers with a tilted head. “I cooked way too much, and Dalrae is excited to see Rieon again. She wants to show him our cats.”

“That works, too.”

“‘Kay then.”

Jisung gulps down his stupid thoughts and throws a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll get going. Gotta run some errands.”

“Call me if you need a ride.”

“I just might!”

He turns around on his heel, walking away with the silliest little smile on his face, chewing on the protein bar. Jisung doesn't know if Minho is still there, stuck in place, looking at him descending the stairs, but he sways his hips anyway.

The plastic bag and the gym one he’s carrying are both heavy. Jisung debates on calling Minho, because getting a lift from him sounds amazing and horrible at all the same. He decides to not do it.

And so Jisung takes the bus to go home, which is far from this store, and climbs down minutes later at the same station he does every day. Since it’s close to the tenement, he arrives just in time for lunch. He takes off his shoes at the door and calls out, “Rieon, come help me!”

Rieon comes rushing down the hallway from the living room. He takes his father’s gym bag, it being the lighter one, and runs to Jisung’s bedroom to place it there.

Inside the kitchen, Jisung sets some of the groceries in the fridge, keeping the vegetables out. He’ll make a gochujang tuna salad.

After thoroughly washing his hands with soap and water (scrubbing between his fingers, cleaning around his thumbs, and rubbing palm to palm for more than thirty seconds), he takes the mayonnaise and gochujang and stirs the sauces in a beige bowl.

“Appa, done,” Rieon steps inside the kitchen.

“Good job,” Jisung rotates his neck to praise him. “Want to give me a hand?”

“Yes!”

“Carefully drain the liquid from the tuna can while I slice some onions, okay?” he nods his head to where the tuna cans are on the counter.

“Okay,”

Jisung chops the green onion into tiny pieces, and when they’re both done with their respective tasks, he mixes everything down in the bowl, creating a salmon-pink paste. The smell of fish dominates the air.

“What do you think about a wrap? I bought pita bread.” Jisung asks, setting the salad down on the table. He cuts the package of the flatbread with a pair of scissors and brings it to Rieon. “Here,”

“Thank you.” Rieon takes one pita and drops it on his plate. He picks up the spoon, trying to spread the tuna sauce on the wrap evenly. When he’s done, he pushes the bowl to Jisung.

“Thanks.”

They eat in silence, until the unruly world outside issuing through the ajar window becomes too much for Jisung. He opens a topic. “How was school today?”

“Okay,” he shrugs, gripping tighter onto the wrap. “Did badly in English class.”

“English again?” Jisung sighs, tone remaining low and gentle. He swallows down the chewed food, waits for it to reach his stomach, and then says, “I think I need to find you a tutor.”

There’s a tragic pout on Rieon’s face that tugs at Jisung’s heartstrings.

“Would you want that?”

“What if I won't be able to learn?” he licks his thumb and squeezes the wrap to make it smaller, taking another bite. “I don’t understand it.”

“Oh, bumblebee,” Jisung abandons his food to reach for his son’s hand, which he hesitates to give. “I also struggled with English. Still do sometimes. It’s nothing bad, you know.”

“They make it feel like it is.”

Another tug. This one is stronger, resulting in the woven thread to unravel the fabric that makes his heart.

“Don’t give attention to any of them. If they don't have something nice to say, that means they’re not worth listening to.”

“Mh,” Rieon looks at Jisung for a few seconds before gulping down some more of the wrap. “Guess so.”

“Is there a thing you’re not telling me?”

“No, Appa, I just wanna eat.”

Jisung exhales in relief. “Of course, of course,” he smiles, retracting his hand. “Eat. But you’ll have to do your homework afterwards.”

Rieon whines, a layer of annoyance underneath his tone. He knows better than to complain, so instead, he just nods his head and slows down his pace.

A quick look at the phone situated on his left announces Jisung that it’s half past three now. He has a few hours left to work before they have to go to Minho’s place. His heart rattles a bit harder at the thought.

If he excludes the times he mistook Minho’s apartment for his own, Jisung can say that he’s never been over to his place. Never stepped foot into what Minho calls home.

It’s exciting, in a way. To explore a new living space. To explore the life Minho lives with his daughter and their cats.

“We were invited to dinner.”

The boy stores the last piece of the wrap in his cheek, eyebrows quirking up. “Dinner?”

“Dalrae wants to show you her cats,” Jisung clarifies. “So her father invited us over. Isn’t he nice?”

“Mm! I’m gonna go take a nap now.” Rieon rises to his feet and walks towards the sink with his spotless plate. “‘M sleepy.”

“Don’t forget about your homework, Rieon.”

He won't, because Rieon is an amazing child; intelligent and diligent. He does well in school on his own, Jisung barely gets to help him.

“Wake me up in an hour, Appa,” is the last thing Rieon says before he leaves the kitchen.

Jisung scrolls on his phone, sitting at the table for five more minutes. He leaves the dishes unwashed with the promise that he’ll take care of them later— after he’s done with the song he decides to work on.

The sun sneaks her way inside the living room again, rays that Jisung believes construct her hair constantly warming up the spot he takes on the couch. He brings the table closer to his body and picks up the pen.

Love.

A subject he still finds difficult to write about.

It’s frustrating that he isn’t like Chan who has Felix or Changbin who has Seungmin. This topic comes to them easily, naturally. Jisung feels bugs under his skin whenever it’s mentioned.

Not because he isn’t fond of love, nor because he’s embarrassed that he hasn’t experienced it. It’s mostly the fact that everything he writes doesn’t make much sense. The words keep slipping through his fingers, sliding down to his white knuckles and getting stuck there. As if the joints each represent a mountain too hard to climb.

This song is supposed to be short and cheesy. He’s gotten half done, and it’s already been one month since he was assigned to write it.

Shining skies, fallen stars, red-brown planets. Like the autumn palette. They crash and amalgamate into one another, sending sparks flying through the universe. Fireworks— light the fuse, watch the fire blind you. Swoosh! Bang! Popopop! Fizz!

His skin buzzes. He bleeds his feelings onto the paper in black ink, words caressing the smooth surface with every nudge of his pen.

Heartfelt lyrics. Heart felt sad, so Heart poured its contents out. Jisung doesn’t stop to think about what he’s writing. He lets his hand move freely, to its own accord, giving love new definitions.

Pink clouds that taste like cotton candy. Would they dissolve in the rain they produce?

To die at the hands of your own creation. How romantic is that.

He jots down caged thoughts about it, how red is the colour of passion, of ardour, and the epitome of vital claret at all the same. Both flow through the narrow tubes known as veins. They rush, similar to the wind, in a race with the leaves ready to blanket the soil during cold winters.

Sometimes, the rational part wins; the fervour is the first one to break through the finish line. Other times, it’s the blood; gory and abysmally liquid.

You can choose which one is best suited for the gold medal, of course. It’s only fair that you do.

Jisung chooses the former.

A car honks outside, intimidating the next lyric out of his thoughts. When his eyes settle on the one sheet out of hundreds laid out in front of him, he finds out that there’s no more room for another verse. He’s filled out the paper.

Nice.

The hours appear to go by faster during the time Jisung is inspired enough to write. It’s already been an hour and a few minutes since he sat down and started scribbling down unknown feelings.

One touch to the side of his neck tells him that the sun wasn't gentle enough this time. It burnt his skin.

With a huff, Jisung gets up and sets the table back into its place. He walks towards the window, looks outside for a few seconds, then draws the curtains closed.

Rieon. He needs to wake Rieon up.

That’s what he does, because a promise is a promise. Jisung stalks down the hallway until he reaches the wooden door, pushing down on the handle.

Just like he thought, his son is peacefully sleeping. Two of his limbs are hanging off the edge, hair sticking to his skin where it’s adhered by sweat, pants ridden up on his exposed leg from under the covers.

“Hey,” he tiptoes his way over. Jisung chances a hand on Rieon’s forehead. “Time to get up, bumblebee.”

In reply, he gets a groan. A scrunch of the nose, accompanied by another exhale of air.

“Gotta get up, Rieon.” Jisung skims his fingers through the boy’s silky hair. “C’mon.” he urges as Rieon shakes his head to brush Jisung’s hand off him.

“Tired,” he murmurs, a tinge of a whine.

Jisung sighs. He pulls away, bent knees straightening up. “Okay then,” he grabs the heavy white blanket and pulls it to Rieon’s chin, tucking him in. “Sleep.”

Homework be damned. For now. He’ll get to it once they’re back from Minho’s.

It’s nearing five in the afternoon. This means it’s nearing the time they’ll have to go to Minho’s place. Jisung leaves the cramped bedroom, heading towards his own. It’s twelve steps away.

The nagging at his skin doesn’t seem to want to stop. It keeps melting into little goosebumps that send shivers down his spine. He’s nervous. Why is he nervous?

He scrambles through his closet. Looks for a well-put outfit. A simple one, at that. He doesn’t want to embarrass himself again like he had done a few weeks ago, at the sushi place. Jisung can get a bit silly at times.

His favorite colour is red, ironically. The deep shade of red that roses own.

There’s a flannel shirt he bought two years ago on a trip to Jeju. He had gotten it from a store that belonged to his grandfather’s friend. It feels light on the skin; the air passes through the thin material easily. The colour of it is reminiscent of Minho’s eyes.

All of his good pants seem to be in the washing machine. Jisung settles on a pair of white sweats unworn since Rieon was six. And a white tank top. It’s a good combination— dried blood in snow.

Well! The outfit’s ready for later, then. Jisung isn’t, and nor is Rieon. Which stresses his heart even more.

Left with nothing else to do, Jisung paces around the house. He walks down the hallway of the bedrooms and into the living room. Steps into the hallway leading to the kitchen and the front door. Rounds the kitchen table three times and returns to the starting point.

And his legs hurt. The muscle fever is already starting to settle in. Sharp pains that can be felt whenever he makes a wrong move, thighs burning when he crouches down to sit on the black couch. Maybe watching something will help.

Restless is what his eyes are. They keep on moving around the room, from the TV to the countless books dusting on the shelves to the store-bought mandarines displayed in a small bowl atop the coffee table.

Free therapy.

One mandarine turns into three. Jisung peels them all, impatiently, leaving the skin on the table. He pops half of the pulp into his mouth, biting down on it until there’s sour juice cascading down his throat.

Probably, he’d be called a hypocrite. Because Jisung does not care if the mandarines are ripe or not. Fresh or on vacation in Seoul, South Korea, from another country. He likes mandarines as they are. Sue him for that.

Even the bad can be good sometimes, is the principle he goes by.

Jisung stuffs his stomach with five whole tiny orange fruits. He puts the bowl in the centre of the glass, then leans on the backseat of his cosy couch, resting one palm on his belly, the other lonely next to his hip.

Whatever is playing on the big screen is unimportant and doesn't manage to catch his attention. For not even a few seconds. His thoughts take the wrong fucking train again. Another damn forest.

Minho invited him over. Actually, he invited his son. And him. Jisung can be selfish. Nothing wrong with that.

They didn't even set an hour. Will it be at six? At eight? Ten? He doubts it will be any time later than nine, but he can hope.

Jisung is deeply thinking about how tonight will go when his phone buzzes from somewhere in the distance. He grunts as he gets up, hurrying over to the chair with no role standing in the corner of the room.

Stupid, stupid heart. Jumping and pulsing like a ping-pong ball. Ping, Jisung opens the text. Pong, Jisung reads the text. Ping pong ping pong ping pong against his thoracic cavity.

A. Minho hyung

Hey

How is seven for you?

Me

Perfect

A. Minho hyung

See you then

And Rieon

Ugh. He’s such a simple man. Jisung could do something really stupid about it.

The big clock announces that there are two hours left. He flops down supine on the couch, feet established on the armrest, head propped on a soft cushion. He doesn’t swivel his neck to look at the noisy TV, instead letting its audio tune out his thoughts.

At some point, his eyes fall asleep. They must be tired, too. Soon, his body follows, muscles relaxing. He feels his body sink into warmth, the weak sun rays making him see red instead of black.

Jisung breathes in through his nose. Feels the air reach his lungs, pumping his chest full. He exhales through his mouth. He feels the way his tailbone is digging uncomfortably into the crevice of the couch, and how the remote jabs into his calf.

Mandarines. The living room smells like mandarines. Fruity, juicy, just the perfect amount of sweetness added. Jisung fucking loves mandarines.

He manages to fully let himself fall into a slumber only after he appreciates the warmth on his face, dimmed by the curtains, heating it up nicely.

It’s a cat-like sleep. He hears the clicking of the clock and the screaming voices on the television. A serene nap. He doesn’t dream about anything in particular, just a peaceful bunch of nothing.

What he doesn't hear is the footsteps hurrying over to his side, and then hands shaking his shoulders. Jisung arises with a gasp. He probably inherited that from his mother.

“What– you– Rieon?” he looks at the fingers grasping his shirt. “Don’t do that.”

“Appa,” Rieon’s wobbling lip alerts Jisung’s brain. “Appa, I had a scary dream.” he drops to his knees, on the carpet, next to the couch.

There's a flicker of confusion in Jisung’s gaze before he sighs and wraps a hand around the boy’s nape, bringing Rieon to rest his head on his chest. A bit of an awkward position, but this will do. “What was it about?”

“Aliens– they– the aliens came and–” he rushes, speaking in an unsteady voice. He probably woke up crying and stopped when he came to realise that he’s safe inside here. There are dried tear tracks glistening on his chubby cheeks. “They took you, Appa! They said you belonged to them!”

The laugh he croaks out wasn't meant to escape past his tongue. “Ali– I belonged to them?” he brushes his thumb on the top of Rieon’s head, swirling the strands of hair around itself.

Rieon nods his head vigorously, coming in contact with Jisung’s chin. “Ouch– yes!” he scrunches his father’s blouse into his fist. “They said you were family.”

“Oh,” he smiles, although Rieon cannot see it. “You know my family is here, right? Wherever you are.”

“Yes,”

“So don’t be scared, Rieonie. You’re my bumblebee, you know?” Jisung looks at the ceiling, trying to figure out its texture without his glasses on. He doesn't manage.

“Stop, Appa.” Rieon starts pulling away, but Jisung’s grip is strong. “You’re embarrassing..”

“Yet you cried at the thought of your father being abducted by aliens,”

“Hey!” his head finally flees the clasp, stare fixing on Jisung. Jisung looks back and challenges with a raised brow.

“Hello.”

They fall into a fit of giggles, and maybe Jisung isn’t that much of a deadbeat father after all.

Jisung tries not to breathe that much because inhaling the amount of perfume he sprayed on before leaving his apartment is certainly toxic. Rieon is standing a few steps away from his dad, watching the door. Minho’s door.

“Are you nervous?” he asks Rieon.

“No,” Rieon answers simply. “I’m excited!”

All right. So what if Jisung is nervous? It’s whatever. Whatever.

The door opens, revealing a dishevelled-haired Lee Minho in an unbuttoned— two buttons down his chest— black shirt and khaki sweatpants.

What a sight. Jisung forgets that he isn’t currently napping on the couch, having a wet dream. The wettest, clearly.

“Welcome,” Minho steps aside, gesturing with his hands for them to walk in. “Hello, Rieon.” he high-fives the boy.

It’s funny how Minho’s wearing some fuzzy cat slippers and Jisung is wearing his bunny ones, matching with his son. It’s cute. Minho’s damn fuzzy slippers are cute.

And what’s cuter is the meowing feline gracefully waving its tail as it strides down the hallway towards them. A tabby grey cat with a fluffy belly and big eyes. Jisung coos, allergy completely leaving his mind.

“Hi,” he crouches down, a silent groan pushing its way out of his chest. “Cute baby.”

“Hello to you too, Jisung-ssi,” Minho closes the door and urges Rieon to try to pet the cat. “This is Dori. Dori-yah, say hello,”

Meow, the cat talks, probably a ‘fuck off’ and not a polite ‘hello’. Jisung lets it smell his fingers (which are drenched in perfume). It scrunches its nose and runs off before Rieon gets the chance to rub under its chin.

“He’s a bit shy.” Minho shrugs, taking the lead and walking further inside the apartment.

It’s not much different from Jisung’s own— except, hung on the long hallway wall, there are endless photos of three people. A mother, a father, and their child. A woman, Minho, and Dalrae.

What he’s doing isn’t nice. Minho’s love life is none of his business. Jisung glances one more time at a particular photo of Minho holding Dalrae on his hip before surging forward to where their destination may be.

A living room. It’s lively, with a bunch of colourful toys scattered in one corner next to a white piano. The couch is grey, a light shade. One of the walls is painted pastel yellow. There are other photos framed on the shelves filled with what looks like books.

On the right side, there’s a circular table made out of a shiny brown wood, four white chairs tucked neatly under it.

A pink cat tower comes into view when Jisung’s eyes finish admiring Minho’s set of squeaky clean porcelain with a minty green background covered by simple shapes.

“That’s Doongie,” Minho proudly says, pointing to the sleeping cat. “Soonie must be analysing you two from somewhere.”

“Analysing,” Jisung snorts, awkwardly standing in the middle of Minho’s grand apartment.

“Mm. He’s the boss here.”

Rieon is the first one to sit down at the table. He looks up at Minho questioningly, and asks, “Where is Dalrae?”

“Here!” Dalrae appears from the second hallway, which Jisung assumes leads to the bedrooms just like his does. “Hi!” she bows her head to Jisung, heading towards Rieon with a bright smile afterwards.

“Are you hungry?” Minho forwards the question to Jisung, whose knees are starting to hurt.

“Kinda,” he agrees. Shyly.

“The food is ready. I’ll go bring it while you make yourself feel at home.”

He leaves with hurried steps, disappearing into the hallway with the vestibule. Jisung remains standing for one more minute, looking around the living room. At the big cat tower taking up all the space next to the yellow wall, the cat toys scattered around the place in a tidy way.

“Samchon Jisung,” Dalrae reaches her hand— nails painted orange— and tries to drag him towards the table. “Take a seat!”

“Why, of course,” he beams at her, circling the table to sit next to Rieon. There’s one more empty seat to Jisung’s left side, and he believes that it belongs to Minho.

“After we eat, I’m going to introduce you to Soon and Doong and Dori!” the girl excitedly tells Rieon, planting herself down on another chair.

Minho walks in, hands wrapped in purple mitts that protect his skin from the boiling food he’s carrying. He slides the large cutting board onto the table and places the scorching item down.

“Jjimdak with braised potatoes,” he nods his head to the covered pot. “I have soup too, if any of you want?”

Crickets. Minho’s eyes take the shape of Jisung’s glasses. He drags his chair closer to the younger. Not close enough to touch, but close enough for Jisung to smell his cologne. Distinct from the smell of his home.

His apartment smells like freshly cooked food, cat fur, and something woody. Clean. On the other hand, he smells sweet. Spicy bourbon vanilla.

“I’d rather have you choose for yourself how much you want to eat, so please dig in.”

Dalrae is the first one to do it, knees on the chair as she reaches for the kitchen tongs, dropping a few pieces of chicken and potatoes on her plate. “I’ve been wanting to eat this for ages,” she tells Rieon. “Appa is a very good cook. The best!”

“Mm,” Rieon licks his lips at the sight of steaming-hot food. He takes the utensil from his friend once she’s done, handing it over to Jisung. “Help me?”

Jisung picks up Rieon’s plate, filling it until the sauce is pooling at its constant curb. “There you go,”

“Thank you!”

“Eat it all up,” Minho smiles, waiting for Jisung to put some food on his own dish. “It’s fresh out of the oven, as they say.”

“My appa can’t cook.” Rieon pouts.

“Rieon!” Jisung almost drops the tongs as he passes it to Minho, cheeks turning a fuchsia hot. “Oh my god.”

Minho laughs. High-pitched. A soft voice that has Jisung’s stomach churning in something very close to fondness. “Can’t he?”

“No,” the boy shakes his head, staining the area around his mouth with the red sauce at the tip of his chopsticks.

“What a shame.”

“Rieon, watch your mouth,” Jisung says all too gently. His skin burns in embarrassment. Kids are so unpredictable. He stuffs his cheeks with the meat. “‘S good.”

“I’m glad,” Minho beams, finally starting to eat too.

“Appa,” Dalrae holds a piece of the chicken, one of her chopsticks piercing through it. “Did you forget to make it spicy?”

“Hm?” he chews on a perfectly cut potato. Jisung is still too ashamed to look at him, so he keeps his gaze on the plate in front of him. He has no reason to be. “Ah, I didn't mean to make it spicy, Dal. You don't like it?” Minho tilts his head.

“I do! Really!”

He grins. “Then eat up.”

“Yes, Appa.”

It’s good. The taste explodes on Jisung’s taste pores, holding him hostage. It’s way too good. He’s not even the biggest fan of chicken— yet this is probably one of the best things he’s ever eaten. He shows it through little moans and hums directed to Minho’s side. Little head shakes in approval.

What a good day to be alive and well, he thinks. With Minho. What kind of God did he reach when he prayed for a positive change?

“I’ve always liked cooking, you know,” Minho adds to the earlier conversation. “It’s relaxing to me. I like being in the kitchen. Baking something sweet, or making lunch, whatever it is.”

“That’s a talent, hyung.” Jisung appreciatively looks at him for one second before shying away.

At one point, he feels something snake around his calf, and Jisung jolts. Minho looks a bit startled before he peeks under the table and sees the culprit— Jisung believes it’s Doongie, since it’s more white. “Hey there,” he hums, placing the chopsticks down.

Minho sucks in a breath. “He likes you.”

“Does he?” he leans to pet Doongie on his head. “Cute baby.”

“The cutest,” the older agrees, rubbing the cat’s paw with his foot. “He's usually wary of strangers.”

“Can we go play now? I want to show Rieonie my toys and the cats!” Dalrae happily says, already jumping off the chair. “Please?”

“You don't want dessert?”

She frowns. “Later, Appa, please!”

Rieon looks like he wants to stay, but he’s tugged away by Dalrae’s hand after she gets a nod of permission. They head to the other side of the room, where an orange cat is napping on the armrest of the couch, on a black blanket. He hears the name Soonie.

“Let me clean up,” Minho pushes his chair back and stands up, already stocking the plates on top of each other.

“Let me help,” Jisung copies his movements.

The look on his face is funny. It’s like he’s offended. “‘Course I won't let you, Jisung.” he looks at him and scoffs. “Be right back.”

“Hyung,”

But he’s gone in a blink, holding four plates in one palm and the long oval oven balanced on his forearm, his free hand taking care of it. Doongie follows suit, almost tripping Minho.

Jisung lets out a deep sigh. It feels weird to be here. In Minho’s home. With his daughter and their cats. Sitting at his table. And he’s wearing cosy slippers that feel a bit too intimate for their relationship.

Over the past months, Minho and Jisung have gotten close. They text every now and then, meet up almost daily. Not necessarily to hang out— just outside the tenement, at the gym, sometimes even at the grocery store. In the park, or on morning runs, when they don't plan to go on one together.

They’re everywhere.

There are particles of Minho left in the air everywhere for Jisung to see. In the fallen red rose petals in the mud. In the sunlight reflecting on the water of the Han River. In the gentle caress of the moon.

Is he aware? Is Minho aware of how much of an impact he’s made on Jisung’s life?

He doubts it. Lee Minho is a simple, modest man. He lives simply in a complex life. Unlike Jisung, who makes a big deal out of everything. Like this. It’s a good example.

Minho comes back inside the living room with a tray. Three mugs and a small plate full of… Mads. Jisung’s heart hitches.

“You–” he tries to say, eyeing Minho as he places it down. “Are those–”

“Madeleines,” a sheepish smile. “With mandarines.”

“You can’t be real.”

“I very much am,” Minho laughs, claiming his spot next to him. “Please, eat. I worked hard to bake them.”

“Thank you, hyung. Truly. Thank you so much.” Jisung could cry. He bites down on a piece of cake, letting the saliva melt it on his tongue before swallowing around a delighted hum. “I love your Madeleines.”

“You do?”

“A lot. Not the most, you could never make them better than my mum does. But you’re up there.”

“Hah,” Minho giggles, taking a sip out of his mug. It smells like tea. A sweet kind of tea. Jisung isn't the biggest fan of tea, and yet he’s excited to try it out. Minho made it, after all.

“This is so…” he sighs, pressing the tip of his tongue into the liquid to check its temperature, only pouring it down once he deems that it's not too warm. “I don't know.”

The man leans back on his chair, manspreading until his left knee rests against Jisung’s right one. “Hm?”

“No one’s ever done this for me before you.”

“Made you tea?”

Jisung’s neck burns. He swallows more. “Baked me Mads.”

“Oh,” his dark hair bounces as he nods. “I like baking, and you like Mads? Madeleines.” Minho says, putting one piece into his mouth. “So.”

“It’s nice.”

“You’re nice.”

“I’m nice?” Jisung tilts his head. “You’re nice.”

“That I am,” Minho grins, propping the mug on the table. He tilts his head towards the cakes, raising an eyebrow. “Not gonna eat?”

“I am. Thank you, hyung. It’s lovely.” His pink lips wrap around another Madeleine. The rich flavour is born on his tongue and dies in his oesophagus. Jisung outright moans. It’s so good. It’s always so good.

“Anytime. You can ask me to make you these anytime.”

There are many questions going through his head, flying over it. He remains silent, listening to the cackle of the children, now annoying Soonie.

“You know,” Jisung starts, grabbing another piece and drinking more of his beverage. “I’m glad I.. messed up back then, in April. Was it April?” he sighs through his nose.

“Indeed it was,” Minho smirks. “What makes you say that?”

“Just, you know. Meeting you.”

Sparks find a home in Minho’s irises. The gorgeous shape of his eyes takes a soft form, crinkling at its ends. “I’m happy I met you, too.”

“I still don't understand how you didn't kick–” he lowers his voice, glancing at the two kids playing the piano, Rieon showing Dalrae how well he can play it. “my ass when I’d show up late at your door.”

“Would you rather I did?”

“No, of course not.” he chortles. “It’s just surprising that you let it slide so easily.”

Minho tuts, shaking his head. He bites into a half-eaten Madeleine. “I don't go around beating people, Jisung-ah, even if they’re in the wrong. Do you?”

“That I don’t, either,” Jisung snickers, gaze focusing on the crumb sitting atop Minho’s pink lips. He itches to reach out and pick at it. “If I were you, I likely would’ve called the police.”

“Jinnie wanted to.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” Minho licks his lips. “I wasn't home at one point when it happened, I think the second or third time. My daughter was with her babysitter. The dude almost shat his pants.”

Jisung bursts out laughing, oozing sweet dark honey. “Really?”

“Yeah, man. He called me, crying, and begged me to come back home. I couldn't. Didn’t.”

“I apologise for causing such distress.”

“Don’t. I owe you for scaring him.” his face turns feline-like with a grin. “He deserved that.”

“He did?” Jisung hums, taking a long sip of the tea that is fastly going cold.

“Mhm. Hyunjin-ie is, well… definitely something.”

Crack. Jisung’s facial muscles suddenly lose all the power they used to hold his smile. He stares at Minho, blankly. Minho notices and also drops his grin.

“What’s wrong? Do you want me to make you another tea?”

It takes Jisung exactly five seconds to return to where he is— Minho’s apartment, not class 1-6. “Hyung, no, it’s fine,”

“What is it, then? What’s going on?”

He breathes in some air (and probably cat fur), providing his beating heart more tools to work with. “Nothing, sorry. I got reminded of something. Continue the story.”

“Oh. Okay.” Minho sighs in relief, eyeing Jisung scrutinizingly for a few more moments before moving on. “That was it.”

“Funny, huh. And then, the fourth time or so, you acted all nice to me. What if I were a burglar?”

“You aren't.”

“I’m not,” Jisung agrees, swirling the mug to mix the remaining sugar with the last sips of tea. “But I could’ve been.”

“But you’re not.”

“You didn't know me at the time.”

“Didn’t I?” Minho cocks an eyebrow.

“Did you?”

“I had seen you before. Your face wasn't completely unfamiliar.”

Jisung shifts in his seat so that he’s facing Minho better. “Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“You’re so– weird, hyung.”

“Aren’t I?” Minho laughs, harmonising with his daughter’s laughter from where she’s sitting on the carpet, showing Rieon her car collection. “Learn how to embrace the cringe, Jisung-ah.”

“I think I was cringe enough when I kept showing up at your apartment unprovoked.”

“Not cringe. More like endearing.”

“You really are a weird one, hyung.” Jisung giggles, downing the last bit of tea in one go. “That’s okay, too. ‘S not a bad thing.”

”It’s not.”

“Yeah.”

Minho murmurs low in his throat, tapping his fingertips against the hardwood table all while staring straight at Jisung. “Eat the last Madeleine.”

“Huh?”

“The last one,” he pushes the small plate towards the younger. “You can have it. There’s more in the kitchen.”

“Ah,” Jisung gives a crooked smile, “Thank you, hyung.” and pops the last piece into his awaiting mouth, closing his eyes in contentment.

A shudder suddenly runs down his spine, and then back up to his brain. He forces his eyelids open, seeing Minho still looking at him. Before he can be the first one to speak, the man says, “You’re cute.”

And Jisung almost passes away. He chokes, coughing three times as Minho hits him between his shoulder blades. He raises his palm in the air to notify that it went away. “Hyung, ohmygod.”

“Sorry,” he worriedly looks at him for a short period of time, then his lips break at the seams into a smile. “You truly are cute.”

“I’m not– don’t say that,” Jisung grumbles. His face hasn't turned to its original colour since he first stepped into this apartment. It feels like it’s only turning more and more pink. “Don’t say that, hyung.”

“Say what? That you’re cute?” his eyebrow, glistening with sweat, quirks. “You’re so cute, Jisung-ah,” he singsongs.

“Hyung..”

“What? Are you embarrassed?”

Jisung looks at his lap, fingers digging into the flesh of his thigh. “Yeah,”

“Cute.”

Okay. Okay. He nips at his bottom lip until it swells red. Lets his heart nest between his lungs. Feels his cheeks hurt from how hard he’s trying not to blush.

He’s cute.

An hour later, Rieon is in bed, a white dog plushie tucked under his chin. It’s a lifeless embodiment of Bbama, Jisung’s puppy that still lives in the countryside with his mother and father and their aggressive chickens.

“Want me to read you a story?” Jisung is sitting on the edge of the mattress, next to him.

“Mm,” he shakes his head. “Wanna know about you and him.”

Jisung sends him a contrite look. “What did you say?”

“Dalrae’s dad.”

“Minho hyung?”

“Is he an uncle too, now?” Rieon props his cheek on the green pillow, prying eyes straining to catch his father’s gaze. He looks like he has thousands of questions, and he can’t be blamed for it.

“I–” Jisung doesn’t know. “He’s a friend, yeah.”

“I like him, Appa. And Dalrae. She’s a nice friend. I think we’re friends now.”

His fingers reach out to comb through Rieon’s fluffy bangs. Jisung sighs, pitiful, mind spinning. “I like him too.”

Minho is amazing. He’s smart, rich, unarguably handsome. Ethereal, even. On top of that, he’s a perfect father; always spending time with his daughter, signing her up for participation in different kinds of events that enrich her brain. She can swim, hold conversations in English, and is a skilled dancer. At seven years old.

And— Minho is also understanding, kind, mature. He never judged Jisung for... whatever mistakes he’d made two months ago. When he kept showing up at room 325. Jisung has no idea how he could mess up so badly. He’s lucky it was Minho’s apartment. Because Minho is cool and hot and benevolent.

“He’s great,” Rieon closes his eyes, headbutting into the feeling. “And their cats are so cute.”

“Are they?”

“Mm. I want a cat too.”

“You have Mikan.” he reminds, amplifying the caresses to get him to fall into a slumber.

“I don’t see Mikan every day.”

A frown tugs at his mouth. Jisung regrets. Regrets a lot, but not everything. “You should sleep. You have school tomorrow.”

“I miss eomma.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“When’s the party?” Rieon mumbles into the sheets, kicking his legs to escape the warmth of the blanket. “When are we going?”

“The wedding?” Jisung asks for clarification. His son hums, squeezing the stuffed toy. “At the end of this month. Are you excited, Rieonie?”

“Mhm,”

“You need to sleep now.”

“Will you stay?” he utters in the fluffy pillow.

“Yes.”

And Jisung does stay, awake, until five in the morning, when the sun is starting to wake up. Only then does he get out of his son’s bed, dizziness from not sleeping clawing at his eyelids. He walks down the hallway towards the bathroom and throws water at his face.

He needs to go to work early to help with the recording of a b-side song. He’s excited about it— he’s the writer of it. It’s from months ago.

What he isn’t excited about, though, is being the one to officiate Nari’s wedding. Not because he’s not happy for her or anything of that sort. He just doesn’t like to be the centre of attention, and he’s also not into parties anymore. He’s too old now. The music is too loud and there are too many people and the moving lights are too strong.

Not only, but Jisung should bring a plus one as well. He’s not obliged to, of course, though if he chooses not to, it will get lonely. Nari’s friends aren’t Jisung’s friends.

Changbin sounds like the fairest choice. He loves partying, and Nari has known him for a long time now.

Yet a wicked part of his brain chants Minho like a broken mantra. Says, and he can quote, you’re close friends now. Jisung flushes red just from thinking about it. For whatever weird reason. He’s never been one to understand his feelings.

It would be nice. Going with Minho. He’s been briefly thinking about it ever since they went out for ice cream with their children, out in a park. The weather was good, and he felt great being in the older’s proximity.

Jisung lets the thought settle in a part of his brain he never knew existed, and finds the chance to ask Minho about it days later, on a cloudy Saturday, when they’re enjoying the breeze next to a secluded fishing spot in Incheon. Minho drove the three of them— he, Jisung, and Rieon (Dalrae is at her grandparents’)— here to go fishing.

Apparently, Minho likes fishing. Jisung isn’t the biggest fan of it, but he agreed to string along for the sake of his son.

“Hyung,” Jisung starts, watching the nylon monofilament line dive deeper into the water. Rieon quickly shushes him.

“Appa, quiet!”

“Sorrysorry,”

Minho grins from where he’s holding the tall red rod, sat down in between them on a chair similar to the other two.

So far, they (Minho) have caught two fish. He gently tossed them back into the water before it could get painful for them, and then restarted the progress. Now they’ve been waiting for another marine life to catch onto the hook.

Relaxation calms Jisung’s back, which he worked hard on last night at the gym. With Minho. It’s his new gym buddy. A very strict one, that is. He pushed Jisung’s buttons until he was groaning in exertion.

“I need to make a call,” Jisung suddenly excuses himself, getting up.

“Shh!” Rieon furrows his eyebrows at his father, who is now walking away. He faintly hears Minho tell Rieon to be nice to his father.

Standing next to Minho’s nice Jeep, Jisung phones Chan.

Chan picks up the call a few moments later, humming an airy hello?

“Hyung,” he whispers, kicking a tiny rock with his foot. It disappears into the green grass, never to be found again. “I need your help.”

“Jisung– I, uh, I’m a bit busy right now.” Chan replies, but then sighs loudly. Jisung hears a faint murmur, something among the lines ‘sorry, baby,’ and then the ruffling of sheets. “What is it?”

“Nari’s wedding,” Jisung starts, disturbing another rock. “I want to bring Minho hyung as my plus one.”

Both Chan and Changbin know who Minho is now. Changbin even saw Jisung grabbing coffee with him once, two weeks ago. He gets teased a lot for that.

“Okay,” Chan heaves a sigh, probably pinching the bridge of his nose. “What is it you need help with?”

“How do I ask him out?” he stupidly questions, head empty. “I mean– how do I ask him to accompany me to Nari’s most important day?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t see the problem,”

Right. What is the problem here? Jisung feels his pulse pick up whenever he thinks about Minho meeting his one best friend, the mother of his child, and also his parents, who will undoubtedly be there, and he doesn’t know why.

“Sorry for calling.”

On the other end, Chan remains silent. He bonks his head against a wall, and says, “I think I actually know what it is. The problem, I mean.”

“What?”

“You like Minho.”

Jisung’s heart skyrockets. His fingers go numb with the lack of blood in them. His eyebrows scrunch up in confusion, then contemplation, and finally realisation.

“Jisungie, it’s because you like Minho.” Chan repeats. Cruel, evil, sincere.

No matter how much his brain wants to deny it, Jisung is a lost cause. The train ended up going astray in the neverending forest, it seems. It lost its bearings and everything fell apart.

He remains silent for a long while, pondering so deeply his head starts hurting in that irritating way. He munches on his bottom lip. Just as he’s about to say No way, hyung! Are you crazy? Rieon rushes towards him.

“Appa, Appa, come! Uncle Minho caught the biggeeeest fish!” he grabs his shaky hand, urging him back towards the leg of the lake, where Minho is fighting with his expensive rod, body arched backwards. “Come on!”

“Sh– okay,” he ends the call after thanking Chan for the talk.

Indeed, when the fish gets pulled out of the water by Minho’s insane strength, it is a huge one.

“Look at this, Jisungie, Rieonie,” he holds it with both of his hands, slippery skin coating his fingers wet. He looks childish like that. Grinning with his teeth bared.

His eyes linger for one more second on it before flicking up to Minho’s own. Red, brown, gorgeous. They disappear behind his proud smile. Jisung breaks into laughter, the happiness on the man’s face from a mere fish straight out of a romantic comedy.

“You look stupid, hyung.” Jisung lets him know. What he means by that is that he’s the most endearing man living in this universe.

Minho’s beaming mouth breaks into a pout.

Frankly, Jisung is a weak, weak man, and just like that he takes out his phone from the pocket of his thin jacket and slides his thumb to the left, filming a sullen Lee Minho holding a lengthy fish in his relatively small hands.

Seeing the camera, Minho threatens to throw the slick creature at Jisung. Before he can advance, Rieon sneaks himself next to him and shows a peace sign, giving a toothy grin to the camera. Jisung’s throat starts pulsating, and he captures the lovely moment with a few pictures he’ll have to frame.

They let the aquatic animal go back to its family, then start packing up their things. Jisung folds the chairs and carries the small table to the trunk of the car.

“I’m hungry,” Rieon whines from the backseat. “Can we go eat?”

“Absolutely,” Minho steers the wheel out of the parking lot (which is basically empty now that it’s beginning to rain). “What do you want to eat, Rieonie?” he glimpses at him through the rearview mirror. “You, Jisung?” This time, he keeps his eyes on the road.

“Burger!”

“I’m okay with whatever,” Jisung shrugs, feeling the leather of the chair smooth his limbs. He keeps a vice grip on the seatbelt grounding his chest.

“Burger it is, then.”

Rieon yips cheerfully, kicking his legs. Minho has the trace of a smile on the corner of his lips. Jisung stares at his side profile, as he often does, and wonders how could a perfect man like Minho be single if not by choice.

The tips of the driver’s ears slowly transform into a tomato, reddening an immense amount. Jisung doesn’t know why, and when he’s caught staring, his cheeks turn the same.

When Minho parallel-parks the car, Jisung inhales. When Minho hurries out of his seat just to round the car and open both his and Rieon’s doors, Jisung shakily exhales. When they enter the not-so-popular fast food place and Minho plants his palm on Jisung’s lower back barely above his ass, his body visibly shudders.

This is— new. Not completely, but fairly new. The last time he felt goosebumps rise on his arms at the mere touch of another person was back then in high school, with Hyunjin. And even then, it wasn’t this strong.

He wonders whether Minho feels the same. If those stupid butterflies also move around his two atria then switch into the ventricles to cause just as much damage.

“What burger do you want?” Minho asks the kid, looking at the digital menu. “They have plenty.”

“Chicken burger with extra fries and sparkling water,” he greedily says.

“You?”

Jisung is shaken out of his thoughts by a fleeting, gentle hold on his bicep. He looks into Minho’s eyes, then realizes he’s supposed to choose a meal. “I’ll have the same but medium wedge fries, and simple water.”

Minho puts in their long order and chooses a high table next to the window. He sits, alone, across from Jisung so that Rieon can sit next to his dad.

This place is a new one that is mostly unknown as of now. It’s said to be healthier than all of the other ones. Jisung is looking forward to trying their food.

While waiting for the order, Jisung goes on a short trip to the bathroom. He pees, washes his hands, and stares at his reflection until it becomes unrecognizable. He thinks about these newfound feelings for his neighbour, the capillary blood flow increasing an abnormal amount. Is this normal? He wouldn’t know.

His stomach flips with every step he takes back to the table, where two trays of food lie on it. Even as he eats, he can’t stop staring at the piece of art chewing on a fry in front of him. Jisung’s fry. Minho only ordered a simple sandwich. It’s fine, Jisung’s more than willing to share his fries. And his drink. Maybe even his heart, if Minho is willing for that.

The food is greatly conditioned, and it doesn’t feel greasy. It’s actually good. The taste melts on his tongue.

“Do you like it, Rieonie?” Minho asks, wiping the salt off his lips with a white napkin. He’s already finished his sandwich.

“Love it,” he nods enthusiastically, mouth stuffed. “Thank you for taking me here!”

“Anytime.”

“Anytime?” Jisung butts in, because he craves Minho’s attention. The soft tone of his voice directed to him.

“Matter-of-factly, you and me,” the oldest only refers to himself and the boy. “Can go fishing anytime you want. I’ll bring you with me the next time too. I’ll even buy you a rod.”

“What?” it’s Jisung’s turn to pout. His lip juts out, eyebrows frowning.

“Your appa can’t know.” he mouths to Rieon, who smirks devilishly, shaking his head in agreement.

“Hey,”

Minho takes two fries and holds them out in front of Jisung’s mouth. “Hm?”

Helpless as he is, Jisung immediately wraps his lips around the given food, chewing at it while looking at him. Minho’s eyes glisten in interest.

Begging to pay doesn’t faze Minho anymore. Back in the Jeep, Jisung tries to hand him the money, but he ignores him completely, instead searching for a fitting playlist.

The GPS app shows that they’re forty minutes away from home. Rieon dozes off quickly, leaving the two adults in their own unpoppable bubble.

Without taking his attention off the road, Minho breaks the silence. “Did you like today?”

“The weather wasn’t the best,” Jisung admits, staring at the plump beads of rain on the windshield. “I still loved it.”

“You did?” there’s a smile threatening to spill on Minho’s mouth.

“I think I’d like it even if you took me skydiving.”

His laugh is beautiful. Like a fresh bucket of cold water. The momentarily burning feeling on the skin. Minho laughs, beautiful like that, and only stops to say, “I’d hold your hand as we go down, by the way.”

There it is again. The fairy tale insects flying in his stomach, up his larynx, spreading into every crevice. “Why only hold my hand when we’re face to face with death?”

“Don’t you need a critical moment to confess?”

Jisung almost explodes. His jaw goes slack, lips apart from each other, gaping at Minho as though he’s unreal. He rubs at his nose with the knuckle of his index finger, sweating all of a sudden.

Talking about confessions, he remembers: Nari’s wedding and the extravagant looking envelope.

“Hyung, this might sound a bit weird,” Jisung gulps down the built-up saliva, feeling it stick to the walls of his throat.

“What is it?”

“You know my– uh, Rieon’s mother. She’s getting married, and I was wondering if you could..” his mouth unexpectedly goes dry.

“If I could?”

“Come as my plus one.”

Minho’s fingertips tap on the steering wheel, his other hand wrapped tightly around the gear. “Come as your plus one,” he repeats without meeting his gaze, then shrugs. “When is it?”

“The twenty-ninth of June.”

“That’s on a Saturday.”

“Yes,” Jisung picks at his cuticles. “Sorry, I–”

“I’ll come.”

They’re finally at a red stop, so now Minho can turn his head. He stares at Jisung.

“You will?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you so much!” he smiles happily, then lowers his tone when he remembers Rieon sleeping behind him.

“You don’t need to thank me.”

A car honks, making them both jolt in their respective seats. Minho curses under his breath— in a very hot way— and then hits the pedal, sharply turning left.

For the rest of the ride, they stay quiet. As soon as the car is parked in its spacious spot underground, Jisung tries to wake his son up with a hand on his knee, shaking it profusely.

“I could carry him, if you want,” Minho offers, unbuckling himself. He pockets his phone and keys.

“Ah, no,” Jisung refuses, putting more power into waking Rieon up. Eventually, his eyes open, and they exit the car. It’s cold outside of it. Jisung wraps his jacket around the boy, leading him to the elevators with Minho trailing behind.

All three of them go up to Jisung’s floor, and Minho even walks them to the door. He ruffles Rieon’s hair, winking at him as he says, “Don’t forget your promise!” and only pats Jisung on the shoulder.

He then walks away. Like he didn’t just flip Jisung’s entire world upside down.

-`ᯓ★´-

On Monday and Tuesday morning, Minho drives Dalrae and Rieon to school. On Wednesday, after once again dropping the kids off, Minho invites Jisung out.

They’re sat in a nice cafe overlooking the Han River. Minho’s drinking saccharine sweet coffee, resembling his perfume, and enjoying a slice of chocolate cake that Jisung is dying to try, although his cheesecake is just as heavenly.

“The weather is so nice today,” Jisung compliments, taking a sip out of his large iced americano.

“Isn’t it?” Minho agrees, eyes riveted to his lips. “You have a little something over there,”

“Over where?”

“Here.” he sits up, knocking his chair over in the process, and reaches out to thumb at Jisung’s top lip. Once done, he hauls up his stool. Sits down with flaming red ears.

Great. Now they’re both embarrassed. Jisung keeps his eyes low on his cheesecake, with strawberry glaze coating it. Minho clears his throat, interest piqued by whatever’s happening outside the building.

Chan finally messages Jisung back, telling him to have fun on your date, Jisung-ah~. Somehow that worsens his situation, and he bites down on the paper straw until it’s of no more use.

Minho notices the tense look on his face, the strain in his shoulders. He frowns. “Is everything alright?”

Greed overtakes all rational parts of his brain, and all while salivating at Minho’s cake, he asks for permission. “Can I take one bite?”

Stunned at the random request, Minho stares at him in disbelief before giggling. “Yeah.” he picks up a great amount of dark cake on his tiny fork and deports it straight to Jisung’s insatiable mouth.

“Oh,” Jisung goes cross-eyed looking at his hand, but he holds eye contact with Minho as he eats everything off the utensil.

“There you go,”

“Mmf– thanks,”

“With your mouth closed, please.” he snorts, handing him a napkin.

Once again, Minho pays for everything.

They walk down the staircase (Jisung almost trips twice) and exit the building. The wind angrily hits them in the face, and Minho offers his jacket, but ultimately is rejected.

With the sun shining brightly at the top of the sky and the moon watching her show from behind a cloud, Jisung and Minho decide to go on a walk. To help with the digestion of what they have consumed for breakfast.

Side by side, they cross the street and step down countless stairs to get to the park, where numerous couples are picnicking. It must be nice.

“Thank you for driving Rieon to school this week,” Jisung accidentally bumps his shoulder into Minho’s. He doesn’t get to apologize because Minho is bumping back, and they play around like that for a moment or two. “Really. You lifted such a heavy weight off my chest.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he hums, smiling at the world. “Rieon-ie is an angel, I hope he knows that.”

“I try to make sure he does.”

There are blankets everywhere. Colourful, simple, small, big, you call it. Teenagers are out walking their dogs, kids are running around trying to make their kites fly, Hwang Hyunjin is walking towards Minho and Jisung.

Wait. Waitwaitwaitwait.

A bitter taste gnaws at Jisung’s throat, seeing Hyunjin smile all huge as he runs to Minho. The fact that this is the first time he sees his ex after years doesn’t even make it to his brain.

“Minho hyung!” Hyunjin throws himself over him. Minho grumbles under his breath, softly pushing him away and flicking his forehead.

“Hyunjin-ah, when are you going to stop stalking me?” he tuts scoldingly. “That’s not very nice.”

Jisung feels the need to attach himself to Minho’s hip, so his body involuntarily does. Minho warmly welcomes him.

That’s when Hyunjin— now bleached blonde with a buzzcut— strains his neck and notices Han Jisung. “Oh,” he says, widened eyes moving from Minho to Jisung over and over again.

He’s still taller than Jisung by at least a head, clad in cosy clothes. Jisung doesn’t really mean to scoff, but he does anyway. “Oh.”

Feeling the tension that has captivated the air, Minho tries to cut it with that voice he uses on his cats (and Jisung, sometimes). “Hyunjin, this is Jisung. Jisung, this is Hyunjin.”

“I know.” they both say at the same time.

“Ah! Isn’t that so nice? My fri–” Minho claps his palms.

“Hyung, I need to piss real bad, can we go?” Jisung tugs at his forearm because he doesn’t like the look on his ex’s pretty face.

Truth is; he doesn’t need any of that. He just wants Hyunjin out of his proximity. Not because he has something against him, it’s really not that. It’s the closeness he displays with Minho.

Jealousy has Jisung practically dragging Minho away back on the trek.

Minho waves bye to his friend, then turns to look at Jisung with knitted eyebrows as they walk along the river bank. “What’s wrong?”

“Remember when I told you about this guy I was obsessed with back when I was young?”

“You still are young, Jisungie.”

“It’s him.”

“Him?” Minho appears to be even more confused.

“He’s my ex, hyung.”

“Hwang Hyunjin?” he looks like he wants to laugh, and that makes Jisung huff, legs ceasing to work.

“Yes!” Jisung sulks, his broad shoulders slumping. “How do you know him?”

The older coaxes him to start sauntering again. “He babysits Dalrae sometimes,” Minho explains. “He also works at my dance studio when I’m unable to.”

“Seriously? Him?”

“He’s a dumbass, alright. I’m aware of that.”

That statement punches a chuckle out of Jisung. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Then– back then in April, don’t tell me I..”

“You did.”

“Ohmygod,” Jisung groans, fighting the urge to face palm.

“He was so scared.”

“Okay, you know what, that dickhead deserves it.”

Minho nods, “Indeed he does.” and wraps his arm around Jisung’s to guide him out of the way when someone almost runs into him. “Fucker.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Sorry if this made you uncomfortable.”

Jisung smiles a silly smile. He holds Minho’s hand hostage on his bicep, not wanting him to let go yet. It feels good to be touched in such an anchoring way. “Not uncomfortable.” jealous.

“Then it didn’t ruin our date?”

Date. Minho considers this a date. Jisung burns crimson red, securing his grasp on him. “Nothing could ruin our date.”

They give each other a knowing grin, and then Minho drives Jisung to work with the windows down and the sun rays cheering the two of them on.

-`ᯓ★´-

On Friday evening they decide to go shopping for a wedding-adequate outfit together.

It’s a relatively small, empty store, adorned with beautiful, lavish cloth pieces. Jisung already has in mind a suit coloured deep red, so his eyes search exactly for that. Minho is looking through the dark brown section, on the other side of the room.

A woman soon comes to assist him. She introduces herself as Yiseul. Jisung fixes the glasses on his nose.

“I’m looking for a maroon suit for a wedding,” he tells her. “Preferably a set with a waistcoat.”

“Would you like for it to be on the darker side?” Yiseul asks, already heading in the direction of where more suits are hung on a rack.

“Yes.”

She picks up a dark red piece. Jisung isn’t very fond of the lapels, and he deems that it can be seen on his face, because the lady puts the jacket back in its place.

The next one is much better, with a deep chest pocket. Except, the waistcoat is not exactly what he’s looking for. He says pass for this one too.

Five more models later, he finds the perfect one.

This one’s colour doesn't have any tones of purple underneath it, just a pure red-rose shade. The lapel is simple, and the pocket seems nice enough. The waistcoat has a deep neckline, showing more of the red-with-creative-black-shapes decorated tie.

Yiseul walks away only to come back with an iPad, showing Jisung what the torso is supposed to look like. A sleek black dress shirt underneath, with some sort of a chain attached to the collar. Over the two-coloured tie comes the tight waistcoat, fully red, just like the short coat.

It's the perfect combination of red and black, because the slacks are also black, matching the button-up shirt.

“I want to try it on,” Jisung decides, then.

He has no idea where Minho is. Probably lost through the aisles, trying to find a nice suit. He’d like his opinion, though maybe it’s better if he keeps it a surprise.

“I’m going to need your measurements and I’ll see what I can do.”

Fifteen minutes later, Jisung is slipping into the suit he’ll be wearing in approximately one week.

Gorgeous. Sexy. Handsome. The man in the mirror looks like a deluxe businessman or a prince. Jisung feels good.

And it’s exactly his size. A bit loose on his waist, but he’ll get that fixed till next week. Jisung admires his reflection for five whole minutes before he gets back into character, changing into his street clothes (after taking a few pics of himself in the suit).

This will probably cost him an arm and a leg, yet Jisung doesn't seem to care much. He tells Yiseul everything she needs to know, like his phone number, and pays the cashier money he worked months for.

Minho appears too, then. He seems content as he pays with his credit card.

“You can pick it up by next Wednesday,” Yiseul chirps from behind the counter. “We’ll let you know when through a text.”

“Okay, thank you.”

They leave the store. Outside, it’s pouring. The constant rain seems to have no remorse, drenching them from head to toe.

Luckily, Minho’s car comes into view soon and they run towards it.

Jisung is panting by the time he’s sat down in the passenger’s seat. Minho giggles through quick breaths. The stamina of a dancer is no joke.

“That was fun.” Minho leans his head back on the headrest, eyes closed.

Darkness envelops them. However, Jisung knows Minho’s features well enough to have his face all mapped out, shadows casted on it coming from the orange-ish lampposts on the street.

How beautiful he is. Out of this world, truly. He wonders what suit he chose. Doesn't make an effort to ask.

“Yeah,” Jisung laughs through his nose, taking off his glasses and attaching them to his sweatshirt. “Hyung?”

“Mm?”

“Can we go for a ride?”

Minho opens one eye to look at him. “Like, around the city?”

“Yeah, on the boulevard.”

“Sounds nice. Let’s go.” he presses the button that roars the Jeep to life, driving backwards to get out of the parking lot.

Since it’s raining, past nine o’clock, there are not a lot of cars busying the road.

“Can I put on some music?” Jisung comes up with another question, a yawn threatening to pull out of him.

“Go ahead.”

He puts on rock, leaving the volume low. Minho bobs his head to the rhythm of the song, tapping his finger against the gear.

They drive out of this part of the district to enter the centre part with a lot of intersections. It’s busier here, but not horribly so.

“Hyung,”

“Hm?” Minho pays great attention to driving, turning the blinker on to go left.

“Let’s talk.”

“About what?”

Everything. Nothing.

How they’ve become so close in such a short time. How their children are now best friends, hanging out every day at school. How Jisung’s terrible mistake led them here.

“Dalrae’s birthday.”

“Ahh, you remembered.” the driver says, smitten.

“Of course I did.” Jisung snickers proudly. “What are you planning?”

“Not much.” Minho shrugs, turning the blinkers on to switch to the left lane. “She said she doesn't want anything too grand. Says she’ll hang out with her best friends all day. They’re really close, you know.”

“Mmh, I see,”

“Her birthday is on Thursday.”

Jisung puckers his lips. “I know that, hyung.”

“How thoughtful you are.”

He giggles. Like he’s drunk. Like he’s a drunk teenager playing truth or dare and being dared to kiss his crush in front of everyone.

“I’d love to give her a little gift,” Jisung smiles, watching the road. “Rieon, too.”

“You would?” Minho brakes, the car slowing down before picking up its pace again the way it’s meant to do.

“She’s very dear to me.”

There’s a halt in Minho’s everything. He stops breathing, stops blinking. Then, shaking himself out of his thoughts, whispers, “It would mean a lot to her.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.” he bites his lip, and Jisung aches to reach out and stop him. How could he try to ruin something so precious? “It’s, uh. Been a hard year for her. For us.”

Remaining silent is possibly the best solution right now. Jisung feels the tension gliding through the air. He wants to ask, curiosity eating at him. He opts to let Minho explain on his own accord.

“Her mother,” Minho starts, left hand’s knuckles going white with how hard he’s gripping the wheel. “Lee Rahee. She taught English in an elementary school.”

It’s not the first time Jisung’s hearing this name. Still, he can’t pinpoint exactly from where, and he doesn't try to. He listens.

This is the first time Minho’s talking, in depth, about himself. About the beautiful family he has built.

“We divorced when Dal was four years old. She wasn't very happy, but ultimately she came to terms with it.”

Okay. This might be worse than Minho being taken. He’s a divorced father— oh, man, not good.

“Rahee was a compassionate, brilliant and especially happy woman. We met at a dance competition, because I was the one teaching some students of her class. I was twenty, she was five years older.” Minho laughs to himself, or maybe at himself. Jisung can't tell.

“Things were going perfectly fine. We got married a year after Dalrae was born, but it didn't work out. For some reason.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. We both just kind of fell out of love. It was a mutual agreement to sign the papers, no hard feelings.”

Jisung doesn't know where Minho is going with this story. He anticipates anything, anything but–

“She passed away a year ago.”

“Oh,” Jisung’s head spins to take a good look at Minho, whose smile is refusing to die. He swerves through the cars, at a slow pace, the rain hitting the windows with powerful purpose. “Oh. I’m so sorry, hyung, I didn't–”

“Don't apologise.” Minho begs. “I chose to talk about this because you deserve to know.”

That takes him aback. “I deserve to know?”

“Yes, Jisungie. You’re the first person to get this close to me after what happened. You make us happy.” he breathes in and out steadily. “You make me happy.”

“I make you— ah, Minho,” his bottom lip wobbles, because he’s sensitive like that. “Hyung.”

“Don’t pity me either. I’m okay now. I have Dalrae, and my family. The cats. You. Rieon. Things have been hard, yet they're only getting better.” Minho reassures, fondling Jisung’s thigh for one second before pulling away, both hands on the wheel.

“I’m, fuck. I don't know what to say. You also make me happy, hyung. You know that, right?”

“Yes.”

A tear furiously traces down Jisung’s cheek. He sniffles, looking out the window to his right. He doesn’t want Minho to see that he’s crying. Jisung is crying. Gosh, he really is a lame emotional wreck.

Despite his efforts to calm down, hide himself, a whimper manages to breach through his airtight lips. A gasp for more oxygen. He hopes that it’s quiet enough to not attract any attention upon his trembling body.

Things don’t usually go his way.

“Are you crying?” Minho asks, overtaking a red car to get on the first lane.

“No,” Jisung lies a fat lie, refusing to veer his head around. He’s successful in suppressing the next sob. His tears run down freely, one vanishing on his lips. Salty empathy.

“Don’t lie to me.”

This time he vows to keep quiet, afraid his voice might break. He has no right to be crying, but.

What a wonderful, strong person Minho is. He smiles all the time, treats everyone with gentleness. You’d think he’s the luckiest person on earth with the way he lights up every room he steps foot into.

Simply thinking about what Dalrae must be feeling like makes his chest tight. She’s so young, so brave, so clever. She was raised well.

It’s a bit embarrassing, ridiculous— Jisung’s silently crying to himself, letting his emotions out in the wild like that. A hiccup, another warm tear. His jawline is damp, and some streaks have trickled down his neck. He pays no mind to it, although it’s irritating in a way he has a hard time describing.

A gas station comes into view. Minho parks the car in an empty lot and exits without another word, skipping through the blobs of water plunging from the clouds.

Jisung turns his head, watching out the windshield as Minho enters the store, disappearing behind the glass sliding doors. His chin tucks into his chest, and he continues weeping, body jolting weakly.

So tragic; death is. It’s something inevitable. And so, so gruesome. Terrible. Selfish.

The wind is cold against his face when the car door on his right suddenly opens. He meets Minho’s gaze for no more than a beat. He’s holding a bottle of water, candies, and a package of tissues which he throws on Jisung’s lap.

“Here,” he hands him the water and opens the packet with candies, placing it on the dashboard. “Wipe your face first.”

His heart rattles against his ribs, almost pushing them to break. All twenty-four of them. He gawks at him, at the caring tender look his irises hold, the crease between his eyebrows.

Sniffle. His eyes burn, breath on the verge of hyperventilation. He chokes on another cry. Jisung must look so pathetic with his face drenched in salt and his lungs begging for more air. Shame creeps up his neck, wrapping around it and suffocating him.

Sulking like a crying child, Jisung covers the vulnerable, ugly tears with his forearm, giving them all permission to damp the fabric of his sleeve even more.

“Jisung, hey,” Minho bends down, scanning Jisung with his fingers trailing up his back. “Look here. At me.”

He tries, but even one small glance feels exhilarating. He shakes his head, hiding himself further. Minho tightens his grip. “Here.”

Gulping, Jisung sucks on his bottom lip and faces him, eyes stinging red, face puffy. His nose is running. What a mess he is.

“You’re okay.” Minho kindly reassures, other hand sliding to his cheek, caressing the chubbiness of it. Gingerly, as if he’s a fallen sculpture. Attentive.

Of course he is okay. He follows Minho’s lead, taking deep breaths, in and out. When the sobs come to a stop, Jisung pops a few candies into his mouth. Wipes his own tears with the tissues. Hydrates his dry throat.

It’s a given that Minho is still there, crouched beside the car in the downpour, both of his palms kneading at Jisung’s thigh. He’s silent, eyeballing Jisung chewing on the sweets, watching the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

Nerve wracking. Jisung stares straight ahead, at the gas station and its store. He still hiccups from time to time, even though he’s unwinded for now.

“Thanks,” Jisung mutters, resting one of his hands atop Minho's, playing with his warm fingers. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise for being human, Jisung-ah.”

Minho only pulls back once he’s sure that Jisung is back, fully collected, dried tears and a steady breathing. He pats him on the head, ruffles his hair the same way he’d do to a cat, and opens the back door to throw his sodden hoodie in the trunk of his car.

Jisung is okay. Minho is back in his seat, rubbing off the remnant salt on Jisung’s face with his thumbs. Stroking his hair softly. For the only reason that he wants to. Wants to touch Jisung. Wants to be close to him. Wants to care for him like no one else did before.

What a boomer. Jisung’s heart is starting to call out for Minho’s.

Chapter Text

—11:11 AM, Thursday

“Happy birthday, ladybug!” Jisung happily lauds, walking towards the celebrated girl.

Dalrae gets up from the blanket neatly placed on the ground, her hair shining in the sun. She jumps into Jisung’s arms, taking him off guard. He lowers himself into a crouching position to hug her. “Samchon Jisung! Thank you!”

Over her shoulder, Jisung meets Minho’s fond gaze. He takes one of his palms off her small back to wave at her father, who’s sitting cross-legged on a smaller blanket in the shadow of another lively tree, a few steps away.

“Happy birthday,” Rieon shyly says from next to Jisung once they’ve pulled away. She hugs him too, and only afterwards does she take the two gifts with a cheerful thank you, thank you so much!

It’s the 27th of June, two days before the big bang. Jisung shakes the excitement away to focus on the task at hand.

They join the party, and are introduced to Dalrae’s best friends: Saena, with a mole on her chin, Aram, with short hair, and Mihee, quiet and shy.

The kids have their own space with sandwiches and orange juice and whatnot, which leaves Jisung to sit alone with Minho, not far enough for them to lose sight of the children.

“Hey,” Minho smiles at him, face glowing in the sun rays plodding through the tree branches they’re sitting under. “You look great.”

Does Jisung? He’s wearing a simple flannel yellow shirt and black jorts, glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. He grins. “Right back at you,”

Minho does. Clad in a gorgeous oversized mint-coloured cardigan with flared light blue jeans, snug on his thighs. He pats down the blanket, moving more towards its edge to make space for Jisung.

From here, they can still hear the children merrily engage in a game, skin protected from the UV rays by the dense crown of the green tree. Loud laughter. Jisung looks over at his son, seeing the lifted corners of his lips. Rieon is calmly nodding his head along to whatever the conversation the four of them are having is, still not out of his bubble. He’ll come to it, eventually.

“How is she?” Jisung mutters.

“Feeling? Alright,” Minho’s loving eyes don’t move from his daughter in a long glittery red dress. “She cried in the morning. Like you did,”

A shade of the same colour covers the chubbiness of Jisung’s cheeks. He rests his back against the thick trunk, wood digging into it, deep fissures showing the antique age of the tree. “Like I did.”

He twinkles, reminiscent of the stars at night. “She woke up streaming in tears. Couldn’t and wouldn’t stop.”

“Poor baby,”

“You know what I told her?”

Jisung tilts his head back, crookedly looking at Minho, whose body is now somehow closer to his. “What?”

“That Samchon Jisung would feel hurt if he were to see her like this and he’d start crying too.”

“Hyung, you’re insane!” he pouts, using all of his strength to hit him on the arm. Minho lets him, challenging a brow.

Since it’s only eleven in the morning, the weather is relatively nice. There’s a slow breeze playing with the strands of their hair, musing it around in different styles.

Their knees are touching now. Jisung watches the other people present in their vicinity. He then scrutinizes the river that shares a name with him, admiring how the celestial light above reflects on its surface.

“You hungry?” Minho nudges a sandwich to his hand limp on the blanket. “I made these in the morning. They’re fresh.”

“Ah,” Jisung nods, accepting it. “I didn’t get to eat breakfast, thank you.” he starts unpacking it, taking the tight wrapper off, and biting down onto the stuffed bread.

“Bad.” he shakes his head. “Eat up. I made kimbap too, if you want.”

“Wow. We should get married. Marry me, Minho hyung!” is Jisung’s reply, spoken too easily.

With the tip of his ears growing darker, Minho ducks his head and giggles. “Okay, Jisung-ah. I’ll marry you.”

A piece of a round-cut cucumber slips from the sandwich, on Jisung’s lap. Minho picks it up and throws it down in the grass. “Thanks,” Jisung shies away, glueing his knees to his chest as he stuffs his mouth full.

Han River and the park are beautiful, each in its own way. The river is deep, holding all kinds of marine creatures. The water is a dark blue. One that reminds Jisung of his uniform in elementary school. It used to swallow his whole body, just like the river a few metres away from their picnic place would do.

On the other hand, the park is vivacious, with insects exploring each corner of it. Maybe they’re looking for some sort of hidden treasure.

The sound of a snort chimes from beside him. Minho is giggling to himself at his phone.

Jisung scoffs, endeared. He tries to sneak a look at it, curiosity piqued. He cannot see very well, but he thinks he can make out two cats frolicking. Before he can ask the older to let him in the joke, Minho turns his phone and says, “Look,”

Soonie and Dori. They’re playing in the middle of the living room, fighting over a mouse toy. Jisung laughs.

“Aren’t they so adorable?” Minho grins, shoving the screen into Jisung’s face.

“They truly are,”

“Doongie meowed that he misses you.”

“Doongie?” Jisung fakes a surprised gasp. “Seriously?”

“Yes. He said, and I quote, ‘when is that hyung coming back, appa?’. Crazy, isn’t it?” he bumps their shoulders together now that they’re sitting next to each other, gaze on the river across from them.

“Bonkers.”

“Mhm,”

“Tell him to expect me over there soon.”

It hasn’t even been an hour since Jisung arrived with Rieon (now busy drawing on a sheet of paper with his new friends) and he’s already tired.

Last night was hard. He’s stressed because the wedding is approaching. Jisung is going with Minho. They’ll drop Dalrae off at her grandparents— they are going on a small vacation somewhere fun to expand her birthday celebration— and then Minho will drive all the way to the venue, which is about two hours away from home. They’re getting a hotel room like everyone else invited is.

Shivers run down his spine, settling around his tailbone. Jisung eats the last bite of his sandwich in one go, the wrapper crumpling in his sweaty fist.

“Hand me that,” Minho takes the plastic to put it inside a bag used for trash. “Thanks.”

After a few more quiet minutes, only the gusty wind whispering to the trees, Jisung is ready and steady to ask for a favour. He begins, “Hyung,” and continues with a softer voice. “I was thinking about getting Rieon into dance.”

He hears the low hum of Minho’s throat get out through his perfectly sculpted nose, an indication that he’s attentively listening.

“I, and he too, would like for you to teach him.”

“We can absolutely do that.”

“Really?” Jisung stares back at him with big eyes, a plea sparkling within them. “Thank you.”

“Of course we can, Jisungie. I’d be more than happy to teach him.”

The hefty stone propped on his shoulders loses some of its weight. Jisung sighs, focusing on himself reflecting back in Minho’s glossy eyes. “Rieon likes you. A lot.”

“Dalrae also likes you.”

It doesn’t need explanation— the silent moment they partake in, locked eyes sharing identical warmth, the same emotion held deep within.

Time flies with them talking about nothing. About everything.

In his free time, when he isn’t writing a song or hanging out with Minho, Jisung watches documentaries. He likes learning about different species, where they’re from, in what kind of climate they exist. He’s a curious being.

So, using all the knowledge he has about geckos, he talks Minho’s ear off. In return, after Jisung’s done yapping about those carnivorous lizards, Minho tells him what he knows about music.

Which, surprisingly, he knows a lot.

The two of them had easily bonded over similar personas. It’s been maybe three months since they have met, and in all this time, Jisung managed to fall over the edge and develop feelings for his neighbour living under him. Apartment 325 is what sealed their fates together.

In spite of that, there’s no certainty that Minho shares the same sentiments for Jisung. That his heart beats for him too.

False hope only leads to failure, and Jisung doesn’t want that. So, he keeps his messy love to himself, cages his heart between his ribs. They’re strong enough to keep it still for now, that young and careless organ.

Something so small holding the embodiment of one’s soul in its palms. Beautiful, damaging.

“What songs have you written so far?” Minho asks, munching on a piece of kimbap. He holds out another one with his chopsticks to Jisung’s lips. Jisung opens his mouth, waiting to be fed, and beams brighter than the sun once Minho blithely complies.

“Lots,” Jisung chews, palm over his mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. I’ve been doing this for years, so.”

“Genius Jisungie,” he teases, the softest glint hiding behind his pupil.

“Hyung.” a petulant pout. He bats at Minho’s shoulder. “I am a genius, thank you very much.”

“That’s exactly what I said.”

Soon enough, after they’ve finished the food and the children have gotten bored of their ninth game playing, Minho decides to get the cake.

“My brother is dropping it off in five. I’ll go get it.” he excuses himself, knees cracking as he stands up and away from the blanket. Jisung gives a mere nod. Watches Minho leave him behind, stroll towards a path that leads to the main road. He disappears into a crowd of people.

Jisung sighs, looking up at the tree. Its leaves. He wonders if they know that they don’t have much time before death inevitably crashes against them in the form of white coldness.

“Appa!” Dalrae runs over in a hurry, hair gracefully gliding through the wind. “Appa, can– oh, you’re not my appa.”

Alert, Jisung sits up straighter, ready to aid if necessary. There’s no sight of worry on her face. “I can help instead,”

She offers her tiny hand for him to take. “Come with me!”

“Okay,” Jisung mindlessly agrees, standing up with a grunt. He lets Dalrae guide him to the other children who are engaging in a mischievous conversation he cannot understand just yet.

“Got him!” she grins victoriously.

“That’s my dad,” Rieon frowns, huffing.

Saying he’s confused is an understatement. Jisung’s eyes move from his son, to Dalrae still gripping his hand, to the other three girls curiously watching him.

“Sit down,” Dalrae grins, pushing him towards the empty spot on the blanket. “Please!”

“Will do, boss,” he tries to joke, planting himself between his son and Aram, who wriggles further to the side.

Life is extremely unpredictable. One moment you could be enjoying the sun and leisure time with Lee Minho, the other you’d be stuck with ten pink hair clips tugging at your scalp and nails painted green with peelable polish.

“Girls, hey,” Jisung clears his throat, blushing. He must look stupid.

“So cute!” said girls squeal, falling into laughter. Rieon is cracking up under his breath, too.

But then— Minho makes his way over, hands free. As he gets closer and closer, Jisung feels more and more mortified. He scrambles to get up, tripping over a hairbrush in the process, almost making friends with the soil.

He hears more giggles, and it’s easy to tell that they belong to Minho. He simply has a signature laugh— airy and high-pitched and especially fond.

“What is going on here?” he steps over, ruffling Dalrae’s long hair.

“Appa, we made Samchon Jisung pretty,” she says, proud of her work. It was mostly just her clipping the butterflies in the strands of his hair.

“He’s been pretty,” is all Minho says. He grabs Jisung by his arm, bringing him up.

“Eeek!” Saena elbows Rieon, who’s silently observing everything with a simper permanently attached to one side of his mouth.

Saena is the oldest. She’s almost ten years old, and apparently Dalrae’s bestest friend. She always takes care of the younger girl. Jisung’s head is lowered, embarrassment visible in his body language.

“Okay, everybody,” Minho pulls his hand off Jisung to clap twice. “Enough.”

“Yes, Appa.” Dalrae throws herself over Saena, completely ignoring her own father. Minho smiles and follows the trail back to the other tree, only looking back over his shoulder to see if Jisung is behind him. He is. When is he not?

Now that they’re both back under shield, Minho’s hands are in Jisung’s hair, rearranging the clips so that they have a better grip instead of weighting down his dull curls.

“Thanks,” Jisung blushes, unable to maintain eye contact for more than two seconds.

“You’re so cute, Jisungie.”

He sucks in a shallow breath, feeling hot from the sole of his feet to the top of his forehead. “Thanks, hyung.”

Lingering touches, rooted gazes, flapping butterflies.

Minho’s right hand has abandoned its mission. The left one, though, is dragging down with the power of gravity to rest on his puffed out cheek. Minho’s delicate thumb caresses the skin there. As if it’s the petal of a dying flower. Gentle, light. A thin layer of pristine honey.

The softest scrunch of his nose, the lift of his gorgeous lips, the barely-there movement of his eyebrows. Minho looks beautiful, staring at Jisung as though he’s the one to blame for the sun shining and the stars singing and the madeleines coming out perfect.

It’s gone before Jisung can bask in it.

“We’ve got business to do,” Minho tells him, frantically searching through the pastel peach coloured duffle bag. “Take these, please,” he hands him some paper plates and twin cups.

Jisung, mind reeling in the deceased moment, moves ever so slowly. His heart beats erratically against its cage, and he’s afraid that it might manage to escape and throw itself at the mercy of Minho’s loving hands.

Oh no, that would be a catastrophe. A catastrophe he’d love.

From where they’re sitting in a broken circle, the kids have a perfect view of what Minho’s doing; thankfully, though, they seem to be more focused on their conversation.

That leaves Minho, knees bent, to take the cake out of its box placed neatly on the covered ground. He unwraps the candle in the shape of a seven and pierces it through the chocolate skin of the cake.

“You a smoker, Jisung-ah?” he asks, checking his pockets.

“No,” Jisung replies, eyeing him from beside the huge trunk. “I don’t smoke, or do anything of that sort.”

“I need a lighter.”

“I have a lighter.”

Minho straightens his back, suspiciously checking him out. “Hand it over, and then marry me.”

“Your wish is my command, hyung.” Jisung smirks, sneaking the flammable item out of the pocket of his knee-length jeans. He doesn’t smoke, yet he does have a lighter on him. Why?

Totally not because he bought it for Dalrae’s birthday just in case.

Because the huge smile that breaks on her face is everything to Jisung. Minho is holding the cake, Jisung trailing behind with a handful of utensils.

“Get up, birthday girl,” Minho urges as Jisung lights up the candle.

Dalrae looks greatly impressed. Her eyes are bright, shimmering intensely. She rises on her tiptoes to try and see the top of the cake, where a message is displayed. She’s unsuccessful.

Making grabby hands at Jisung, it leaves him with no other choice than to give into the request. He lifts her up by the area underneath her armpits, then wraps an arm around her tummy to secure her against his chest.

They all begin singing happy birthday, and Jisung uses the power his voice holds, belting the notes shamelessly, singing to the girl in his hold. Dalrae looks amazed, laughing with traces of happiness.

“Happy birthday, Aegi,” Minho says after she blows out the candle and makes a wish. He leans to kiss the top of her head, and Jisung is stuck watching.

“Happiest birthday to you,” Jisung then whispers more to himself, lowering her on the ground. She runs off to her friends, jumping around excitedly.

“Help me move everything here, Jisung-ah, will you?”

While Jisung carries the two bags and wooden casket, Minho places the blanket down next to the other one, doubling its size by connecting the two white and red materials together.

Chocolate cake baked by Minho’s mother might be Jisung’s new favourite thing.

It’s moist with syrup, the top coat bitter in contrast with the sweet cocoa filling dominating the taste. Rieon asks for one last slice, and Minho finds no problem in putting another one on his plate.

All six of them eat in tranquil silence. The enthusiastic chirping of birds adds to the atmosphere, the temperature low in the large umbra of this tree. Jisung would be shivering if it weren’t for Minho warming his body up unintentionally. He’s laughing at a joke Saena made about flying squirrels, and Jisung’s heart is pumping more blood that only rushes to his head.

What a blessing. Jisung should get a tattoo to remind him.

“Champagne, ladies and gentlemen?” Minho wiggles his eyebrows, holding a bottle of bubbly soda. The kids scream yes, handing out their little cups.

Jisung leans back on his hands, letting everything set in. How the wind cuts through obstacles just to jumble his hair. How the acidic smell wafts up his nostrils, the chemicals in it making his nose twitch.

“Cheers,” Minho bumps his cup against Jisung’s, attempting to send a wink his way. Both of his eyes close, and he puckers his lips in disappointment.

“I like you, even if you suck at winking.” Jisung reassures as he strokes his shoulder in a comforting manner.

“Phew!” his bunny teeth show. Minho’s head whips around, but the grin never dies.

The party ends before one o’clock. Minho drops the three girls at their respective houses, then drives back to pick up Jisung and the kids from the park.

“Got everything?” he asks, helping Jisung drop the stuff he’s holding in the trunk of his Jeep.

“‘Course, hyung.” Jisung briefly snickers at him. He makes his way to the passenger door and sits down, looking back at Rieon and Dalrae talking in the backseat.

Minho climbs into the driver’s seat. “Ready to go, everyone?”

Off they drive home, to eat homemade lunch and watch a movie on Minho’s couch with the cats.

-`ᯓ★´-

“Jisung-ah, your seatbelt. “

It’s seven in the morning, Saturday. Minho’s car is filled to the hilt with two tiny suitcases and their suits hung on the grab handles, Jisung’s next to Dalrae and Minho’s on Rieon’s side.

They’re headed to Minho’s parents— Jisung’s meeting Minho’s parents. He’s definitely not nervous. Ha.

“Aye aye, hyung,” Jisung snorts at his own joke, cleaning the area of his mouth with his forearm. He traps himself on the car seat. His hand already reaches to put on a song from his own playlist. A quiet hum plays through the vehicle, and Minho turns up the volume once they’re on the road.

Gimpo. Minho’s home. It’s about an hour away.

Last night was restless. Jisung spent half of it thinking about calling Minho over to feed his need of having him close, but decided against it. For the other half he stayed on the balcony and begged the stars to sing him to sleep.

He focuses on the tune vibrating out of the speakers, body flaccid against the backrest. He lazily watches Minho, eyes raking over his form. The Apple watch on his wrist, the tightly cuffed sleeves of his dark blue flannel shirt making his veins bulge out in the sexiest way possible.

The streets of Gangnam are relatively empty this early. They don’t have to add traffic to the list of things they’re worried about. Minho’s eyes are shuffling from mirror to mirror as he steers the leathered wheel, occasionally turning to Jisung when they’re waiting at a red light.

Unshockingly, Jisung falls asleep for the rest of the ride, lulled by Minho’s gentle driving and his favourite song being replayed.

When he wakes up, it’s because Minho is shaking him by the shoulder. Jisung’s eyes slowly open, meeting the other’s face close enough for them to share breaths.

“G’morning, Jisungie. You slept well?” he smiles at him, pupils dilating as they move down to Jisung’s lips. He brings his thumb up and wipes off the pooling drool in the corner. “Think you did,”

His heart goes lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub over and over again. He gulps down the remaining saliva and nods his head, unbuckling the belt digging into his chest.

Minho practically jumps off his seat just to aid him by opening the door, helping Jisung out of the tall car. “There you go,” he murmurs, patting him on the back and towards the snow-white veranda.

“Where are the kids?” Jisung stumbles. Minho is there to catch him. Why didn’t Minho catch him when Jisung was falling for him?

“Already eating breakfast. Come on.”

Inside, Minho places their shoes on a rack and takes Jisung’s trembling hand, guiding him through the narrow hallway. At the end, it opens into a spacious living room with a chesterfield couch and multiple dark timber buffet cabinets fixed against two of the light grey walls.

Jisung doesn’t have time to admire the framework and furniture, a woman stepping in from inside the open-space kitchen attached to this room.

“Aegi-yah,” she calls Minho, walking up to him. They hug with closed eyes, and when she opens hers, another gasp pulls out of her.

The mother pushes her son away, stepping to Jisung, who’s red in the face.

He bows, deep, getting dizzy.

“Minho, sweetie, you didn’t tell me Jisungie is this cute!” she gushes and pulls him into a warm embrace, eyes kind in the shape of a half moon. A carbon copy of Minho’s.

“Eomeoni, please,” Minho’s ears are flaming.

“Come over here, you two,” her hand wraps around Jisung’s wrist, dragging him to the kitchenette, where Rieon and Dalrae are enjoying a rich breakfast at the small round table placed next to a radiator.

“Appa!” they both scream at the same time, dirty around their mouths. That attracts the attention of their grandpa, who is chopping up some vegetables on the counter. “Oh, hello, welcome! Food is almost ready, please take a seat,”

Both of Minho’s parents look young— and exactly like him. Minho’s mother has a reddish shade to her hair, short to her shoulders and straight. Her nose has a perfect curve, tip pointed up, mole present too. She’s beautiful. His father’s top lip is plump, similar to Minho’s.

One could tell from kilometres away that this is the Lee family. Jisung now understands where Dalrae got the profile of her face from.

“Where’s Jeongin-ah?” Minho asks, looking around.

“Your brother is out of the city again,” his mother lets him know.

“Oh. Tell him I stopped by to say hi.”

They sit at the dining table in the living room, eating as they’re getting to know each other (translated: Minho’s lovely parents bombarding Jisung with countless questions).

“Abeoji, Eomeoni, have some mercy on him,” Minho pleads, because Jisung is about to form a pond on the floor with how hard he’s sweating.

“Isn’t Rieon-ie so cute?” the woman, carrying the gorgeous name Heiran, meaning true beauty, changes from mortifying Jisung to cooing at his son, barely stopping herself from getting her hands on Rieon’s full cheeks. “Humin-ah, look at him! He looks just like his father,”

Rieon almost chokes on the mouthful of rice, rapidly reddening. He ducks his head, searching for Jisung’s eyes that make an anchor.

“Say thank you, Rieon.” Jisung urges, pointing his chopsticks at him.

“Thank you,” he mutters, shy.

“How old is he again?” Heiran asks with a tilt of her head, healthy hair moving along. “That angel of a child!”

“Nine.” Minho answers for Jisung, hence he’s currently swallowing a piece of meat.

“And Jisungie? Thirty?”

“Twenty nine,” Jisung replies, sipping on tea. “In September.”

“Oh,” Humin bops his head in understatement, cautiously studying him. The vibes he emanates feel positive. “He’s a good kid.”

“He really is.” Minho snakes a hand under the table, stopping Jisung’s shaking leg. He rests his warm palm on his knee. “Rieon will be joining my dance classes, won’t he?”

“I will,” Rieon mumbles, pushing the plate aside to show that he’s full.

“Are you not hungry?” Heiran frowns. “You barely ate anything, sweetheart,”

“He tends to get car sick on long rides,” Jisung explains. He feels like he’s about to buzz out of his skin all due to Minho’s grounding touch. He wants his hand to leave its print right there, on Jisung’s skin, in ink.

“I’ll pack some sandwiches for you, then!” she offers, leaving her food uneaten as she gets off her chair across from Jisung and Minho. Humin immediately holds her back.

“Yeobo, finish your portion first.”

“But–”

“Eomeoni, sit down, please,” Minho joins in, beaming at her, respect dripping from his gaze. “I’ll go make them, since I’m done eating.”

“Don’t you get up, Minho!” Heiran scolds him. As though he hasn’t lived through three decades.

Minho sulks in his chair, thumb prodding at Jisung’s skin. Jisung grunts under his breath, the spot there tense.

“Halmeoni, can I show Rieon appa’s room?” Dalrae inquiries, instantly running off with her friend into the hallway at the approval. They disappear behind the wall.

Jisung continues eating until the plate looks licked-clean. It is that good.

“It’s getting late,” the woman notices on a brown clock nailed to the wall. “I’m going to go pack the sandwiches.”

Minho picks up his and Jisung’s plate, standing up. “I will.”

“Aegi, just let me–”

“I know best how Rieon likes his sandwiches.” he uses that as reasoning, winning.

Now left alone with Minho’s curious parents, Jisung awkwardly presses his lips together in a tight line, feeling cold without the heating hand on his thigh.

“So,” Humin begins, setting aside his bowl. “Are you dating my son?”

He burns rouge, feeling embarrassed by the question. Intimidated. He tries to clear his throat, but it doesn’t do him justice. “No. I'm not.”

Heiran dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “Why not?”

“You can’t just ask him that, love,” her husband laughs.

“We’re not– I’ve known him for a short time,” Jisung tries to explain.

“That’s the only reason?” she hums, interested in this topic. The topic of her son’s love life, after the tragic events that took place last year.

“He’s an amazing man. He takes care of Rieon, and of me. He is really, really great.”

“Isn’t he, Humin-ah? Our son is perfect,”

“Yes, he is. We made him.” Humin presses a kiss against the side of her hair. “How did you two meet?”

Ah, there it is. Jisung was (dreadfully) waiting for this question to pop up. “Um,” he scratches at the red skin on his neck. “Well. It’s one kind of a story, that’s for sure.”

“Well? Go on, Jisung. We want to know more about you.”

Shit. Jisung is going to die of shame. He cannot maintain eye contact while explaining how he’d get home late from work and mistake Minho’s floor for his. How Minho caught him one time, and that was that. Jisung was a gone man. Floating with the clouds.

“And, yeah. Basically I just embarrassed myself more than five times in front of Minho hyung.”

They stare at him as if he’s a TV and not a person. Then, they both burst into giggles, and Minho makes his appearance from the kitchen, drying his hands with a small green towel.

“What’s funny? I want to laugh too,” he says, staying still on his feet.

“How you two met each other,” Humin tells him, fingertips rubbing Heiran’s shoulder. “Hilarious.”

“Isn’t it?” Minho grins, trying to tease Jisung. Jisung is getting overwhelmed from the attention, but he manages to keep a smile on his face anyway.

“It’s adorable, too. You guys are meant to be.” Heiran sighs in content, slapping Humin’s hand away when it gets to her collarbones. It must be ticklish.

At that, it’s not only Jisung flushing the colour of a tomato. It’s Minho too, who turns around and goes back into the kitchen.

After a few more distressing moments, the woman takes Jisung’s hands in her palms, looking him straight in the pupils with nothing but kindness. “Thank you, Jisung.”

“M-Me?” he stutters, surprised.

“Yes. For finding Minho, and keeping him good company. He’s been telling us about you. It’s clear as day that you make him and Dal happy. Thank you for that.”

Humin nods along to whatever his wife says, only adding, “Don’t break either of their hearts. You mean a lot to the two of them.”

The weight his chest carries doubles in size. He gulps, hands sweating like a waterfall. He can only agree with them, even though the responsibility suddenly wrapped around his shoulders feels heavy.

It’s precisely like that. Minho is a single father whose (ex) wife died not too long ago. His chest must be fragile. Jisung wants to lie his head on it and listen to the beats of what keeps him alive, but he’s afraid that he might break it.

“I’m not planning to,” Jisung squeezes Heiran’s fingers. “Minho hyung is someone I admire. My son is also very fond of him. You can believe me when I say I’ll try to keep him as safe as possible.”

“And happy?” Humin raises an eyebrow.

“And happy.” he promises, feeling his ribs fall apart and stab his lungs. “The happiest, if you’ll let me.”

“You’re both adults, Jisungie. I trust you to find a way.” Minho’s mother says.

Jisung is getting emotional— thinking about Minho’s past and what else it might hold.

Since Jisung hasn’t been in a relationship in a decade, and even that wasn’t serious serious, he frets. He’s not quite the father he should be, so how could he be a good boyfriend? To someone like Lee Minho, overflowing with kindness?

He worries, but he’s willing to try, and own up to the consequences if in the end they’ll both turn out with a shattered heart.

Of course, that won’t happen. It wouldn’t happen.

“I have so much to learn from him.” Jisung admits, retracting his hands.

“He loves helping people. He’d love to help you.” Heiran whispers. End of conversation. She gets up, slides her chair under the table, and goes to call Minho.

By the time they’re back outside, it’s ten o’clock. Rieon is hugging Dalrae, telling her that they’ll see each other at school on Monday anyway. They’ve gotten close. It would be such a shame to ruin their friendship.

“Thank you,” Heiran utters one last time in Jisung’s ear, embracing him snuggly. She’s about the same height as him.

“No,” Jisung smiles, burying his face in her shoulder. “Thank you.”

They bid goodbyes, and finally get going to the long-ish trip to Daegu, where the venue and hotel are.

Rieon, satiated thanks to Minho’s parents, dozes off instantly. Jisung would, too, but thoughts keep him wide awake.

Relationships should come easy at this age. In movies, they do. He wonders why it’s different for him. Maybe the stars working to set his destiny in stone haven’t aligned yet.

Minho truly is the man of his dreams. Pretty face, strong body. What Jisung likes the most about him is his caring personality. His love for cats and children. His positive yet simple mentality. He’s so perfect that it’s blinding.

“We’ll have to stop at a gas station to pump some gas,” speak of the devil, Minho’s soft voice cuts through the continuous hum of the engine. “That okay with you?”

“Just do your thing, hyung.” Jisung slumps in his seat as much as the safety belt allows him to.

It’s not until five minutes later of driving in pure silence when a station comes into view. Jisung remains inside, watching Minho fill the fuel tank, forearms exposed. He looks hot doing that, too. Of course he does.

The pit in his stomach doesn’t dissipate even when Minho passes by Jisung’s lowered window, poking his cheek. It doesn’t go away when Minho comes back with four bottles of water, wipes, and a stuffed toy resembling a bee. It’s for Rieon-ie, he explains.

Really, it all just makes the feeling multiply. Jisung decides to blame it on the lack of sleep, and closes his eyes for the rest of the drive, although he’s aware that he won’t drift off.

A long two hours later, they’re passing by the huge sign with Daegu written on it in white. Minho is checking the GPS app on the digital screen of his Jeep to figure out where exactly the hotel is situated.

“I really need a nap.” Jisung speaks hushedly, to himself, but Minho hums in response anyway.

“You can, at the hotel. We’re fifteen minutes away.”

Five minutes three times seems like a lot, but in no time a huge hotel comes into view, and they’re heading towards the underground garage.

Because everything was paid by the engaged couple, they don’t have to worry about anything except Minho (and Jisung siding along) going to the reception to find the number of his parking spot.

Parking the car takes ten minutes. Jisung steps out, stretching his limbs with a whine. His back hurts. He opens the door to Rieon’s side, gently patting him.”We’re here.”

Rieon grumbles, turning to face away from his father.

“Rieon, come on.”

Still nothing. Jisung moves back, spinning two times to cool his slight irritation down. Minho, seeing the bothered expression on his face, walks up to him. “What’s wrong?” he places his hand on Jisung’s shoulder.

“He’s not budging.” he huffs through his nose in defeat.

“I’ll handle it, you go take the luggage, okay? Okay.”

They take the elevator to the ground floor in which they were not a long time ago, Minho carrying Rieon on his back all while dragging a suitcase on the glistening floor, and Jisung doing the same with his own baggage, his other hand holding the three garment bags.

At the reception counter, the same woman from earlier warmly welcomes them. “Everything alright?” she asks as she scans their ID’s, handing them a pen to sign two papers. They get the keys and a cheerful, “Enjoy your stay!”

Their room is on the fifth floor, which would be unfortunate if it weren’t for the elevators functioning. Rieon only stirs awake when Minho jostles too much.

“Sorry, Rieonie,” he ruffles his hair, asks if he wants to be put on his feet.

“No,” Rieon wraps his arms around Minho’s neck, holding on tighter. They walk down the hallway until they reach room 180. Jisung takes the matter into his own hands, unlocking the door, and lets Minho step inside first.

It’s nice. Ample, with light brown colours primary to it. There are two single beds separated by a mere black nightstand. The window is basically just one big wall, letting the light illuminate the room. The bathroom has a bathtub and the toilet is in a separate part, hidden by a cloudy glass wall.

“Do you like it, hyung?” Jisung raises the question nine minutes later. He’s in bed, the one next to a closet, cuddling Rieon (plus his new plushie) who’s still half asleep.

“I do,” Minho answers, not taking his eyes off the book he’s reading. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, having changed from the ride. Jisung has a hoodie and shorts on.

“Okay.”

Just as Jisung is about to fall asleep, his phone vibrates from where it’s charging next to his pillow. An incoming call from my eomma.

“Hello,” he picks up the phone, speaking softly as to not wake Rieon up. “We’re in the room.”

“What number?”

“One hundred eighty,”

On the other side of the screen, Jisung’s mother cackles with whoever she might be with. “Want lunch? They’re serving it at two.”

Which is in twenty minutes. Jisung settles his eyes on Minho. “Do you want to go eat lunch?”

“Hm,” Minho murmurs, focused on his book. “Huh?”

“Lunch.”

“Ah. Yeah, sure.” he finally closes that damn book, sitting up at the edge of the bed. “Not changing my clothes, though.”

“That’s fine,” Jisung shrugs, wriggling from underneath Rieon. “You look good.”

“I know. Thanks.”

This time, Rieon wakes up with little to no effort and they put their slippers on, leaving the hotel guest room.

“You’re sleeping with grandma,” Jisung pinches the kid’s cheek, squeezing at the fat of it. “Yeah?”

“But– she snores!” Rieon pouts, stomping his feet. They step out of the elevator and look for the signs of guidance towards the restaurant.

“I also snore,” Minho says to him.

Jisung quickly spots his family: his parents, his brother, and Nari’s parents, enjoying lunch together at a big table. “Over there,” he leads the way, Minho lagging behind with a hold on Rieon’s hand.

Eunhae jumps on her feet, wrapping Jisung in a motherly hug. “My baby, whom I haven’t seen in weeks!”

“Eomma,” Jisung whines, returning the embrace. “Eomma, please let go, I have to present someone to you.”

He only gets to introduce Minho once he’s hugged everyone at the table. “This is Lee Minho,” he gestures with his hand. Everyone is sitting down besides the two of them. “My neighbour and dear friend.”

“What a handsome, young man!” Nari’s mother, Chaewon, compliments. “So perfect!” she seemingly kicks her husband’s shin under the table to have him verbally agree.

The Han family is chaotic, Minho then learns. During lunch, in front of everyone, Jisung’s brother manages to freak him out by asking him numerous questions about dance, and why he chose this career. Sure, the man loves talking about his passion, but he must feel like he’s being analyzed under a microscope, Jisung assumes.

“Minho, do you plan on teaching my little brother how to dance?” he continues to be annoying, mouth full of rice.

“Uh,” Minho turns to look at Jisung next to him. “If he wants to, sure.”

“Wrong answer!” the brother tuts, shaking his head. “You’re supposed to say no, because Jisung is too clumsy.”

“I think he’s fine,”

Jisung feels all the blood settle in his cheeks, painting them a deep colour. “Dohyun hyung, stop it.”

“Jisung-ah! Jisung-ah, have you been lying to this man?” Dohyun scoffs, directing his next question to Minho, who’s really simply trying to eat. “Has he been lying to you, this filthy little ra–”

“Han Dohyun, enough!” Junho steps in, flicking him on the forehead.

Regardless of feeling humiliated by his silly family, Jisung smiles, and when he looks back at Minho, he’s smiling too.

The entire afternoon is spent sleeping. Rieon moved to the other room, 168 if Jisung recalls correctly, leaving the two men alone.

Minho is sprawled on his back in the bed next to the window, the curtains pulled close together to keep the room relatively dark. It helps with getting a good sleep, apparently. Tricks the brain.

His breathing is steady, chest rising up and down at what Jisung would call a normal place. He’s been (not creepily!) watching his roommate sleep for the past few minutes, ever since he woke up from his own ephemeral nap.

He puts on his glasses in order to get a better glimpse at the structure of his face. His nose, chin, forehead. It all blends in together perfectly. His lips are puckered in a pout, eyelashes falling on his cheeks beautifully so.

“Are you going to keep staring at me or do something about it?” Minho suddenly says, eyes closed.

“Um– sorry,” Jisung averts his gaze.

“Mhm, I’d like to see you try,” he mumbles in a quiet, almost unintelligible tone.

“Hyung, what?”

It takes Jisung way too long to figure out that Minho is sleep talking.

Cute.

While it’s Minho’s turn to shower, Jisung is applying the littlest of make-up to his face. A barely visible smudged wing, glitter in the corners of his eyes, dragging a fingertip along his eyelids. Hydrating gloss on his lips. (Cherry flavoured, obviously.)

The noise of the water stops, prompting Jisung to slip on the black dress pants that make his ass look nice, and buttons up the sleek shirt he had bought a week ago. He waits for Minho to come out of the shower to help him with the tie.

Except— Minho walks out in a way too small towel wrapped around his hips, beads running down his legs and onto the carpet. Jisung almost drools at the sight of his soft tummy adorned with a faded pink scar.

He turns around, in respect for him, as Minho puts on some boxers and folds the white towel, leaving it on the end of his bed.

They’re about to be late, so they speed things up. Jisung places his black and red tie into Minho’s hands, begging, “please, help, hyung.”

Minho easily does. He arranges the tie to stay fixed around Jisung’s collar over the dangling chain, hand lingering on the material even though he’s long done, and then minds his own business, buttoning up his own silk brown shirt.

As they put their shoes on at the front door, Minho calls Jisung pretty. “You look so pretty, Jisungie.” he says.

In the elevator, Jisung can’t help but squeeze Minho’s bicep and say, “You’re sexy, hyung-ah.” because he is; wearing some simple plain trousers and jacket, no waistcoat or tie unlike Jisung who went all in for his best friend’s wedding.

And even in the car, now following Junho’s old-fashioned vehicle driven by Dohyun, Minho has his palm gripping Jisung’s thigh, higher than earlier today. Jisung itches to grab his fingers, intertwine them together. He doesn’t do anything other than appreciate the warmth Minho provides.

The real stress begins at eight o’clock, when they’re in front of the huge ballroom building decorated with white and blue flowers. People, close friends of Nari, are scattered all over at the front gate and in the garden.

“Should I park here?” Minho asks, only now taking his hand off Jisung to manoeuvre the steering wheel.

“Think it’s good,” he gets in response.

Afterwards, they get out of the car and head to the entrance. A guardian stops them from going any further past the tall gates. “Names?” he questions, holding heavy sheets of paper in his hands.

“Han Jisung and Lee Minho,” Jisung says, fixing his glasses.

“You may continue. Have fun.”

As they stalk towards the portico, they’re approached by an usher who shoves two flutes of champagne into their faces. Minho refuses, Jisung takes. Another person leads them to their table, which they share with Jisung’s brother and some of Nari’s friends from university.

Minho pulls the chair covered by white satin material from under the table, beckoning Jisung to sit down.

There’s a big vase filled with flowers in the middle of the table. Jisung feels somewhat anxious seeing people he doesn’t know that well fill the venue, his legs bouncing against the long tablecloth.

“It’s nice here,” Minho tells him. An attempt to take Jisung’s mind off things. “Are you going to drink?” he eyes the champagne glass swirling in the man’s hand.

“Just this. I don’t want to be a burden to you. Again.” Jisung speaks over the loud chatter of people sitting at nearby tables and over the quiet song serving as background noise. “I don’t drink at parties, anyway.”

“You’re never a burden,” he furrows his eyebrows at him.

“Sure, hyung.” the brunette shrugs his shoulders, taking one sip of his drink to calm his nerves. It uncomfortably burns his throat.

Rieon soon appears with Eunhae and Dohyun, wearing a nice little blue suit Nari had bought him specifically for this. Jisung and Minho stand up to greet them. “Hey,”

“My handsome boy!” Jisung’s mother hugs her son. She only smiles at Minho.

“Appa! Look,” Rieon jumps into his father’s arms, holding him tight. “Eomma is coming!”

Jisung sucks in a breath. “Hi, Rieonie. Is she?” he brushes a hand through his hair, looking around for a woman in a white dress through the crowd of people already partying.

“She’s discussing with the staff right now,” Dohyun explains, walking around the kid and smacking his brother on the shoulder three times. “You look ridiculous.”

“Hyung!” Jisung pouts, looking down at himself. Sure, maybe he tried a bit too hard. His outfit could be seen as too much. “Don’t be mean, jackass.”

Dohyun’s gaze moves to the person next to Jisung, and he shudders. “Your boyfriend looks like he wants to kill me. Stab me with the stem of a flower.” he whispers into his ear, malicious as he usually is.

“He’s not– shut up, oh my god. You’re so annoying!” he whines, pushing the taller away.

Minho stares at them questioningly. He wraps his hand around Jisung’s elbow, bringing him closer to his body.

Eunhae is scolding Rieon next to a pillar for having run off and bothering a few guests. Dohyun takes a seat on the chair next to Jisung’s.

“Want to sit down, too?” Minho asks, breath fanning against Jisung’s ear. A shiver makes him want to inhale a deep breath.

“No. Nari’s coming.”

They turn their heads towards the entrance, from where the bride is walking down with her two best friends holding her hands. She has a huge, radiant smile on her face with barely any make-up on. Her hair is down, slightly wavy, a few blue, tiny bows decorating it creatively.

“That’s her?” Minho asks, squeezing Jisung’s arm. They start walking towards Nari, who stopped to talk to some people.

“My best friend, yes,” Jisung sighs, happy. So happy he feels like he’s going to burst in contentment. “I need to introduce you to her like yesterday.”

They wait for her to finish conversing before Jisung wraps his arm around her shoulder and sings her name. “Nari-yah,”

“Oh god,” she jumps, head spinning in the opposite direction. “Han Jisung!”

“The one and only,” he winks, pulling away from Nari to take a good look at her dress, an organza ball gown. It’s not as excessive as Jisung had expected it to be— the hemline pools on the floor, mixing with the cathedral veil. For the bodice, there are flowers woven down from her chest to the waist. It doesn't have sleeves, being strapless.

“Thank you for coming, Jisung. Really.” Nari beams, and then her eyes fall on Minho shyly hiding behind Jisung’s broad back (that does nothing because Minho is broader, but.) “You actually brought someone with you?”

“Sure did,” Jisung proudly remarks, moving away and dragging Minho closer. “This is Lee Minho.”

“Hello and congratulations,” Minho nods his head, ears red. “I’m Lee Minho.”

“So I’ve heard,” she hums, from time to time turning to cheerfully greet another pair of guests. “Hannie’s boyfriend?”

“Hannie’s friend,” Jisung glares at her. Minho sighs and nods.

“Nice to meet you, Lee Minho-ssi. I’d love to get to know you more but I really need to go find my husband,” she apologizes with her hands clasped together and scrambles away.

“Back to the table?” Minho asks Jisung once she’s off.

“Back to the table.”

The wedding consists of lots of people. Maybe fifty— Jisung isn’t good at counting when nervous. The main doors close, trapping everyone inside the silent white ballroom with baby blue decorations hanging off the curtains and the walls and the aromatic flowers.

It’s pretty and so Yi Nari. She loves that colour. Jisung isn’t surprised that this was her choice for the theme.

They’ve been here for twenty-five minutes, and the ceremony is about to start. Jisung, being the officiant, is sweating two buckets. Minho is holding his hand despite it, rubbing a thumb on his skin.

When it’s time for Jisung to go up in the middle, to the flowery wedding arbour in the spotlight, Minho caresses his cheek. Mouths, “It’s okay, Jisungie,” and Jisung knows that it is okay. He takes a deep breath and hurries over to stand under the bower in front of the window that overlooks a mountain. A few photographers take photos of him.

Everyone’s eyes are on Jisung. He’s the moon during the day, unimportant but certainly there. He’s not the main event, and he doesn’t try to be.

The door opens, and down the aisle walks Eunhyeok, tan skin beautifully highlighted by the fully white tailored suit he’s wearing, embroidered with a light shade of blue. There’s a small flower, woven in, blooming from inside the chest pocket of his coat.

He stops in front of Jisung, bowing. The clicks of cameras go off, and Jisung feels a bead of sweat escape his hair and run down his nape. He bows too, deeper, and smiles at the groom. The guests start clapping.

Jisung’s eyes fall on Minho, who’s cheering him on from the side, where their table is. He’s with Rieon, holding him up on his shoulders so he can freely catch the moment his mother appears.

Gorgeous, as she’s always been. She shines under the artificial light bulbs, giving them a purpose. There are tears in her eyes, cheeks red with either a colossal amount of blush on or because of the applause and praise echoing in the hall.

A thunder cuts through the loud claps bouncing off the walls. The weather is preparing for chaos. Jisung clenches his jaw and turns his eyes into little half-eaten moons, watching as the couple bend their waists at an angle of forty-five degrees. Another round of ovation.

“Eunhyeok, my love,” Nari begins once straightened up, holding his hands. “You found me when I was drowning in my books, studying to pass my exams.” they both cackle. “You took me by the waist and showed me that life existed out of school and bad grades.” she closes her eyes, then looks at Jisung for one beat with the most wrenching smile she could muster. “You accepted me despite the circumstances, and loved my family as if you belonged with us from the start. Which you do.”

“Yi Nari,” Eunhyeok’s voice trembles. Another flash from a camera blinds Jisung. “You came into my life when it was most needed. Your warm laugh and colourful personality made it easy for me to fall in love.” he shakes his head. “How could I have not loved all that you are? All of you is mine, and all of mine is yours.”

“I swear to love you forever, even when the night goes cold,” she says, and they’re closer now. Jisung arranges some of the papers he’s holding, biting back a sob.

Barely one hour ago Jisung could’ve sworn that he wouldn’t cry, not in front of everybody, but as he recites the marriage declaration out loud, a tear dies on his cheek. He sniffles, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. Mutters a deliberate sorry and goes back to reading. It’s not a lot, therefore in no time he organises his thoughts, going through the drawers in the crevices of his brain to find the right words that show his gratitude.

“I was there for Nari when she realized she had fallen head over heels for you.” Jisung freestyles, looking in between them, zoned out. “It was a sunny day, but she was crying. I really wanted to dropkick you.”

Every person present in the room breaks into laughter, yet Jisung can only hear Minho’s tiny haa’s.

“I had a good reason, you know? She was a broken medical school student who was on the verge of failing her classes.” he shakes his head, giggling over the bittersweet memories of years ago, when Rieon was a toddler unaware of anything. “You’re lucky my best friend cared too much about you.”

One more tear falls, this time from the other eye. It must be ruining his eyeliner. Not good. “I care a lot about her, and so does everyone in this room.” Jisung tries to turn serious, but his nose is wet. “Swear to love Yi Nari for the rest of her life and beyond.”

It’s not a question. It’s a demand. Jisung would go to jail for her. His childhood best friend who happens to be the mother of his child. She’s someone he must protect.

“I swear to love my Yi Nari to infinity and more.” Eunhyeok almost leans in to steal a kiss from her.

“And do you promise to take his word and create a beautiful future with him?” Jisung directs the question to Nari, who’s smiling so wide her face might get stuck like that.

“I promise,” she chokes on her words, unable to continue the sentence.

Jisung doesn’t have time to seal their vows because they’re kissing, and hundreds of camera flashes are going off. He quickly leaves to let them have their moment, seeking Minho, because he’s crying again.

“Oh, Jisungie,” Minho releases Rieon from his hold to pull Jisung into a hug.

All Jisung can smell is Minho’s stupid, terribly redolent vanilla scent. It acts like a tranquillisant, and for the moment being he forgets where he is, swept away by how Minho is gripping him by the waist, gently rocking them from side to side.

He sniffles into his shoulder, then moves to cry into his neck, probing the heat his skin provides. It feels like home. A sweet, welcoming home. Like mandarines and madeleines.

“You did great, jagiya,” Minho whispers, tracing patterns down Jisung’s covered back. “You did amazing.”

The wedding reception is nothing like Jisung expected. There’s a whole disco going on, with old love songs blasting through the multiple speakers hung around the place. They already ate the appetizers, now waiting for the main meal.

Rieon is jumping around on the dance floor, pretending to be a dancer. Minho is watching him with a fatherly gaze. Jisung is finally drinking his one glass of champagne.

This is nice. He doesn’t have to worry about his son because Eunhae agreed to take care of him this whole weekend.

“I’ll go to the bathroom,” Jisung announces over the loud music, getting up. He hears Minho ask whether he wants to be accompanied or not. Jisung turns his offer down with a gesture of his hands.

It takes him about three minutes to find the bathroom. He bumps into numerous people on his way to the secluded hallway and almost spills someone’s drink.

He looks terrible. His bangs are sticking to his forehead disobediently. His gloss is gone, lips feeling dry. Not to mention how hot his body temperature is with all these layers of clothes on— he hates suits for a reason.

Here, facing the mirror in the men’s bathroom, the music is dimmed, diffused by the amount of thick walls. The vibration of the bass invertebrates through him, echoing in his dull chest cavity.

Jisung’s mind is starting to shapeshift into a cloud getting carried around by the wind, so he does what he does best when his thoughts don’t give it a rest. He calls Chan.

Chan, as always, picks up after three rings. “Hey? Jisung?”

“Hyung,” Jisung sighs, guilt making him want to smash his head into the sink. “Hyung, hello.”

“What happened?”

“I’m at the wedding,” he rips a few tissues and lets them absorb the perspiration his sweat glands are fastly building on his forehead. “In the bathroom. The music was too loud.”

“Oh, Jisung-ah,” Chan sounds like he’s frowning. “Minho? Where is he?”

“At our table, probably. Talking with that idiotic dickhead my brother is. He managed to embarrass me three times today, and we only interacted twice!” he whines, supporting his back against the beige wall, digging in the pocket of his jacket for his lip balm.

“Did something happen?”

“Not really, no. I guess I just got overwhelmed by everyone staring at me when I was giving my speech, and then.. then I ran to Minho because I got emotional hearing about Nari and Eunhyeok hyung's love story. He hugged me.”

“Wait. Minho hugged you?” Chan gasps, although he tries to hide it. “Dude.”

“I know! And everyone here thinks he’s my boyfriend, but it’s so painfully obvious he isn’t!” his lips appreciate the gloss Jisung provides them with.

A man suddenly pushes the door open, stumbling inside the bathroom. He looks somewhat wasted. Jisung heaves. “Sorry, hyung, gotta go. Thank you.” he ends the call, not waiting for another reply.

While the other person is inside one of the four stalls, Jisung throws the wet tissues in a bin and makes his way out inside the long hallway that leads towards what has transformed into a dance floor. Before opening the door, he thoroughly shakes his limbs, trying to put an end to his overthinking.

Heading towards the bar to get some juice, Jisung runs into Hayun, who’s dancing with a girl.

“Oppa?” Hayun turns around, hands never leaving the girl’s waist. “Jisung oppa, I was looking for you everywhere!” she grins. “This is my girlfriend, Mishil.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jisung tries his best to smile back.

“I saw Rieon-ie, he’s dancing somewhere in the corner. He was with a man,”

“My brother? Yeah, he managed to make it to Korea in time for the wedding. His wife’s back at home, though.” he rambles, yelling to have his voice heard.

“Not your brother, I know what Dohyun oppa looks like,” Hayun chuckles. Mishil tugs on her hand, silently begging her girlfriend to end the conversation. Jisung doesn’t take it to heart, because kids nowadays are impatient like that.

At the bar, Jisung orders a hwachae cocktail. He loves fruit and really needs a non-alcoholic cold beverage right now.

He thanks the bartender, grabbing the glass. He takes little sips, holds the liquid in his mouth so it can warm up, and swallows with a silent ahh as he swims his way through the sweaty bodies moving to the beat of the song playing.

The lights are off, only the colourful strobes creating an ambiguous atmosphere. It doesn’t come close to a club, however Jisung still doesn’t like it much. He prefers serene places, where he can relax and write however much he wants.

“Where have you been?” Dohyun asks once he’s back at their table. “I want to introduce you to someone,”

“Sorry, chronic diarrhea,” Jisung jokes, clinking his glass against his brother's for no reason.

“Disgusting,” he quivers, sending an apologetic look to the other four people at the table. “Let me show you my dear college friend, Jeon Yoona.” Dohyun gestures to the woman standing on her feet next to his chair.

She shyly waves to Jisung, stepping closer so that they can hold a conversation of better understanding. “Hello, Han Jisung,”

“Oh, hello,” Jisung places down his half-drunk drink, forcing his facial muscles to form another smile.

“I’ve been meaning to get to know you for a while now.”

Jisung guesses more than hears her words, given the loud music. It’s nearing ten o’clock, which means that the food should come any time now. He’s not that hungry, but he feels like he might say something stupid, so it’d be better for him to have his mouth full.

“Thank you,” he stupidly replies after fifteen awkward seconds of them staring at each other.

Dohyun excuses himself to Yoona, getting up from his chair. The screech has Jisung’s skin prickling. “Come here,” he grabs Jisung by the arm, dragging him around as though he’s a weightless sack of potatoes.

“Hyung, hey,” Jisung tries to pull away because his grip is vice. Not with bad intent though. Dohyun, hands down, is a good brother. When he wants to be, at least.

They’re outside now, on the porch of the white building, shielded by its roof from the furious rain outside. There’s a lady smoking next to one of the thin pillars, paying no mind to the two brothers.

It’s cold. Jisung suddenly misses Minho’s warmth. Is that weird? That’s a bit weird.

“What is it, you lunatic?” Jisung pouts, yanking his arm out of his older sibling’s grasp, enjoying the cold gusts of air.

“Don’t embarrass me in front of mine and Nari’s friends, Han Jisung,” he threatens with no real harm behind it. “Yoona noona is someone dear to me.”

“But not to me, hyung.” he fights the urge to chuckle in his face.

“I’m going to kill you, seriously. Chronic diarrhea, for real, man?” he almost scoffs, bulldozing a tough look on his face.

“I’d like to see you try.” Jisung runs back inside, laughing because Dohyun’s irritated shouts are funny, reminding him of when they’d evade the gardens of their grandmother’s neighbours after pulling a problematic prank on them.

Back at the table, Jisung feels better because there’s now a plate filled with a traditional dish he hasn’t eaten in forever in front of every individual. There’s no one dancing anymore, people having settled down to eat.

Minho is, too, back at the table, bangs pulled back, exposing a sweaty forehead Jisung wants to press his lips against.

“Hey,” the man’s beautiful eyes shine red in the big light the chandeliers offer. “Jisung-ah,” he says when he notices Jisung taking a seat next to him. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere,”

“I apologize,” Jisung grumbles, drinking some more hwachae juice. It’s still cold, freezing his fingertips.

“Eat up.”

They eat in silence. Now that the blaring music has turned into a dormant tune, Jisung can eavesdrop on the conversation his brother is having with some of Nari’s colleagues.

The food is good. Minho is eating it fast, probably hungry out of his mind. Jisung doesn’t blame him.

His stomach cries, so Jisung makes himself eat at least a bit. He’s not a fan of consuming food when his stomach is churning in anxiety.

He only swallows half of the meat, sliding the rest to Minho, who accepts it but only after he’s asked ten times if Jisung really doesn’t want it anymore.

“Ohh, ‘m so full, hyung,” Jisung pats his stomach under the unbuttoned jacket and over the dark red waistcoat keeping him hot. “Feels like I’m going to explode.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen to you, Jisungie,” Minho swears, sneaking his hand on top of Jisung’s where it’s holding his tummy.

Yoona watches from across from him. Jisung knows because he can feel her eyes. He can’t help but think that she’s judging, so he foolishly takes Minho’s palm off him.

Twenty minutes later after everyone’s finished their portion, Nari’s voice plays from one of the speakers. Ah, it must be time for the dance. Jisung remembers how she had told him that she’d love to do this at her wedding one day.

“I’d like for all of my dear guests to take three minutes and cheer me and my husband on for this performance.” she timidly says.

People do start lauding. Jisung gets up and urges Minho to follow him to the area with no more tables, where the newlywed couple are beginning this new chapter of their story. From here, Jisung can see Rieon, with Eunhae and Hayun, clapping for his mother on the other side.

His chest expands. Minho pokes him on the pec to help him deflate.

The song choice is definitely fitting. It’s a song that came out before they were born— Nari probably knows it from her mother, who’s crying somewhere in a corner.

“They know how to dance,” Minho whispers in Jisung’s ear, the swift proximity coaxing him to get another good sniff of his perfume. He could eat him up. Jisung really could. He’s afraid he just might, actually.

“Nari took ballet classes when she was young,” Jisung explains as quietly as Minho did.

“She’s good. Tell her I give her performance five stars.”

Snorting, Jisung slaps his arm in a fit of laughter. Minho is funny as hell. He knows he is, too.

They join everyone else with meaningful claps, whistling in encouragement and congratulating them for what they’ve managed to create.

“I’m inviting everyone to join us in a slow dance. Please step forward and let your body guide you through the music!” Eunhyeok screams into the microphone, the big lights turning off again, converting the hall into a room blazing with garish colours that move according to the hushed melody.

Minho clears his throat, dropping his hand into Jisung’s. He gapes at him, and finally asks, “May I have this dance?”

Jisung must be dying. His brain loses all power over his legs, making him trip over air as he gets carried towards the middle. They face each other, eyes searching for something that can only be found in crying stars. “You may have this dance, and many others.” Jisung answers in one breath, unhurriedly throwing his arms over Minho’s shoulders.

Even with the platform shoes he’s wearing, Jisung is still slightly shorter than the older. Minho could easily lean in and give his nose some attention with a smooch.

Whatever. He needs to be normal. This is just a dance.

A perfect one, at that— Minho’s arms settle low on his waist, guiding him to sway back and forth. A smile takes its sweet time building on Jisung’s face, and when it appears, it generates happiness on Minho’s own.

One step to the right, twist, another to the left. Jisung doesn’t know what they’re doing, and he doesn’t need to because Minho is the one controlling their bodies. His grip is strong.

All Jisung can think about during this moment, where they’re close enough for his glasses to fog up from Minho’s hot breath, is how gorgeous Minho is. The way he keeps blinking, never once losing focus. The freckle that dots his nose. The texture of his skin Jisung aches to touch— it gets too much after some time, and he reaches out one of his hands, unlinking them from behind Minho’s neck in favour of cupping his jaw.

They don’t speak. They just enjoy the dance, knowing that everyone else is minding their own business. They don’t have to worry about anything when their hearts are so close to one another.

With time, and more steps, they get closer. Somehow. Another song is playing now, Jisung thinks. He can’t know for sure. He can’t concentrate on anything else other than Minho’s lips, right in front of him. Exhibited for him. Gleaming with sweat and saliva and want.

He rests his face in the crook of Minho’s neck, next to his pulse point. Their chests are flush, heart against heart, beating purposely.

Minho is holding him by the hips now, fingertips on his lower back, prodding into his flesh under the jacket. He should take it off. It’s getting torrid in here.

Jisung holds him tighter. An attempt to morph them together into one.

“Jagiya,” he hears Minho whisper wetly in the pavilion of his ear, the vibration making his head spin. He feels himself growing scorching hot under the attention he’s receiving.

“Mm,” Jisung can only hum, nuzzling the side of his neck.

Sternum on sternum, they pendulate together, minds connected like they’ve been since the start.

“Jisung.”

That cajoles Jisung to look up, to meet his stare. The look he finds in Minho’s eyes is one he’s never seen before— no one’s ever gaped at Jisung with this much hunger. This much need.

It happens in under two seconds: neither of them knows who makes the first move, who’s the one to blame for this. Because Jisung flinches away before their lips can meet. His eyes are wide, glasses crooked.

He runs.

To where, Jisung has no idea. He dashes until the food in his stomach moves uncomfortably and he’s meant to stop. His legs carry him through faceless bodies, inside the lavish antechamber, and lead him outside, where the wind is carelessly disarranging his hair.

The thunderstorm has worsened. He takes off his glasses, hanging them in his pocket, and rubs at his face until he accidentally scratches his cheek.

Stupid feelings. Stupid Jisung. He shouldn’t have done that— shouldn’t have run away from Minho.

Five minutes before the clock can hit midnight, the three leveled cake is brought by a few waitresses. Loud music starts booming in Jisung’s abused eardrum, and he watches from the shadows as Nari and Eunhyeok cut the first slice together, laughing mirthfully.

Vanilla strawberry cake. Regardless of how good it is, it does nothing to the turmoil inside every fiber that makes Jisung.

For the past one hour, Jisung has been deliberately ignoring Minho. He’s embarrassed, alright. Childish. He should’ve gone up to him, apologised, and kissed him silly. His pride says no. Jisung is glued to the ground.

Dohyun-ah is looking for you, he’s been told that by a few guests. Yes, he hasn’t gone back to his table. He’s eating cake on a chair at another empty one, bouncing his legs.

At twelve, there’s another announcement being made through a microphone. Jisung can’t see much from the corner he’s tucked himself in, but he can tell that Eunhyeok’s hands are settled on Nari’s belly.

“Thank you for coming here tonight, friends and family,” Nari beams, hair messy now. “I’d like to surprise you with some blessed news.”

The public goes silent, letting the bride calmly launch, “My sweet baby, Rieon, is having a baby brother.”

Gasps everywhere. Jisung would, too, be surprised if his son hadn't snitched last month. He finds himself smiling anyway, proud of Nari for how far she’s come.

And there’s that.

It’s nearing one o’clock when most of the guests are bidding goodbyes and honouring the lovebirds, as Nari’s mother said.

Jisung is talking with his father. “When are you guys leaving?” he asks, searching for Dohyun.

“We’ll stay a bit more,” Junho replies. “Why? Do you want to leave already?”

“I’m quite tired, yes,”

“That’s okay. Go let Nari know first, though.” he rubs Jisung’s shoulder comfortingly. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Jisung nods, the ghost of a grin on his mouth. “I’ll go, then. Tell eomma we’re having breakfast together tomorrow morning.”

“Will do.”

He hurries through some groups of people until he reaches his best friend. She’s sitting at the main table with her and her husband’s close family, enjoying some rosé wine. She gets up as soon as she notices Jisung.

“You’re going?” Nari rounds the table, petting down her dress. “Already?”

“Sorry, Nari-ya,” Jisung pats her on the head. “But I’m so fucking sleepy.” he cackles. To make himself look normal.

“That’s okay,” she immediately reassures, leaning into the touch. “Me and Eunhyeok are so thankful that you agreed to officiate our marriage.”

“How could I not? You’re my best friend.”

“I am.”

Jisung bows to the family, congratulating them too, and then stalks towards the entrance in a rush, taking his phone out to get a cab, since Dohyun is nowhere to be seen. He’s doing his best to hide.

Well, the truth is that Jisung’s never been good at hide-and-seek.

Proof of that is Minho instantly catching sight of him hurrying out the doors. Jisung isn’t even aware of it. Not until Minho’s perspiring hand wraps around his wrist, stopping him from walking down the three stairs leading to the drowning garden, on which rain relentlessly falls from the sky.

Shrieking, Jisung almost trips down. He would’ve, if it weren’t for Minho. Minho who he’s been trying so hard to ignore.

“Jisung,” Minho says, tugging at Jisung’s hand to make him spin around. “Jisung, what’s wrong?”

“Minho hyung,” Jisung’s look is pierced to his feet, unable to meet his gaze. The current has sprays of raindrops hitting the two of them, even though they’re shielded by the white awning. He shivers.

“Are you ignoring me?”

What is he supposed to do, lie? When it’s clear as day that Jisung has been running away from Minho? He can’t lie to those big, down-turned eyes staring back at him. Begging him.

“I am.”

“But–” Minho furrows his eyebrows, letting go of Jisung’s forearm. “Is there something wrong? Did I do something wrong, Jisung?”

He can’t take it. “I want to go home,” Jisung gasps in a breath, overwhelmed. “Please.”

Minho looks back at him for a few more seconds before fishing the car keys from one of his pockets. He then takes off his black suit coat, handing both items to Jisung. “Put this over your head and go to the car, I need to grab my phone.”

“What about..” Jisung whispers into the night, hence before he can finish the sentence Minho is already heading back inside the building.

The storm is heavy, with blasts of wind ripping fragile branches off the trees. A metaphor for how Jisung ripped Minho’s fragile heart out of his chest cavity. He sighs, dreadfully walking towards the parking lot with not as many cars as there were a few hours ago.

Black Jeep, Black Jeep, Black Jeep,

Jisung chants in his head, exiting through the wide open gates. Minho’s jacket stays over his head to protect him from the rain. It’s not the best, albeit he manages to get to the vehicle with nothing more than muddy shoes and two wet jackets.

It beeps three times, then the doors unlock. Jisung jumps inside, on his designated seat. Minho told him that he’s the only one who sits there. He might as well write Han Jisung in red on the headrest.

While waiting for the owner of the car, Jisung applies some more gloss to his lips, looking into the sun visor mirror. They’ve gotten too dry, too chapped. He hates feeling the raw skin of them.

Just then, Minho climbs into the car, dripping wet. Rain trickles from his hair, down his face, everywhere.

“Sorry I took a while, your brother questioned me about your whereabouts.”

“You should’ve told him to fuck off.” Jisung scoffs, throwing Minho’s coat on the back seats. His body is trembling. Minho brings the engine to life with one simple button and turns the heat on, waiting two minutes before driving off.

Silence. Jisung wants to apologize, but he doesn’t know for what. He feels guilt creeping into his heart and pouring down his veins, running his blood cold. He shakes again.

They’re alone on the road, in the middle of nowhere. The city is fifteen minutes away, turned into twenty-five because of how slow Minho’s driving. He’s probably cautious of the weather, Jisung thinks. Definitely.

Thunders roar in the distance, and their impact makes the sky light up. Jisung watches the darkness build into light.

“I’m sorry, Jisung-ah,” Minho turns down the music with his thumb. “I shouldn’t have just– done that.”

Why is Minho apologizing? He didn’t do anything wrong.

“I’m the one who should be, and is, sorry.” Jisung ultimately swallows his pride. “I’m a stupid idiot.”

“Don’t ever say that about yourself.”

“It’s the truth.” he shrugs, head lolling every time there’s a bump in the cement. "I'm a coward, hyung. I’m sorry.”

Minho snaps his head towards Jisung before he remembers that he’s the driver, that he should be paying attention to the road. “Please, shut up.” he clicks his tongue, the hybrid blades working overtime to clear the windshield.

Jisung bites his lip, because he wants to stop talking, but then he tastes cherry on his lips and remembers. “Why? I’m not talking about you.” he disdains.

“I don’t like the way you talk about yourself.” Minho’s ten fingers wrap tighter around the curb of the steering wheel.

“I don’t get it.”

“What don’t you get, Jisung-ah? I don’t want you to talk low about who you are.”

“Then leave me alone.”

The car comes to a halt, now stationed on the right side of the road, next to an open field. There’s no deer— it must’ve already run into the forest. Minho puts the jeep into park and throws daggers at Jisung with his eyes. “What did you just say?”

“That you should leave me alone. I’m not a kid.”

He expects Minho to reply back with a rude if you claim not to be one, then stop acting like it, but it never comes. Jisung doesn’t spare one glance at him.

His ears pick up on Minho’s ragged breathing. The way his body shudders because his brown shirt is soaked and beyond repair. Jisung feels his eyes sting. He scratches at his knee, pinches his flesh through the dress pants, and then unbuckles his seatbelt only to zoom out of the car, in the pouring cold rain.

A tear fights to fall and warm up his cheek. Jisung doesn’t allow himself to cry. There’s no reason for him to cry, really. This is ridiculous. Jisung wants to scream.

Through the gale, Jisung walks until his legs hurt, soles of his feet rubbing against the hard material. He walks. And walks. And would continue walking. But. Minho is behind him, shouting his name over the droplets of water wrenching their elegant, expensive suits that they had paid a fortune for.

“Han Jisung!”

That tone— it’s not scolding, condescending. It’s gentle, crammed with something that sounds like desperation.

It makes Jisung stop in his tracks, shoulders slumping. He waits for Minho to get his hands on him and turn him around. Take him back to the car. The craved touch never reaches him.

“What’s gotten into you, Jisung?” Minho implores, a thunder accentuating his words. Hiding them. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

What’s gotten into him? That’s an excellent question. Jisung wonders, too.

Their almost-kiss is what triggered a fight or flight response within him. He got too out of his comfort zone, and it scared him. It scared him so bad that he lost control over his feelings. Let his insecurities get the best of him.

How could someone as special as Minho love Jisung? If not even people blinded by lust wanted him?

“It’s you!” Jisung yells, looking over his shoulder at Minho, hair heavy down on his head. His maroon coat is ruined, and so are they.

“I don’t understand!” Minho shouts— solely to make himself heard over the storm.

“Do you think I do?” he gives in, turning his whole body to face Minho. He steps closer, and talks in a low voice, because he can’t find it in him to speak louder. “Do I seem like I understand?”

Minho tries his best to observe Jisung. Catch a glimpse of what’s going on in his head. “You’re the only one who can, Jisung. You’re your own person.”

“Like hell I am!” a fat tear spills down his cheek before the flowing sky washes it away. He hiccups, trying not to cry. Again. He brings his hand up to rub at his nose, feeling the water seep through his clothes and into his skin.

“Are you crying?”

“I’m not fucking crying!” Jisung breaks down, wobbling on his legs with how hard the emotions are swirling in his gut. He falls apart, the tears blurring his vision. No matter how hard he tries to wipe them away, they keep betraying him.

He can feel Minho reaching out for him, and once again, Jisung pushes him away cold-heartedly. This time it’s different, though, because Minho forcefully takes a hold of his elbow , bringing him close to his body that emanates heat.

A car passes by them. It vanishes into the void.

“Be an adult and be honest with yourself!” Minho quarrels, voice raised but never scary. It almost feels like Minho is scolding one of his senior cats for jumping on the kitchen counter and hurting itself.

“Wha–what was that?” Jisung glares at him. He focuses his eyes on how the headlights of Minho’s car puts them in the spotlight. Focuses on how the sky’s cries mix with Minho’s sweat. Focuses on how Minho’s trying to mask the pain he feels.

But— it’s visible. It’s like Jisung can see the way Minho’s heart is crawling up his wet neck from under the open collar of silk.

They’re close. Jisung screams at his legs to move, to back away, but it’s no use. Minho is in front of him, eyelashes glued together by the rain, and he looks beautiful. Achingly beautiful.

“Let go of me,” Jisung whimpers, staying still. He hiccups over and over again to try to regulate his breathing.

“I won’t let go of you.” Minho scrunches his eyebrows at him, the light from another passing car casting a spark on his face. “I won’t let go of you, Jisung!” he decides, calmly. Acting like there isn’t a river forming in his eyes. Jisung’s never been good at hiding, but he’s a pretty good seeker.

“You need to!” he sobs over the storm, shaking his head continuously.

“What I need is not for you to decide!”

Jisung attempts to shove him back. Minho catches his wrists, holding them with a tight yet gentle grip that has his pulse mushrooming.

“I said let me go, Minho hyung!”

“Don’t push me away.” Minho scowls at him. Hauls him closer.

“I want to go home!” Jisung’s limbs go pliant under the force, and he chokes on another cry. His bones are freezing and they seem to be trying to steal the warmth in his blood. “Let me go home!”

“Are you crazy? You don’t even know the way home, Jisung! We’re hours away!” he shakes Jisung’s limp hands. “Back to the car with you.”

Minho turns his back, striding towards the waiting vehicle. He’s dragging Jisung by one of his wrists. Jisung plants his feet into the mud, refusing to follow. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

Another thunder. Jisung flinches, rubbing at his face with the drenched sleeve of his jacket.

“Why are you doing this? You’re going to get sick!” Minho uses all of his strength to pull Jisung out of the rain.

“I deserve it, let go,” Jisung stumbles, hiccuping like he’s drowning.

He diverts his head to the side, glancing at Jisung with disappointment gushing down the apples of his cheeks. “Stop speaking nonsense!”

“I don’t deserve you.”

One last touch and the dam breaks. Jisung’s diaphragm contracts spasmodically, resulting in a string of singultus. He lets every pent-up cry out for the wind to carry.

“Fuck,” he hears Minho cuss over the cloudburst. “Fuck, Jisung,”

Maybe it’s due to his blurry vision, but Jisung’s eyes pick a deluge of emotion in Minho’s starry eyes. He feels attracted to them. It’s in such a way that they complete a missing part of the universe, not from the Bootes Void but rather an alienly faraway place mankind cannot fathom.

They draw closer, then.

“Jisung, I need to kiss you.” Minho sandwiches Jisung’s head between his palms. “I need to kiss you so fucking bad.”

The rain, the thunders, the cold, it all becomes insignificant. There are three cogs inside Jisung’s brain, and they all cease working. He’s dumbfounded. “Y-You– what–”

“Can I kiss you?”

Snot blocking his airways, vocal cords closing as he hiccups uncontrollably, Jisung nods, teary-eyed and asphyxiating.

One touch. One singular press of lips.

Jisung whimpers in the back of his throat, swallows the next sob, and wraps his icy hands around Minho’s hot neck, persuading him closer. Closer. Now that he knows the softness of Minho’s flesh, he can’t help but itch for more.

Mouth on mouth, body against body, their lips slot together in place. Two lost puzzle pieces meeting each other in the middle. Bingo.

Fireworks— light the fuse, watch the fire blind you. Swoosh! Bang! Popopop! Fizz!

Minho trails his hands down Jisung’s sides, and they settle in the deep dip of his waist, bringing his hips for them to brush against each other. He moves his mouth against Jisung’s with raw passion, head tilted to the side.

Attempting to suck on his top lip, Jisung pulls it between his teeth and runs his tongue along it, drawing a shaky breath from the older. He feels his glasses crook on his nose thanks to Minho’s forehead constantly bumping into them.

Saline tears blend together with the hail, because the stars are crying with them too.

When they pull away, it’s only to gasp a breath in, then they’re back all over each other. Neither knows who makes the first move, but now Minho is pinned against the front of his car, the metal of the hood digging into his back. Jisung eats him up, starved, lapping up at his lips with no more than an empty head.

He can feel one of Minho’s wet hands walk back up to his cheek, thumb dragging around the remnant salt on them. A shiver makes Jisung jump.

“Come back,” Minho whispers against his slick lips. Tentatively tugs on Jisung’s tie. Pulls it out from underneath his waistcoat before yanking him home. Jisung’s body mindlessly follows the order, as though it’s programmed for that. Minho holds him exactly where he wants him, and Jisung pays no mind to it, trying to pry his mouth open.

The pure bliss that corrupts Jisung’s brain has a wanton whine working its way out of his throat. Minho swallows it greedily, tangling their tongues in a fight that has no real winner. Jisung staggers nearer and nearer, trying to agglutinate them into one shell that shares two souls. He twists at the strands of Minho’s waterlogged hair, earning a silent moan.

And just as Jisung is getting lost in the sweet taste of Minho, the man pulls away with one more peck given to his eager lips.

‘Hyung,” Jisung mutters, displeased. He tries to kiss him again— the need to scratch the itch has him burning. “Minho hyung,”

“Jisungie,” Minho smiles up at him from where he’s leaning against the car. He extends his hand, fixing Jisung’s glasses back into their place.

“Kiss me,” he hushedly begs. “Hyung, why don’t you kiss m–”

Minho positions an index finger on his lips. “You talk too much, Jisungie.”

“Then shut me up with a kiss,”

“Should I?”

“Please?”

It’s fervent, the way they move against one another. Jisung has one palm holding Minho’s nape, the other frantically searching over his shirt, feeling him up through the wetness of it. Conversely, Minho sneaks his hand down to grab his butt before quickly moving upwards to grasp onto the small of his back.

There are a thousand things going on in Jisung’s body. He feels lightheaded, hazy with desire. He feels how his heart is rabitting against his ribs, forceful enough to snap a few. He feels how all the blood is rushing somewhere it shouldn’t be.

He feels like he’s drowning, being dragged down to the bottom of the sea by an unknown creature. An unknown emotion. He’s getting scared, but then he feels Minho lick into his mouth to map it all, and he forgets that they’re somewhere beyond the black stump.

“Minho,” he whispers between the moist sounds of their linked lips. “Hyung-ah.”

“Hm?” Minho heaves out, and Jisung can tell by the shaky tone of his voice that he’s not much better.

Another lingering peck, another murmured thought. “Do you hate me?”

Minho scorns a laugh, squeezing at Jisung’s hips. “Don’t be silly, Jisung. I wouldn’t kiss you like that if I did.”

“Like what?” he challenges, kissing along Minho’s cheek, feeling its coldness.

“Like this,” Minho falls for the bait, lifting his hand and using it to bring Jisung’s head back where he wants it. He kisses Jisung like he means it, and maybe he does.

Jisung hums as if he’s drunk, floating on the highest cloud there is. Flying through the stars to hunt for the dust he had been made of years and years ago.

“Mm, Jisung,” he feels Minho vibrate against his lips, sending shocks of pleasure to his brain. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“Who said that there’s enough of me,” Jisung gulps, biting on Minho’s bottom lip, filling it with red.

“I like you.”

A giggle, one more smooch to the corner of his mouth. “I like you too, hyung, you’re the best kisser.”

“No, Jisungie, you fool,” Minho grabs his chin to make Jisung face him. “I’m saying that I’m in love with you.”

“Oh,” Jisung’s pupils dilate and he blinks continuously to keep the droplets of rain out of his eyes.

“I am crazily in love with you.”

Ohmygod

. Jisung feels like throwing up. He stares at Minho, trying to look for some evidence, and of course he finds it dwelled deep in his facial features. Jisung might start sobbing again. “Hyung! I’m in love with you, too, I’m so in love with you,” he slides both of his hands up to cup Minho’s face. “So, so in love!”

Minho’s shoulders droop in relief. He beams at Jisung like a blooming flower swept away by the wind, and brings his mouth into another searing kiss to try and get a taste of his heart-shaped smile.

Their particles fuse and fly away, making one with the wind, creating a type of energy that isn’t meant to be destroyed. Not now, not ever. Not for as long as their hearts remain beating the same melodic beat in unplanned harmony.

“Thank you, Jisung-ah.” Minho tells his lips, the wetness of rain dragging each word.

Whispered confessions. Soft kisses. Purposeful touches.

Honey on a flower— heavy on its petals, a sugary coat on its stem, heedless of the malicious chance of breaking it.

They crash into each other, and Jisung regrets. Regrets regretting.

Chapter Text

The frigid air surrounding the pristine-white forest feels like a tight hug on Jisung’s uncovered skin.

Branches of pine trees hung low with the heaviness of snow blanketing them, some strong enough to become a mattress, others weakly parting ways to drop to the ground and rest there.

Jisung leans on the deck railing made out of log wood, enjoying a mug of hot cocoa in the early hours of this winter morning. The contrast between the crisp breeze gently whispering through tall conifers and the warmth of the chocolate-y drink oozing down his throat is something he has learnt to appreciate. Even if his fingertips burn and his cheeks sting and the hush of the forest presses on his eardrums.

He thinks he could get used to living here— away from the bustle of a busy city where the stars are hidden and the snowdrift by the side of the roads is a disgusting crusty gray.

Here, in the forest, the snow is powdery, blinding, untouched. It’s clean, freshly formed snowflakes dancing down every few moments, joining their relatives on the ground that had been covered days ago. They melt with the featherlight weight they carry, blending in with the others like they’ve always been meant to do.

Two ice crystals shaped as stellar dendrites get coaxed under the roof housing the balcony. Their written story ends when Jisung’s hot chocolate thaws them to a quick, hopefully painless death. He frowns, eyebrows meeting together in the middle. Huh.

As sad as that was, a lovely feeling blooms in Jisung’s chest cavity. He looks at the liquid swimming in the ceramic cup, then at the snow being a majority of what his eyes can make out of the landscape before him.

His mind circles back to a little under five years ago, when winter would rudely bite at his face during its peak in January, and walking little eight-year-old Rieon to school was a demand too high for him.

But now the times have changed, and little Rieon is not so little anymore. He’s thirteen, a big brother ready to expose his claws at any needed moment and a son his father is more than proud of. Jisung couldn’t have dared to wish for a better life.

A grounding hand suddenly wraps around his waist, fingers digging into the thickly-clothed skin. He doesn’t startle. His head instinctively leans back against the brawny shoulder, lifting his mug up to the other man’s lips.

“It’s probably gone cold,” he mutters, not wanting to disrupt the tranquillity that embraces them.

Minho takes a long sip, only stopping when he hears Jisung huff. He smiles to himself and lets his lover drink the final drop, which is the sweetest. Everyone’s favourite.

“When did you wake up?” Minho asks against Jisung’s cheek as he pecks him.

“An hour ago,” Jisung snakes his hand over Minho’s, resting it there to share his body warmth. “Missed me, hyung?” his neck turns to the side, their gaze locking. Jisung puckers his lips in the slightest bit.

“You know I did.”

They kiss softly. Minho breathes out warm air to unfreeze Jisung’s icy-cold face. He appreciates the effort, showing it by reaching his other hand up and tangling it in Minho’s distressed bed hair. He can feel the older purr with how his back is attached to his built chest.

“Good morning, baby.” Jisung makes a complaining noise in the back of his throat when Minho pulls away to speak, leaving him blushing.

Yes, they’ve been together for four years, married for one, and he still flushes fuchsia pink around his husband. So what?

“Mornin’,” he rubs his palm over the hand grasping at his ribs.

With Jisung and Minho, the weather is good even when it isn’t. Even when the snowflakes pick up their pace and the wind trashes everything around. Now that a snowstorm is about to hit, the two of them head back inside their bedroom through the sliding door of the chalet.

In two days, Minho is going to be thirty-five, and he desperately wanted to spend his birthday with the three most important humans present in his day to day life: his beautiful family.

So, Jisung booked a secluded chalet in the mountains for ten days.

“Did you sleep well?” Minho takes the mug and places it down on a table. He pinches the fabric of Jisung’s hoodie, dragging him towards the bed.

“Hyung!” In response, Jisung yips, not having expected that. Giggles explode in his tummy, lips parting to let them out. “Yes, I slept sooo well.” he climbs on top of him, knees on either side of his midriff.

Minho instantly wraps his hands around his waist, holding on tight while keeping his eyes on Jisung’s own.

“Me too,” he whispers. “Knocked out in seconds.”

Jisung falls forward, planting his elbows next to his head on the mattress so that they’re sharing the same air again. “Yeah? I tired you to the bone, hyungie?”

“Mhm,” Minho lifts his chin up to press his mouth against Jisung’s. “Your sex drive is no joke, sweets.”

“How can it not be high when my husband is you, Minho?” a smile plasters on his face, cheeks hunching up. He leans lower to rub the tip of his nose against Minho’s. “I’d be crazy.”

“Are the kids up yet?”

“Mm, no,”

“Hm,” Minho presses his palm to Jisung’s bare skin under his hoodie, thumb grazing over his navel.

“Don’t get any ideas.” Jisung leaves one last kiss on his top lip and gets off of him.

“Jisung,” he whines, trying to bring his body back but not tugging hard enough to do so. “Jisungie,”

“And you call me a horny bastard.” A laugh pushes itself out of his chest, hands swatting at Minho’s.

“I never called you a bastard,”

“Sure.”

“You are not a bastard. Horny? Yes, definitely, but not a bastard.” Minho turns serious.

“I get it, hyung.” Jisung’s eyes become crescent moons, a well-loved shape.

“Good. Are you hungry?”

“Kinda,”

They head downstairs, where the atmosphere is nicely quiet. The kitchenette is to the left, medium-sized with a marbled island in the middle. That’s where the four of them ate breakfast yesterday and ereyesterday. Jisung thinks that once they settle in their own house a few years from now (instead of living in his apartment back at the complex), their own cooking space will have one of those too, with high stools and a lowly-hung chandelier overhead.

“Fried eggs are alright?” Minho hurries towards the fridge, looking at all the food waiting to be cooked and used. They stocked up when they arrived two days ago, but if they do run out of things, there’s a grocery store an hour away. Of course, that’s just for emergencies. Jisung still doesn’t have his driver's license, keen on having his husband drive him around, and Minho himself isn’t a big fan of snow.

“More than.” Jisung watches the muscles of his back flex. He runs his gaze up and down, from Minho’s white socks to his messy hair.

“Gooey for Rieon and Dalrae, hard for us,” The man reminds himself, grabbing a pan from the drying rack and wiping the remnant droplets of water off with tissues.

“Hyung,”

“Yeah, baby?” He searches for the oil in one of the cupboards, pouring a bit of it in the pan once he’s found it. He lets it grow hot on the stove. Turns towards Jisung, who’s gnawing at his bottom lip.

“Kiss me.”

Minho shakes his head. He lets the four eggs fry and approaches Jisung with feline-like steps, mumbling a quiet, “so needy,” before diving in to eat the slice-of-mandarine-smile off Jisung’s lips.

Somehow, Jisung ends up perched on the counter with Minho claiming his spot in between his parted thighs. He feels his tongue gain consciousness for the one purpose to entwine with Minho’s, lure him in closer. A bee to a flower.

Though there’s no bee and no flower— it’s Lee Minho exploring the familiarity of Han Jisung, and he might taste like the result, like saccharine honey that pools where it drips.

He licks into his mouth, lapping at Minho’s delicately crooked teeth, sucking on his tongue until they share the same taste.

A door opens, then, and unfortunately it’s not one leading to a new opportunity (such as them two taking this to the bedroom), reality presenting itself to be much harsher. Jisung bites Minho’s lip to get him to move before one of their children enters the room and finds the two of them entangled next to the breakfast-in-the-making.

Jisung clears his throat, lifting the back of his hand up to wipe at his chin, saliva having smudged all over. He’s messy like that; it’s not his fault that he produces a lot of it, to the point of drooling in his sleep. Minho never minded it, in the present actually loving this tiny insecurity of Jisung’s.

“Appa?” Dalrae peeks from the corner, big eyes settling on her biological father at the stove and her second father who means just as much on the kitchen counter. “Good morning!”

“Hey,” Jisung jumps off, dabbing at himself to fix his pyjamas. “How’d you sleep, angel?”

“Amazing,” she rushes to hug him. Jisung coos, hand patting the top of her head. She’s matured so much.

Although she’s younger than Rieon by two years, she managed to grow taller than him. It’s lovely. Something sitting in the middle of Jisung’s chest jumps with joy.

“I’m glad. Appa is making us food, alright? It’ll be ready soon.” he says.

“Should I go wake Rieon up, then?”

“If you want to be kicked, sure,” Minho jokes from next to the window. He laughs under his breath like the loser he is. Jisung’s heart twitches again.

“Go try to wake your brother up, Dal. He wouldn’t want to miss breakfast.” Jisung runs his fingers through her slick-black long hair.

“On it!”

Dalrae runs off into the hallway, towards their bedrooms (which are on the ground floor, with the living room zone that has a big fireplace with tall windows covering the wall behind). Jisung sighs, clenches his jaw.

He finds himself standing behind Minho, chin coming to lay on the spot on his shoulder where Jisung single-handedly carved a home.

“My husband is the best,” he places a wet kiss on his ear, making sure to watch it gradually redden.

That’s frankly one of his favourite things about Minho. One amongst billions. He flushes so easily, not always on his face but his ears, down his neck to his pretty chest.

“My husband is.” Minho lamely retorts, turning the stove off. He pushes Jisung back with his butt, snorting at the gasp that unwillingly escapes him.

While Minho is grabbing some veggies from the fridge, Jisung sets up the table. Four plates.

“Careful there, babe. Don’t cut yourself.” His eyes focus on the veins popping along Minho’s pale arm, from where the short sleeve is cutting into his skin to his short fingers. God. His fingers.

“You’ll kiss it better if I do,”

“I’ll kiss you anyway, hyung.” Jisung solemnly says. To prove his own words, he hops on his tippy toes and pecks the corner of his mouth.

“Yuck! Dads are being disgusting again!” Rieon faux-gags as he walks inside, covering his sister’s eyes with his palm. Dalrae cries out, “dude, your hand is dirty!” and they start a banter only they know the meaning of.

Jisung chuckles. Pulls away from Minho— not before gifting him one last quick kiss to his nape— and sits down at the island, staring at the fried egg begging to be devoured. The kids follow, still shoving jokes back and forth. Minho is the last to join, bringing a big plateau with cut up vegetables and cheese.

“Eat well,” he sits next to his husband. “And good morning, Rieon.”

“Morning, Appa.” Rieon mumbles back with a full mouth. Dalrae playfully shoves him.

What a lovely little family they’ve built together.

-`ᯓ★´-

“Appa found someone he loves, bumblebee.”

“More than me?”

“No, never more than you.”

Rieon looked at his father, a questioning look spreading all over his gaze. “Someone like eomma?”

“Not quite,” Jisung crouched down and pushed some stray hair strands out of his son’s eyes. “It’s, uh, someone like me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s a man, Rieonie. Lee Minho.”

“Dalrae’s dad?” Rieon tilted his head.

“Yes.”

“Okay,”

“He makes me happy. I know that this might be hard for you to grasp now, and I am sorry for that, but hyung is a person I feel safe with. Do you think that’s okay with you? Appa making space in his heart for two more people?”

“I want appa to be happy,” the boy gave a curt nod.

“I love you, Rieon.”

“Do you love him too?”

“Yes.”

“I like Dalrae,” he smiled. “Is she my sister now? I’ve wanted a sister for so long!”

Jisung broke into a smile. He pulled Rieon into a hug and let one tear stride down his cheek.

“My daughter caught on. I didn’t even need to explain it to her. She seemed content with the news.” Minho reported the next day, on a rainy September morning, a week after Jisung’s 29th birthday.

“Rieon took it well too. I’m not sure he understands it yet, but I think he’ll get used to the idea soon. He said he’d like to have Dalrae as his sibling.” Jisung stopped in his tracks, turning around to stare at him. He continued, “I think it’s safe to assume that..”

Minho didn’t let him finish that. He surged forward to kiss Jisung right there, in the middle of the sidewalk, uncaring of wandering eyes. He squeezed his hand three times, then whispered, “I hold so much love for you, Jisung. I long for a serious relationship. With you. Only you.”

Jisung clung his free fingers to the growing hair on Minho’s nape. “We can make this work, hyung. I am so in love with you. It’s scary, and that feeling has been lingering in the back of my mind for so long, but I’m certain things will be okay.”

“We have the power to make them okay.”

Going from being a single father to having a boyfriend who also happened to be a single father altered Jisung’s brain chemistry in the best way possible, if you will.

In August, things looked unpromising. Minho and Jisung went on dates weekly, aiming to get to know more about each other. They hung out one-on-one, or sometimes with Rieon and Dalrae altogether.

In September, they both individually talked to their children, trying to see from their point of view. Their reactions had been positive.

In October, they made it official, letting the kids in to their private-but-not-secret relationship, showing them the love they shared for one another. They both were happy.

In December, the four of them spent Christmas together in Minho’s apartment, binging movies and playing with the tree cats.

They all moved into Jisung’s flat around a year after they met, after thoroughly scrutinizing how beautiful their relationship had been developing over the months. They were sure it would last.

And it did.

They got married in a cosy city situated in The Netherlands. Their wedding consisted of little but special people. Chan, Changbin, even Hyunjin, Felix, Seungmin, Jeongin. Both of their close families attended, happy out of their minds. Nari was there, too, with her husband and their son.

It was a success. A night to remember, with aromatic flowers everywhere and tasty cake. The surroundings had been beautiful too, the weather never disappointing.

Jisung swore to love Minho forever, and Minho swore to love Jisung forever.

-`ᯓ★´-

“Happy birthday, lover,” Jisung whispers against Minho’s philtrum, the fire before them casting shadows over their faces. It’s warm, the feeling of safety wrapping them in a serene bubble. The kids were waiting for the clock to hit twelve, but their bodies gave out, and they fell asleep snuggled together on the couch.

“Thank you, sweets.” Minho lets himself bask in the moment. He sneaks his hand to cup Jisung’s hot cheek, thumb rubbing at the skin under his eye.

“I love you so much.”

“I know,” he smiles. “I love you.”

They stay in silence for some more peaceful minutes, letting the fire die on its own. When it starts getting darker, they decide to go upstairs.

“They’ll get cold here during the night,” Minho jerks his head towards the sleeping children. “We should carry them to bed.”

Jisung princess-carries Dalrae to her bedroom while Minho gives Rieon a piggyback ride. They sleep in different rooms, the chalet big enough for their family. The cats would’ve definitely had space too, albeit given that they’re not as young anymore, it would've put unnecessary stress on their backs.

“Sleep well, Dal,” he kisses her forehead, tucking her in. She grabs a plush toy from next to the pillow and clashes it against her chest.

Minho meets Jisung at the start of the stairs. They climb up, hand in hand, and end in the bed wrapped in each other's embrace. And regardless of the fact that they’re far away from their apartment, Jisung feels at home, because he figured that this so-called home is wherever his family is.

“You’re perfect.” Minho rubs his nose against Jisung’s.

“You are,” Jisung steals a kiss.

It’s slow. Their mouths connect, plump top lip pressed over plump bottom lip, applying the scarcest tad of pressure. Jisung’s lips tingle the same way they do when he applies his favourite cherry scrub. He takes notice of the way Minho’s soft breath tickles his cheek, the area around his choco-chip mole that he’s learnt to love over the years.

Being with Minho is the easiest thing Jisung has done.

And comically enough, it all started with a mistake. An embarrassing occurrence that still has Jisung’s skin burn in flames whenever he thinks about it. Not because he regrets it— Minho has taught him not to regret things, hence they all happen for a reason— rather for the way he fumbled in front of the kindest, most beautiful man alive, who had a daughter.

Things happen, and Jisung has grown to cherish it when they do.

“Are you here?” Minho whispers in his mouth, turning his attention to Jisung’s cupid’s bow. He pecks it.

“Present,” he scoots closer on the mattress, right leg pushing its way between Minho’s insanely-muscular thighs. He feels the weight of the one on top, how it digs into his skin, better than a heavy blanket. “I was thinking about how much I love you.” Jisung adds for good measure. Bulldozes his face in the heat of Minho’s neck, where his veins pulsate under his flesh. He plants his lips over his jugular, not quite kissing, simply resting there. Taking in the smell of him.

Minho inhales a long breath, fingers enmeshing in Jisung’s hair. He twirls his thumb around a strand, making it curl, careful not to pull. He’s always so gentle. As if Jisung is precious porcelain.

“Hyung?”

“Mm?” his other hand slides up under Jisung’s shirt to settle in the deep dip of his waist. Over his tattoo that Minho helped design. Jisung has always wanted at least one, and he decided that carving Resplendent Life in ink on his skin was a thought worth pursuing.

“I’m so happy it’s you.”

“‘Course it’s me. I told you things work out in the end when they’re meant to, didn’t I? My baby.” Minho buries his face in Jisung’s hair.

“It’s us,” Jisung grins. His hand squeezes the fabric of Minho’s t-shirt, gripping onto his back.

“Yeah.”

“You and… me?”

“Always,” he kisses the top of his head, nudging him closer until there’s no more space to breathe.

“Good to know.”

“Mhm. Go to sleep, jagiya. You must be tired.”

Jisung nods, body deflating in relaxation. His limbs go limp, holding onto Minho just to feel his presence, let the sound of his heartbeat lull him into dreamland. He doesn’t have to keep his knuckles white anymore. He now knows Minho wouldn’t dare leave. Why was he ever afraid of that?

“G’night,” he murmurs against hot skin. Probably incomprehensible. Minho says it back anyway.

-`ᯓ★´-

“Noooo,” Rieon and Dalrae cry out at nine o’clock when they walk into the kitchen and find their father with a rainbow party hat sitting at the island, drinking tea instead of coffee (he and Jisung stopped consuming caffeine a year ago).

“Appa, I fell asleep!” Rieon hurries to Minho’s side, wrapping his hands around his torso to stick his face in his chest. “I’m sorry! Happy birthday!”

Minho is smiling so wide that his cheeks hurt. He aggressively messes up the boy’s hair. “It’s okay, Rieonie. You’re here now.”

“Happy birthday! I love you, Appa.” Dalrae walks on his other side to budge into the hug.

“I love you two, too.”

Jisung, who was spying on them from the hallway, walks inside and makes his presence known by shaking the two bags he’s carrying. “Hello hello, my beautiful husband and our precious kids,”

“Jisung-ah, leave the silliness on the outer side of the door,” Minho smirks, attempting to wink. He still can’t.

“Appa, good morning!” The siblings wave to Jisung.

“We’re all hungry, no?” He drops the bags on the table and crosses his arms over his chest, not missing the way Minho’s eyes land on his biceps that are bulging out from beneath his sleeves. “Hyung. Not that kind of hungry.” Jisung playfully scolds. Adds a roll of his eyes.

Dalrae makes a face. Rieon groans. Minho motions the action of flicking one’s forehead, but his ears are changing into beet red.

“I made pancakes. Who wants pancakes?”

“You?” Rieon’s eyes widen, lips curling downwards. “Appa, is this kitchen safe to stay in? Is it radioactive?”

Minho bursts into laughter, palms slapping the marble. It’s not even funny. Jisung puffs and huffs and bites back a whine.

“My pancakes are perfectly fine, thank you,” he shakes his head. He beelines for the kitchen counter, where a big covered platter is by the stove. Jisung pulls the napkin off. “Ta-da!”

“Those are crepes, and they don’t look radioactive,” Dalrae comments. “They actually look yummy.”

“That’s my girl!” Jisung sends a big smooch her way.

“Jagiya, please don’t poison me on my birthday.” Minho giggles in that airy tone of his that Jisung fell in love with. He can’t even pretend to be mad.

“Hhh! I’d never.”

“Then please bring those over here,” he nods in the crepes' direction, flat and circular and bigger than Jisung’s head. “This tummy wants to be filled.”

Jisung stomps on his tongue with his incisive teeth. He grabs the platter and two jars of jam, bringing the items over to where the birthday boy is.

Thirty-five, and he looks like a meal. Like he’s ageing backwards. Minho is— well, using ethereal wouldn’t do his otherworldly features justice. He’s so much more than a simple adjective.

“Minho gets served first,” Jisung nods to himself. The kids each climb up on the stools across from Minho, on their respective seats.

“Of course. I’m the prince today.”

“Princess,” Jisung corrects, landing a brief kiss on his temple after he’s done setting up four plates. “Dig in, your royalty.”

“Feed me.” Minho orders. Jisung narrows his eyes at him. Nonetheless, he sits down and grabs a crepe, spreading strawberry jam over it and rolling it up.

“Say ahh,”

“Ahh.”

Rieon gags, but it remains as background noise. Jisung focuses on the way Minho’s lips part, glistening with spit and raw from their little make-out-turned-into-more session earlier in the morning. He’s beautiful. He pushes the roll closer until Minho bites down onto it, humming appreciatively at the taste.

“See? Even your father likes it.” Jisung puts on a proud smile.

“I like it too, Appa,” Dalrae has apricot jam running down her chin. She’s already finished one. That means the mission was a success.

Jisung sneers. “Thank you, thank you. Please knock some sense into your brother.”

Minho chokes on the last bite, which leads Jisung to coo, take a tissue and wipe his mouth. “There, there, hyung-ah. So messy— ouch, don’t pinch me, you punk–! Hah!”

After they eat breakfast (the pancakes), Minho gets handed his gifts.

“It’s not much,” Jisung scratches at his nape.

“But thoughtful.” Minho cups the left side of his head and brings him into a quick kiss. To show that he’s grateful.

“But thoughtful,”

In the first bag under some crinkled tissue papers coloured pastel yellow is a white box. Long. Rectangular. Minho gasps when he turns it around and sees what’s written on it.

“An Apple watch?” he jerks his head, excitement definite all over his face.

“I figured you needed a new one.”

Dalrae croaks. “Can I have his last one?”

“Sorry angel, but no. It wouldn't work without a phone, and you’re not getting one until next year.”

And what Jisung says? It’s final. Both of the kids know it.

The focus moves back to Minho. He leaves the box on the side to set it up later, once he finds the time to.

In the second bag is a bracelet making kit. With colourful and alphabet beads. Minho appears to be surprised— not displeased, just taken off guard.

“Let’s get to work,” Jisung clasps his hands together.

“What?” Minho looks up at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“We’re making matchy bracelets, obviously."

“Us too?” Dalrae tilts her head as she asks, gesticulating to her and Rieon. She puckers her lips in thought.

“Of course! They’re for all of us. We’re family.” Jisung finally sits down next to his husband. “I thought this would be fun.”

“It is. I’m so excited.” Minho deadpans, but he doesn’t make it seem believable. Jisung knows that he is excited. He just shows it in his own weird way.

The package gets ripped open by the two kids, who are very cheerful at the idea of making bracelets.

Dalrae has done this at school in the past, when she was in elementary school. Rieon probably never.

“Oh! Wait,” Minho raises his finger in the air as if it possesses some sort of super power to make time freeze. It would be great if he did.

Jisung watches as he gets up to make way towards the oven, and when the door of it lowers to open, he gasps. “Hyung– when did you– Mads?”

“Madeleines!” Dalrae happily exclaims. Rieon whines. He’s more of a brownie guy, especially after his tastebuds came in contact with Felix’s homemade ones.

“In the morning, when you were napping.” Minho takes the tray out and places it next to the bags.

“I love you so much, ohmygod.”

“I love you.” he sits back down. The kids have already started analyzing the contents of the kit while eating.

“Dal, will you teach us how to work with this? I have no idea.” Jisung scrunches his nose, fixing the glasses sitting down the slope of it. He reaches for a madeleine and hums.

“You bought it, Appa..”

In the end, Dalrae does make use of her knowledge about making bracelets. She chooses pink for her own. Rieon uses green— he associates it with dinosaurs, and he loves those prehistoric creatures. He took that from Minho, probably. He’s a nerd when it comes to them. Knows all their names by heart.

Jisung chooses red for his, and Minho blue.

They get to work. Honestly; it’s a means of catharsis for Jisung. He does get frustrated when the beads keep slipping out of his grip, but he reminds himself that it’s not that deep.

The kids choose not to use the alphabet ones, not desiring anything written on their bracelets. Minho, however, has a light bulb over his head.

“See the ones with hearts? Let’s make promise bracelets, ‘Sung.” he happily suggests. “Like promise rings, but they’re bracelets.”

“That’s an amazing idea, hyung,” Jisung nods as he chews on his fourth mandarine-cake, looking for three specific letters. “Let’s do ‘you’.”

“Between two red hearts?”

“Brilliant.”

Once the beads are fixed in the right place on the four strings, Dalrae ties the knot for Rieon’s elastic string after he groans in impatience, and explains the steps vigilantly to her two fathers so they can do it on their own.

Now they’re spread out on the couch in the living room watching TV while eating mandarines in front of the fireplace. Jisung has been waiting for this moment since last winter— it’s what he looked most forward to.

Really. Enjoying Christmas movies (even though it’s far from Christmas) sandwiched between his husband and their two children as he fits a whole mandarine in his cheeks is a dream. It seemed unachievable back then, when he thought he’d die alone.

But now he’s certain.

“Your Mads were so good. I can’t believe we managed to eat them all in an hour.” Jisung pouts, leaning his head on the shoulder to his left. His thigh is warmly pressed against Minho’s.

“We’ve got vacuums for kids, jagi.” Minho laughs at his own joke, which causes Jisung to laugh, and in the end, all four of them fall into a giggling fit.

“Shut up and eat,” he raises a pulp to press it against Minho’s lips. Minho makes sure to flick his tongue over Jisung’s thumb.

“Hey!”

“Dads, please be silent for once,” Rieon scolds, head thrown back in disapproval. “I’m trying to enjoy the movie.”

“Mhm, I like it!” Dalrae nods.

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Jisung scoffs, wrapping his hands around Minho’s strong arm to cuddle into him, face hidden in warmth.

“How’s this guy’s house? We should move into one like that.” Minho points out.

The kids stare at the TV for what feels like a minute. Then, Dalrae exclaims, “neat!” and Jisung closes his eyes, more than content with his destiny.