How to Be Broken - sunflia2 (2024)

Chapter 1: The Taste of Freedom

Chapter Text

preface.

Love.

The concept of love is mythic: a fairy tale stuffed with inconsistencies and unrealistic consistencies that makes it nothing more than something only the children believe in.

Love in film paints a connection between a man and woman so exaggerated that it seems almost impossible to experience (spoiler: it is). A fading light one can only attempt to reach out to amidst all the darkness.

Love is a concept that Jisung Han doesn't understand, though he doesn't need to. Love has never been openly expressed in his life.

"I love you"sare baseless—foreign even.

A meaningless exchange of syllables spoken in order to induce a feeling of love that's never present to begin with. His family's hanging by a loose thread—constant back-and-forths between his mother (who claims she wishes she had never met his father), and his father (who claims that the feelings are mutual).

Yet in every photograph tucked neatly into a frame, they're smiling happily, as though they're in love.

Sure, as the years go by, the yearly 'family smiles' start to seem more unnatural, but the family is still there.

Jisung supposes that it's always been this way, since the fake, 'too-perfect' smiles seem to show up in his childhood photos as well.

Perfection. On the surface, the "Hans" are the perfect family.

They're wealthy, living on the wealthiest side of the neighborhood to fit a family of three. On the surface, his mother and his father are madly in love, dining out at the most expensive restaurants every chance they get.

Naturally, being in a perfect family, Jisung had a lot of practice with being perfect.

Perfection is a concept he knows far too well. In fact, what makes perfection so attainable is that as long as the imperfections can be hidden well enough, anyone can be perfect.

And for a while, Jisung believed he could hide all the imperfections away, stuff them in a box and lock them inside.

For a while, he thought that this perfection could never be tampered with.

❥ ❥ ❥

THE SUMMER OF 2006
Chris' House Party

❥ ❥ ❥

Life, for Jisung, is similar to being confined within the steel bars of a prison.

It's as if the universe has placed him on display; reminiscent of the first time his parents dragged him along to one of their dinners. He's a bird in a cage. His wings have been cruelly clipped eons ago, rendering him incapable of flying and soaring through the boundless skies.

Jisung is stuck, trapped. He can do nothing but stare at the endless abyss that is the empty expanse of his future. Graduate high-school, go to college, take on the fruitful wealths of the family business, marry a woman. The only freedom he has is his thoughts, but even then they are tainted by the constant reminder of the fact that he is a mere puppet.

Escape is futile—the door is locked—the windows are barricaded up thick: impenetrable.

Until now.

Perhaps it's the teenage hormones that are influencing this reckless behavior, but Jisung would prefer to call it "becoming a man".

Or—at least—that's what Felix Lee (his best friend of all time) calls it.

It starts on a typical, average night: a Wednesday night sat in the middle of an average Calfiornian summer recess. Felix Lee—spitfire in human form—somehow managed to drag Jisung from his "Rapunzel's Tower" of a home on Aurelia Drive. They'd slipped out the window, running on nothing but half a bag of Sour Patch Kids and pure adrenaline.

"It'll only be for an hour or two,"Felix had assured him."Good 'ol Daddy Han won't even know you're out."

The words had eased Jisung into the idea. The graspable prospect of freedom was so appealing that it was impossible for him to decline.

Now, the two are confined in the bathroom of Pepper's Pie Shop, run by Felix's mom, Pepper.

The bathroom's not the cleanest, similar to how the store isn't the cleanest, but Jisung's gotten used to the odd stench and walls in need of a new paint job. The walls are tinged yellow with age, the tile chipping. It smells of cheap air freshener and the occasional waft of freshly cooked pizza. It's no concern that there are more cracks in the linoleum dining floors than the concrete outside. Pepper's is a hole-in-the-wall type of joint, tucked away in the back alleys of a sketchy neighborhood. It's just how this side of town is.

A few times, when they were little, Jisung and Felix had sat on the cracked tiles of the floor, giggling and joking with one another. It's always when the diner's closed, the chairs propped up on the tables and the lights turned off.

He wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

And now, with his head leaned against the sink, eyes closed, it doesn't feel like much has changed.

"Oh–kay, 'S time to get you outta'that," Felix announces, voice muffled by the stick of gum between his lips, "and into something...hot."

Felix steps closer, kneeling down to eye-level and reaching over to fiddle with the buttons of Jisung's shirt. It's a pale blue button-down, paired with a pair of khaki slacks that his father had gifted him the year prior. According to Felix, the combination is "not hot."

Not that Jisung would know what is or isn't.

Felix tugs at the sleeves, sliding the shirt down and off Jisung's arms before tossing the material. The blond reaches down, sandy waves falling over his forehead as he rummages through the backpack that sits on the floor. He retrieves a black graphic tee.

"Arms," Felix orders.

Jisung lifts them obediently, allowing the shirt to be tugged down over his head and down his torso.

It's not long before the rest of his attire follows the same route, tossed haphazardly over the edge of the sink. Jisung's pants are soon replaced by a pair of acid-washed jeans, and his shoes are exchanged for a pair of scuffed, beaten combat boots.

Felix perches himself atop the sink's counter, painting his nails in cheap pastels from the dollar store.

Jisung envies Felix at times because Felix gets to do whatever he wants, unashamed,unabashed.

Perhaps it's this instead that induces his rebellious nature as he gets older—the unfulfilled desire to do something for himself rather than for the Han household name. The freedom and phoenix wings Felix experiences due to a liberal family is something Jisung could only dream of.

Felix blows lightly on his instant-drying polish, using his free hand to flip open his phone, "Ji, Chris says that the party's starting in fifteen. Hurry over here so I can doll you up!"

"Don't you dare put that weird black sh*t anywhere near my face," Jisung retorts, face contorted into a scowl. "I'm already dressing up like agirlfor you."

"Not like a girl Ji," Felix rolls his eyes, hopping off the counter, popping a bubble of pale pink gum, "like aman. And it's eyeliner, not 'weird black sh*t'. C'mere."

Then, it's Jisung's turn to sit on the cold counter, careful not to knock over the nail polish bottles.

"Hold still," Felix chides, a small brush in his hands, the tip coated in an oily liquid. He leans forward, holding Jisung's chin and gently applying the kohl along his waterline. "Look up."

Jisung obeys, glancing towards the ceiling and flickering fluorescent lights, eyes fluttering as he attempts to avoid the foreign sensation of the makeup.

Felix repeats the motion with the other eye before stepping back, appraising his work, "Mm...it's good! Now, for your hair..."

"What about it?" Jisung asks, brows furrowed.

"It's all..." Felix makes a gesture with his hands, mimicking a bird's nest. "Your mom would have a heart attack."

"Hey! I woke up like this."

"I know you did," Felix snorts, ruffling Jisung's hair playfully. "Now, let me fix it."

Felix reaches forward, smoothing the mussed strands back, parting them to the side. It takes all but an agonizing minute of letting Felix's fingers dance about in Jisung's thick, inky mess of strands.

"Ta-daa!" Felix sing-songs, ushering Jisung to face the mirror. "You look gorgeous."

And Felix isn't wrong, Jisungdoeslook gorgeous.

The 'eyeliner stuff' is smudged, similar to Felix's with glitter littering his eyelids. The beauty cascades across his face, his cheeks pinker than before and his lips sparkling with a pleasantly-scented gloss. Jisung can't remember the last time he's felt so pretty—and the thing is—heshouldn't.

Not with makeup on his face.

There's a juxtaposition within him that feels euphoric, his heart beating in his chest at an uncontrollable rate, bubbling with a co*cktail mixture of excitement and anticipation. When he was younger, he craved femininity—longedfor the one day he would be able to embrace femininity as Felix always did. And now, he sits in an outfit on the more feminine side with Felix's makeup materials all up in his face.

To say he's ecstatic would be an understatement.

His "perfect" parents would never approve.

Hell, he doesn't know himself how he made it this far without having a nervous breakdown from feeling inadequate. He's the perfect son, the perfect student. And now, he's breaking out, breaking free, and it feels....like his skin is being stripped from his bones and he's a live wire, an exposed nerve, and every ounce of energy is coursing through him, ready to explode.

It's a chance at beingcool.

Jisung Han, as of June 28th, 2006, does not fit in with the "cool kids".

This year, so many things are cool, and so out of reach its painful. He stands on the fringes, forever out-of-step with the teenagers his age, exiled from the "in" crowd for eternity.

Exhibit A: Parties.

Other than this party he's about to go to, Jisung hasn't been toanycasual parties, while his peers attend and talk about parties with ease. Sure, he's been to all of Felix's birthday parties (despite his parents not approving of the Lee family in the slightest), but that doesn't mean he has even asliverof experience with partying.

Jisung remembers Felix's thirteenth birthday in particular, when he had a mermaid-themed party at the waterpark and a vanilla cake with bright pink icing.

(Ah, the nostalgia of Felix's awfully-dyed red hair in a foolish attempt to cosplay Ariel at thirteen.)

Despite Felix almostdrowningand refusing to ride any of the waterslides after one of them led him into a six-foot pool at a height of five-feet, the party was a lot of fun. Fun to the point where Jisung's parents were even conversing with the other parents with those 'too-perfect' smiles.

Turns out it was way too good to be true, as when they were riding home, his mother and father had made it their duty to insult the Lees as much as possible.

Anyway, for this party, his parents will be nowhere to be seen. So maybe, justmaybe, Jisung will be able to experience a little bit of that freedom Felix experiences every day.

"Boys, you still in there? You two gotta leave before happy hour starts," Pepper (or Miss Pepper) shouts from the dining area. "Can't have minors in here when I'm passin' out alcohol."

"Just a sec' Mom!" Felix shouts back, "Ji's ogling at himself in the mirror!"

"I amnotogling at myself!" Jisung snaps, despite his gaze not budging from where they lay on his reflection in the mirror. "You don't think it's too much?"

Felix yanks Jisung down from the counter, a wide grin plastered on his face, "Ji, there's never 'too much'manliness. You wanna assert dominance, right? Like a sexy lion."

"Iguess..." Jisung hesitantly nods, packing his conservative clothes away in a small baggie. "Let's just go before I regret letting you color on my f*cking face."

"Yay!" Felix chirps, glancing at his phone once more. "Eli's outside! C'mon Ji, let's go have some fun!"

When Felix pushes open the door, Miss Pepper runs up to the two with a fond look on her face, a beer can in her right hand and a box of c-o-n-d-o-m-s in her left.

Jisung squints in confusion as the plump, freckled woman extends the box towards Jisung for him to take.

"Make sure you boys aresafeout there," Miss Pepper says sternly. "Don't go getting no STDs or getting no girls pregnant."

"What the—," Jisung glances towards Felix with pleading eyes, "whatarethese?"

Miss Pepper gasps in horror, taking a quick swig of her beer and handing the box to Felix instead. "Don't you worry about it Sung-ah. Oh, and don't tell your daddy I showed you these m'kay?"

"Okay...," Jisung swallows uncomfortably. It's not like he plans on telling his father any of the things that are going to happen tonight during his 'SAT study group'.

"C'mon Ji, let's go," Felix beams. He holds his hand out for Jisung to take and the both of them slip out of the shop. Not before Felix gets in his: "Bye Mom! Tell Dad I won't be home until eleven!", though.

Eli's car sits parked right in front of Pepper's—a cheap model that's surprisingly still functional after years of abuse—bearing the scars of reckless driving and much-needed repairs. Despite this, Felix wastes no time sliding into the front seat, leaving Jisung to hesitantly sit in the back.

He's familiar with Eli Anderson, Felix's boyfriend of around two months. But just in case it isn't clear enough, as soon as everyone's settled in the car, Felix pulls Eli into a kiss that seems to lastforever.

Obscene moans and soft gasps fill the car and it takes everything in Jisung not to scrunch his nose in disgust.

For someone who can't swim and is prone to drowning, Felix has no issue with drowning himself in Eli's slightly chapped lips.

And then, there's the moment the two separate.

Jisung watches, in what he assumes to be horror, as Felix slides his tongue along his lips, sucking a breath between his teeth and leaning in for another round.

Gross.

Eli is...what Jisung would call 'Felix Lee's Typical Picks', Brunet, athlete, and a closeted gay man with hom*ophobic athlete friends. How Felix is attracted to the walking, talking, spitting image of a red flag is beyond Jisung's comprehension.

"f*ck,babe," Felix gasps, a string of saliva stretching between his lips and Eli's, "Jisung's here. Save a lil' for the party, yeah?"

"Okay, okay," Eli groans, voice teetering off into a small chuckle. "You brought condoms?"

There's that word again,condom.

Jisung would ask what it means if not for the embarrassment of obliviousness creeping up his spine and the uncomfortably flirtatious atmosphere in the crampedness of the car. He may be an oblivious loser, but he doesn't want to look the part as well.

Chris' house is a modest little one-story on a corner lot. There are two cars parked in the driveway and two more along the curb—others parked in front of the neighboring houses. It's obvious by the faint sound of the music and the lights that stream from the windows that the party is in full swing.

Eli parks at the curb, killing the engine and the headlights.

Felix opens the passenger side door, stepping out and adjusting his jacket, "C'mon Ji, I promise you're gonna have fun."

Jisung follows suit, stepping onto the curb and tugging his own leather jacket around his frame. The "shirt" Felix lent him is alittletoo small where the bottom hem meets his waistline, exposing a silver of his pale stomach. Jisung can't even decipher the glittered hot pink lettering on his shirt, and hopes toGodit isn't obscene.

Eli comes up behind the two, a hand snaking around Felix's waist, pulling the blond closer. Jisung can only awkwardly stand off to the side as he watches the two exchange a kiss and a giggle before making their way towards the entrance.

The door swings open, and Jisung has never been more grateful for the darkness and the loud music that masks his entrance.

The vibes at Chris' weekend parties flow like a virus. They're drunken, loud, and full of life. Especially when the party's held at a house like this one—a generally cramped home leaving sweaty bodies pressed up against each other. Colors dance around in the living room, and alcohol stations can be found everywhere.

No one's here to just stall in the corners, but to dance and lip-lock from dusk to dawn, and that's what gives it life.

"You'll be okay by yourself, right?" Felix shouts over the blaring pop music, a hand cupped over his ear. "Eli and I are gonna' go get absolutely sh*tfaced. I can stay with you if you want, though."

"Nah," Jisung dismisses, shaking his head. "Go have fun with Eli."

"I'm serious Ji," Felix persists, a brow co*cked, "It's your first real party. Text me if you need anything, okay?"

"Alright," Jisung nods, pushing Felix towards Eli. "Nowgo. Enjoy yourselves."

With that, Felix is off, spreading his wings like the social butterfly he is. Unfortunately, that leaves Jisung on the sidelines, feeling stripped bare of his skin—peeled like a potato—but the bumpy and ugly ones. He's left standing by the entrance, feeling his body thrum to the beat of the music, watching partygoers sloppily grind on one another.

And...

Sixteen years of living and Jisung's unsure if the anxiety of being propelled into a high school party on his own has ever been this intense.

Perhaps the foreign nature of being among large quantities of alcohol along with evenlargercrowds triggers this unnameable anxious feeling. Or maybe it's the fact that he's new to the whole 'party thing'.

Or perhaps it's all of the above, or possibly none of them at all.

Jisung is a stranger, an outsider in the midst of a world he doesn't quite fit into.

The sudden tightness in his chest and the tears pricking his ears, Jisung knows, are far off what he deems as 'normal'. But all he needs to remember is that he's a man, a developing, strong, man—aHan. And Hansdon't cry.

When Jisung looks up from his scuffed-up Converse sneakers and an empty plastic red cup that's starting to crinkle under his fingers, he's hit with a wave of unfamiliar faces and a few familiar ones he remembers from the horrors of middle school.

He hasn't had a drink yet, but maybe he should. According to Felix and subpar high-school health classes, alcoholdoeshelp to calm the nerves.

Maybe the alcohol will help suppress the boiling anxiety in his chest.

"Getting a drink?"

Hell no, Jisung thinks to himself, his gaze running wild in search of the owner of the velvety, slightly drunken voice. On the verge of bursting out into anxious tears, someone justhasto speak to him. Great, f*cking great. So now he's going to embarrass the sh*t out of himself in front of this stranger and—

Holyf*ck. In the least-gay-way-possible, this stranger is beautiful.

(And vaguely familiar.)

"I-I—um—well I've never—," Jisung tries, but his voice easily gets swallowed up in the thick atmosphere. The stranger blinks at him, visibly confused (and it takes everything in Jisung not to break down on the spot). "Hi, I'm—I'm Jisung."

"Minho. Minho Lee," says Minho, his honeyed voice whirring into a high-pitched giggle. "Felix's cousin?"

"O–Oh," Jisung says dumbly. He's met Minho a couple of times, but the memories of kiddie birthday parties are so blurry, he can't quite recall.

All he knows is that Minho is beautiful and he can't seem to stop staring. Themanstanding before him is no longer a scrawny raven-haired, cat-obsessed boy with a missing tooth—no—he's grown into his features and is now a striking, handsome brunet with a sharp jawline, and equally sharp nose, and—

"You didn't answer my question though. Are you getting a drink?" Minho asks, his lip quirked ever-so-slightly.

"I'm not twenty-one," Jisung blurts out, as if attending the party is of legal age.

"Please,no onehere is," Minho laughs. It's a pretty sound that reminds Jisung of windchimes. "'M seventeen...so clearly not of age. How old are you?"

"Sixteen," Jisung squeaks, With his heart thudding against his ribs, Jisung stumbles alongside Minho to the nearest alcohol station.

He figures he should, even if he has no plans on getting a drink since (1) he doesn't want to be alone and (2) there's a familiarity in Minho that's not in the overwhelming clutches of the drunken crowd.

"Sixteen?Geez, you're a baby," Minho jokes as he fills a cup full of alcohol. "Pass me your cup, I'll pour you a lil'."

With a shaking hand, Jisung passes Minho his cup that would've likely been crushed under pressure otherwise. After filling what looks to be one-eighth of the cup with vodka, Minho grabs another cup and fills it full with water.

Jisung watches with confusion, but his nerves are the glue that seals his lips completely shut. How is one meant to talk to guys with tens-of-times better looks and tens-of-times less stuttering in their voice?

"Here," Minho throws Jisung a pretty smile, handing him the two cups filled with drinks. "Don't finish the alcohol until you've finished the water, 'kay?"

"Okay," Jisung nods, pressing the cup of vodka to his lips and sipping slowly. He almost gags when the vodka burns and scratches at the inside of his throat, an uncomfortable dryness left behind. "That—that was f*cking nasty."

Minho giggles yet again and Jisung swears he's starting to get addicted to the sound. "First time drinkin'?"

"Y–Yeah, it's my first time at a party, actually," Jisung admits. He glances down at his cup, swirling the alcohol around and watching it splash against the plastic. "Felix...um...Felix dragged me along."

"Ah, that checks out." The way Minho speaks, it'sterriblyobvious that he's drunk. "You look great by the way," he grins, slinking a hand around Jisung's waist (and Jisung hates how much he likes it). "Plan on getting laid? 'Cause there's a lot of hot guys here who would—"

Jisung's quick to interrupt, "I–I'm straight. Andsixteen."

"Oh," Minho's gaze flicks downwards, "well, it's just 'cause your shirt says...ahem; 'I'm sexier...with it off'; in hot-pink lettering...?"

Jisung's face pales, mortified. When Felix offered to lend Jisung some of his clothes, he wasn't expecting crop tops with obscene messaging.

Jisung issogoing to kill him.

"It's–I...It's not mine," Jisung stammers, face glowing as bright red as the plastic cup in his hands. "I'm uh...I...I'm—I'm sexier with iton."

Minho laughs, but not in a conniving way like he's poking fun at him. More in a,wow, what you said was pretty funny, kind of way. Jisung's not used to being 'funny'. He feels a little dumb, a little brain-dead, like the only thing in the entire world that matters is Minho. Minho's laugh. Minho finding him funny. Minho liking him. Minho wanting to be his friends. Minho—

"First, 'M sorry for assumin' your sexuality like that," Minho starts, his voice sincere. "Second, you should definitely wait 'til you're older. For y'know...sex."

"What are you, my mom?" Jisung jokes, the anxiousness in his body slowly starting to subside.

"I speak from experience," Minho corrects. He takes a sip of his own cup of liquor, gazing into the flood of partygoers. "Hey, you wanna' find a corner?"

Jisung furrows his brow. "Huh?"

"A corner," Minho says, as if it's obvious. He's already taking Jisung's hand, interlacing their fingers together. "To dance?"

Before Jisung can answer, he's being dragged through the crowd with Minho by his side. Sweaty, drunk-dancing teenagers press up against their bodies, and for a moment Jisung feels as though he can't breathe. Minho's close—nottooclose but with everyone pushing into each other, he feels as if he's closed in.

They're shoved to the far back corner. While everyone's busy dancing, grinding, and making out, Jisung's heart is hammering away in his chest.

"You know how to dance?" Minho asks, or—well—shouts over the 90's R&B music that blasts through the speakers. The music's so loud Jisung can feel it vibrating throughout his veins and dancing across his skin. "No? that's fine, I'll teach you."

Jisung tries his best to calculate how many rules he's broken right now.Dancing with a man?He's not exactly sober, wearing a cropped top, makeup, and dancing with another guy. Wow.

His parents would skin him alive if they saw him right now.

"Wait—"

He tries not to think about it.

"Dance," Minho whispers, his hot breath fanning over Jisung's ear. "I'm just gonna' guide you, okay?"

Jisung offers a small nod.

Dancing with Minho is liberating, his warm hands pulling Jisung into a tight embrace by the waist. Jisung adapts to Minho's expertise, arms slithering around Minho's neck and falling in step with the well-paced rhythm. All the scenery and people around them dissolve, almost in sync with how the anxiety does. It's Jisung and Minho alone, drinking shamelessly in the fruits of temptation, hips pressed flush against one another's.

He feels like he'sfloatingalmost, free as he rides the tides of pure rhythm and melody.

At one moment, he's staring at Minho the way he stared at himself in the mirror.God, Minho's gorgeous. Minho's all-perfect face is made up of prominent cheekbones with hints of glitter on them, glittery pink lips that are stuck in a permanent pout, and feline eyes hiding behind long eyelashes.

Minho's the moon, Jisung concludes. A pretty moon with a smile that could probably kill him.

It's almost...fever-dream-esque. Jisung's face is round, awkward, and riddled with acne. Minho looks like a damnsupermodel.

But don't get anything confused, Jisung swears oneverythingthat he's still straight. After all, straightness is all he's known, it's all he's accepted. It's not wrong to acknowledge when another man has facial features that seem too good to be true...bordering on anime-level unreal.

Then again, maybe it's the minimal amount of alcohol playing tricks on him, making him question his sexuality.

It'sdefinitelythe alcohol.

"You're staring," Minho points out, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Don't fall for me too fast, Jisung."

f*ck.

"I—I told you I'm straight," Jisung sputters out. He can only imagine how red his face is (and if it's anything similar to the red at the tips of Minho's ears, Jisung knows that he's f*cked).

Minho smirks—f*ckingsmirks, caressing the younger's cheek (and Jisung is just wondering what-the-f*ck is happening right now), "I was jokin', unless you're reconsidering."

Jisung gulps, his heart racing so fast it could leap from his chest. He doesn't quite understand what Minho means by that, let alone, he doesn't understandMinho. Nothing about Minho or the effects he has on Jisung's feelings is fathomable.

"Sorry," Jisung chokes out, backing away from Minho and pushing his way through the drunken crowd. He needs fresh air. Air that isn't clouded with sweat and alcohol.

He pushes through the sweaty mass of bodies with one destination in mind: Chris' front lawn, or anywhere outside where he canbreathe.

Once he's outside, he's met with the ten o'clock dark, night sky accompanied by the pitter-pattering of an incoming downpour. The music from the party is muffled but still audible from the outside of the house, though the screaming and drunken "singing" is drastically fainter. It's peaceful, really. Jisung's glad to finally be able to take in a breath of fresh air without having to choke on the scent of sweat, alcohol, and teenage hormones.

What feels like thirty seconds pass before the door swings open, Minho rushing towards him (and what thef*ck, can't a guy get a break out here?).

Minho's demeanor, however, is different. Instead of a co*cky smile slapped across his face, an apologetic expression pulls his brows together and leaves his mouth in a slight frown.

"Jisung, I—"

"Minho, please, can't you just leave me alone for a bit?" Jisung whines, a pout forming on his face.

"Jisung,hey, I'm sorry," Minho rushes out, taking the younger's hands into his own. "I didn't mean to come on you like that—um—it's the alcohol—I really wasn't f*cking thinking straight."

"It's not you," Jisung sighs, worrying his lower lip. It's still a bit hard to breathe—like there's a compression sleeve fastened around his neck.""It was just weird. I—Ifeltweird...because of you—but—but not 'cause you make me uncomfortable."

"So whatisit then?" Minho tilts his head in confusion.

"You—or the alcohol is confusing me. In a sorta' gay way."

"Oh."

Oh? All Minho can say is 'oh'? Jisung doesn't know what's worse: the fact that he's admitted to Minho that he makes him confusedorthe fact that he's feeling confused in the first place.

And to make matters evenworse, there's nowhere to run out here. There's no escape from what he's said or from how he feels.

Regardless, the long, drawn-out silence between them makes Jisung want to run and barricade himself in a bathroom...anyroom that keeps Minho from following him—

"I don't really know what to say," Minho scratches the back of his neck, "I like and I'vebeenwith guys and all...but I've never heard that I turn straight guys gay before."

(Cue the record-scratching sequence.)

"You'regay?" Jisung asks, eyes wide with disbelief. He's horrified, even more horrified by the fact thatthisis the man he has been hanging around for the past forty-five minutes, or however long it's been.

It all makes sense now. Minho coming up to him, pouring him a drinkjustso Jisung would loosen up—using that deadly charm of his to make Jisung feelweird thingshe shouldn't be feeling.

Everything starts to fall into place. From the weird question about getting laid, to asking him out to dance, all the way to being out here in the rain...stillplaying tricks on him!

Minho doesn't want to be Jisung's friend.

Minho wants something else, Jisung's sure of it.

"This is f*cking unbelievable," Jisung spits. An alcohol-influenced rage washes over him, pushing Minho with a force that leaves him stumbling. "You can be gay all you want butI—I'm not one of you. I'm gonna make my parents proud someday."

"Jisung—"

"No," Jisung interrupts, not knowing the answer as towhyhe's so angry. A raging inferno burns inside him, threatening to burn Minho as well. "I'm going back inside. Donotf*cking follow me."

And with that, Jisung storms back inside, thoughts running wild. He notices Felix who's drunkenly leaning onto Eli, pastel fingertips running along the hem of Eli's t-shirt, bedroom eyes unlocked, and making decent progress.

While Jisung has made none.

In fact, Jisung feels guilty for snapping at Minho the way he did. But is it really his fault? Minho was playing mind games and Jisung wasn't on board with playing them.

Drunk Jisung Han (as of June 28th, 2006)mightlike guys. Emphasis on 'drunk'.

He's a whirlwind of emotions and sensations, feeling more passionately connected to the music than he's ever been. Colors are vibrant, screaming at him. Lights blur into streaks, and sounds melt into a dissonant blend of pure chaos. His body feels both light and heavy, as if he's floating and anchored at the same time.

So...he's had a few more drinks, sue him. Felix persuaded him that this is theonenight out of a million that Jisung will have the chance to get absolutely sh*tfaced.

Naturally, he took Felix up on the offer to get one more drink. Then one turned into two, and two turned into three, and so forth.

Now, Jisung can confidently say (or, well, slur) that he's intoxicated past comprehension.

Amidst the chaotic atmosphere of the party, a group of tipsy teenagers (sponsored by Felix Lee) gather in a circle, forming a haphazard game of spin the bottle. Sober Jisung Han would've caught on to the immediate red flags, only being roped in by Felix's uncontested persuasion later down the line.

Drunk Jisung Han saysf*ck it.

The room spins around Jisung as he eagerly waits for his turn, his mind clouded by his drunken haze.

The bottle spins, clattering against the floor before finally coming to a stop, pointing directly at Jisung. The room erupts into boisterous laughter and cheers, their volume amplified by Jisung's amplified, drunken hearing. He grins foolishly, swaying on his feet as he tries to focus on the person the bottle has chosen.

It's a girl he vaguely recognizes from one of his classes—Gina, he thinks her name is. She's giggling uncontrollably, her cheeks tinged red from intoxication.

As he leans in, their lips meet in a clumsy collision. It's awkward andfarfrom uncoordinated. It's sloppy and short-lived, but it leaves Jisung feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and confusion.

Sober Jisung Han would be screaming: "I KISSED A GIRL!" from the rooftops. Drunk Jisung Han says...f*ck it.

"S your turn to spin da' bottle," Felix slurs, his 'S's coming out like snake hisses. "Spin, spin, spin!"

Jisung takes the bottle; goofy grin plastered on his face; and spins the bottle, watching it wobble and teeter before finally settling on a direction.

As the bottle slows down and points at someone, the room explodes into cheers and laughter once again. Jisung's blurry vision tries to focus on the person the bottle has chosen.

It's a guy this time,theguy. The Most Gorgeous Guy Jisung Has Ever Seen, Drunk or Sober: Minho Lee.

f*ck.And through his drunken haze, he wants to kiss him. So. Bad.

Throwing caution to the wind, Jisung stumbles forward, nearly losing his balance. Minho's eyes widen, likely shocked that Jisung is willing to go through with it. Jisung finds it cute...Minho looks like a startled cat right now.

Aw.

Although his stance is unsteady, Jisung manages to regain his footing and lean in for a kiss. The moment is filled with the same clumsiness as before, but lasts for a fraction of the time.

If his kiss with Gina was short, the kiss with Minho is...nothing.

Minho pushes Jisung back, his eyes still wide with surprise.

"I–I'm sorry, I jus' can't."

Jisung's heart sinks, the effects of alcohol further weighing him down. He stumbles backward, a mix of embarrassment and rejection plaguing his. His mind races, trying to comprehend what just happened and why Minho pulled away so abruptly.

What the f*ck?Confusion muddles his thoughts. Minho's words repeat in his mind as if he's trapped in a torturous echo chamber.

'I can't. I can't. I just can't...not with you.'

If being drunk feelsthissh*tty—heart ripped out and all—Jisung hopes that the feelings won't transfer into his hangover the following morning.

Chapter 2: Herbal Tea and Rice Cakes

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ ❥

THE SUMMER OF 2006
Brunch at Blossom Delights

In his entire sixteen years of living, Jisung Han had not gotten drunk, or even tasted alcoholonce.

There's a distinct reason why the law states that people mustn't drink until they're twenty-one or older. That reason is simply because teenagers are underdeveloped both psychologically and physically to deal with the jarring effect of alcohol.

As Jisung lies, curled up in Felix Lee's bed, he starts to understand the law a little more.

He awakes to a world of suffering, despite the morning light cheerily filtering through Felix's curtains.

Ugh.

A dull throb pounds incessantly inside his head, echoing with each beat of his heart. It's as if a thousand tiny hammers are hacking away, constructing his skull into a deformed sculpture. It hurts. The room spins around him—a nauseating carousel moving along a disoriented pathway.

What the hell happened last night?

A dryness envelops his mouth, his tongue swollen, and his throat paralleling that of a hot, Saharan desert.

Ugh...

Felix grumbles next to him, the two beyond cramped in his less-than-ideal sized bed. Jisung's sticky with sweat, uncomfortable with morning breath, and wounded from a splitting headache.

This morning couldn't getanyworse.

Oh.

Actually, it could.

Jisung's stomach churns with a malevolent force, as if a literal hurricane has taken residence within him. Waves of nausea crash against his hardly awake consciousness, spiking bile in his throat.

With the strength of an infant, he rolls over and stumbles off the bed, nearly taking a spill on the wooden floor below. He rushes into the adjacent bathroom, barely having enough time to fling open the toilet seat before his insides decide to evacuate.

Ew.

It's only after a few moments of vomiting into the toilet that Jisung is made hyperaware of the discomfort in his muscles. Every joint throbs with an inexplicable soreness, as if he'd been jumped the night before; subjected to a merciless marathon; or sparred in a grueling battle.

He then decides:Yeah, hangovers suck.

"Ugh," Jisung groans, clutching his head for dear life (lest he let go and it collapses into pieces).

"I was worried y'all two would be up to some foolishness," Miss Pepper comments, standing in the doorway with her hands glued to her hips. "But I was hopin' thatyou'dkeep Lix in check with the alcohol."

Jisung winces at the sound of Miss Pepper's voice, his headache intensifying as his ears cling to each word. He slowly lifts his head, squinting at her figure in the doorway. The room is still in its endless pirouette—his stomach still performing multiple cartwheels—making it difficult for Jisung to focus.

"Miss Pepper,sh*t," Jisung croaks, his voice hoarse. "They don't tell you that hangovers are this bad."

"Oh, dear," she says, her voice filled with concern. "Yeah, these are like things you gotta' go experience yourself. Hangovers can be quite brutal, 'specially if it's your first time."

Jisung shakes his head weakly. "Brutal" can't even begin to describe the pain he's in.

"No, I feel terrible," he mumbles. "I don't even remember what happened. How'd I get back here?"

Miss Pepper sighs and reaches out a comforting hand to Jisung's shoulder.

"Well, you and Felix got into some trouble last night," she explains gently. "Your momma' ain't gon' like the sound of that. 'Specially because the alcohol isn't agreeing with you at all. As for how you got back...Lix's dad picked y'all up at eleven-thirty or so."

Sounds about right. Jisung vaguely remembers hopping into Mr. Lee's Honda Civic, but everything else is foggy. There are pockets of memory here and there; like drinking with Felix; or kissing Gina; or—

Wait. He kissed someone?

Moreover, he kissed Gina Green? ThecheerleaderGina Green?

Sounds way too good to be true.

Jisung's heart is at freefall as he tries to piece together the events of the previous night. There's a co*cktail blend of regret, embarrassment, and physical pain brewing in his system.

"I'msosorry, Miss Pepper," he mutters, his voice filled with remorse. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble or worry you. I was being an idiot."

Miss Pepper gives him a sympathetic smile and pats his shoulder gently.

"Hey, it's nothin'. If I can deal with Felix, I can definitely handle you, dear," Miss Pepper jokes, grabbing a tissue to wipe the vomit from Jisung's mouth. "How 'bout you freshen up? I'll make some herbal tea for you boys."

Jisung nods and smiles back weakly. "Thank you so much."

Miss Pepper is not quite his mother-figure, but instead, the cool aunt who his mother hates solely for being cool and "chill" about everything. Had he been staring into his mother's eyes right now, he'd already have been skinned alive several times over.

It's moments like these where Jisung thanks God for cliché business trips that leaves his mother traveling throughout the summer.

And with his father drinking the days away, Jisung's had more freedom than ever.

It feelsgreat.

Plus, what his mother doesn't know, "won't hurt her" (as Felix once told him).

"Well, I'll leave you to it then," Miss Pepper says. "Make sure to use our essentialssparingly. Not everyone gotta' rich family to cover everythin'."

The bathroom door shuts with a clunky click, leaving Jisung to face his deformed reflection in the flimsy mirror that hardly hangs to the wall.

He looks likesh*t.

Jisung's eyes are bloodshot and swollen—framed by dark circles that accentuate his fatigue. His brows are eternally knit, leaving him in a pained expression that perfectly encapsulates the reaction to an unending migraine.

Even through his glossy gaze, as if a camera lens were left unfocused, Jisung notices the eternal bruising on his cheeks and chappedness of his lips. It's like...an oasis left dried out; a fish left to writhe and wither out on land.

Ugh.

After battling with his appearance for far too long (aggressively hand-combing through his disheveled hair and everything) and brushing the gunk out his teeth with a hardly awake Felix crammed into him, the two meet with Miss Pepper downstairs.

"Good morning, boys," Miss Pepper chirps, bringing their round of hot teas. "Hm...Lix you look worse for wear."

"Gee, thanks mom," Felix grumbles. He rolls his eyes before stumbling into a vacant bar-seat at the front counter. "It's not like Eli dumped me after we hooked up, or anything."

sh*t.

Jisung grimaces at Felix's words, his mind trailing back to the sexually charged events in Eli's car last night. He takes a seat beside Felix, cradling the warm cup of tea in his hands, hoping it'll dosomethingto calm the storm in his system.

"I'm sorry, Lix, I know he meant a lot to ya'," Miss Pepper says sincerely. Concern drips from her voice like a melting popsicle. "That ain't your fault though. He's a real loser."

Felix sighs and takes a sip of his tea, offering a defeated smile.

Jisung feels powerless, like a knight armed without his sword. There's virtually nothing he can do to soothe Felix's pain or repair his broken heart.

"It's not your fault, Mom," he mumbles, playing with the teabag string. "I should've known better. I just...I really liked Eli, and now he probably hates me."

Miss Pepper scoffs. "Who gives a sh*t what he thinks?"

"I do?" Felix frowns, his eyes trained to the murky tea water.

"No, you don't. He played with my baby's heart, the last thing I'ma let you do is worry abouthisthoughts," Miss Pepper retorts, folding her arms. "He's a—mind my language Sung-ah—but, a bitch."

"I f*ckin' hate him," Felix sobs. "Had the nerve to do it over text too."

"Ohnohe didn't!" Miss Pepper gasps, her expression growing more sour by the second. "Aw, baby, I'm so sorry."

Jisung watches as Felix's emotions spiral, unknowing of what to say.

He never really liked Eli per-se, but he didn'tdislike him either...not until he hurt Felix at least. One thing that Jisungisaware of though, is that going through a "f*ck-'n-dump" (coined by Felix) is the worst pain in the world.

Jisung almost hurtsforhim.

"I'm here for you, Lix," Jisung says softly. "You'll find someone better, I promise."

Felix looks up at Jisung, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He manages a small smile—one that's weak around the edges—and swipes his index finger at his waterline.

"Thanks, Jisung," he whispers, his voice cracking. "f*ck, I probably lookpathetic."

"Hey, stop sh*t-talkin' about my son," Miss Pepper scolds, flicking Felix's forehead. As Felix groans in pain, she continues: "I know what can cheer you up."

"It's hopeless," Felix complains. "There's absolutelynothingthat can make me feel better."

Miss Pepper co*cks a brow in amusem*nt, her hands rested on her hips. "Nothing?"

"Nothing at all," Felix insists.

"Not even Grandma's rice cakes? Hm?"

Felix's eyes widen. "Okay...maybeGrandma's rice cakes. Can we go?"

"I'll ask your father to take you. 'S been awhile since he's seen his momma'," Miss Pepper pauses, her gaze shifting to Jisung. "You goin' home Sung-ah? Or do you wanna' go for some rice cakes with Lix?"

Jisung considers his options for a moment.

Going home would mean facing his father, who would undoubtedly be obnoxious about his drunken escapades. It also meant the risk of his mother catching wind of the incident, all the way from Kentucky, and worsening Jisung's punishment.

On the flip side, spending time with Felix and enjoying some of his grandmother's rice cakes might help lift both their spirits during the battlefield of an alcoholic aftermath...known commonly as "the hangover."

The second option isclearlythe better of the two.

With a fatigued smile stretched across his face, Jisung beams:

And so here they are, filling a table beside the window and deliciously indulging in sticky, sweet rice cakes. The scent of freshly made rice cakes perfumes the air, mingling with the soft fragrance of brewing tea. As customers enter, the soft chime of a traditional bell greets them.

Blossom Delights is quaint and cozy, with wooden walls adorned with colorful traditional Korean tapestries and family photos. Dimly lit paper lanterns cast a warm glow in the central room (which is jam-packed with antique furniture).

The ambiance is surreal—like stepping into a time capsule where contemporary worries dissolve into thin air—and only the simple joy of rice cakes and company matters. It vaguely reminds Jisung of his childhood.

And the rice cakes are f*ckingdelicious.

The star of the show; the soul of the shop; is the assortment of rice cakes presented before them.

Platters of colorful desserts are splayed all over their table—some are shaped like vibrant flowers, others like adorable animals, or cut into simple shapes.

"f*ck, I needed this," Felix moans, his lips covered all over in a fruity jam. "This is literally the sh*t."

"Felix, language," Mr. Lee chastises, eyes trained to a newspaper.

"Dad, the words are only bad 'cause you make 'em," Felix retorts.

Mr. Lee chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "So, they're bad so long as you're under my roof."

Felix huffs. "Whatever."

Jisung listens along to their chatter, stuffing his mouth full of sickly sweet rice cakes. There's an uncomfortable, anxious feeling that ebbs away at his sanity, last night's events holding his mind captive. His memories are muddled—loose reccollections of kissing Gina, drinking far more than he should've, and speaking with a hot, male not-so stranger who's path he should've never crossed.

If he strains his memory enough, Jisungthinkshe may have said something harsh to the guy, whose name he can't quite remember.

"So, did you two have fun last night?" Mr. Lee asks, and suddenly the conversation is heading in Jisung's direction.

"Yeah Jisung," Felix teases, nudging him gently. "Did ya' havefunlast night?"

"I don't know what you mean by that," Jisung says in-between bites.

And he's notlying, or anything. Through the achy fog in his head, small gaps of memory all lead to extremely unpleasant events from the night before.

"Dad, him andMinhowere chattin' at the party," Felix says. Mr. Lee and Felix share a father-son look before bursting into a conjoined laughing fit.

To say the least, Jisung is perplexed. IsMinhothe guy from his dubious memory? He vaguely remembers hands on his waist, far too much alcohol in his system, and—

Jisung recoils ever-so-slightly, his memory flooding in like an unexpected tsunami on the ocean's shore. His stomach goes all topsy-turvy when he replays his encounter with Minho Lee in his mind. His insides bubble with resentment when Minho mentions the 'I'm sexier with it off'shirt that Felix offered him (under the pretense that it would besomanly). He's a little nauseous when recalls arguing with Minho, and even more nauseous when memories lead the bottle of Budweiser Beer bobbling on the ground, landing on Minho.

But healsoremembers his hands cupping the guy's face, ready to lean in for a f*ckingkiss,and then it all goes black.

That's as far as his memory goes. A cliffhanger. Does he end up locking lips with Minho, or not?

He was pretty hammered—and maybe his Hell-on-Earth hangover is a curse from God for kissing a man. Jisung almost throws up rice cake residue in his mouth.

Mr. Lee stifles an immature chuckle. "Uh-oh.That's the 'I just remembered everything from the night before' face."

"Felix. Come here," Jisung orders stiffly, grabbing his friend by the wrist. "Intervention. Now."

Jisung leads the two outside Blossom Delights, where a raggedy bench sits unevenly on the pavement. They sit down on either side of the wooden bench, their seat wobbling a bit.

"Did I kiss him?" Jisung asks. The question comes outsoserious, you'd think the entire world rests on the answer.

Felix blinks confusedly. "I don't know? I wasn't following you around like a lost pup' or anything. And I can't remember sh*t from Spin the Bottle."

"Seriously?!" Jisung's world might be over. He senses an Earth-shattering meteor from eons away. "Felix, I–I couldn't have. sh*t,neverlet me drink again."

Felix furrows his brows, a sympathetic look crossing his features. Even if Jisung is prone to making psuedo-hom*ophobic comments, and Felix is openly comfortable with his sexuality, his best friend understands Jisung's fears better than anyone. Or, Jisung hopes.

Being a hom*osexualisa scary thing. Jisung's mom says that hom*osexuals go to Hell.

"Jisung, I'm not gonna' promise you anything," Felix sighs, taking Jisung's hand and rubbing circles into his metacarpals. "But you could try asking Minho about it? Thisishis shop. Technically."

Huh? But this is Felix's grandmother's shop.

Oh.Oh.

"Minho's your...?" Jisung feels dizzy. He wishes his mind wouldn't conjure up Minho Lee's pretty smile as he introduced himself as Felix'scousinlast night.

"Cousin? Yeah. And Itoldyou this," Felix says matter-of-factly. "Numerous times. I mean, how many 'Minho Lee's do you think live in Marino Hills, Cali'? Seriously?"

(Minho Lee looksfardifferent from the little five year old who was quiet and mumbled about cats at Felix's every birthday party. You can't blame Jisung for not putting two and two together.)

Jisung picks at his lower lip. "I don't think that I was thinking that far."

"Clearly, dumdum," Felix laughs, pushing Jisung's forehead with a gentle palm. "Now, you good? Because I was in the middle of eating 'Heaven in food form'."

"Wait!" Jisung sits Felix back downjustas the blond attempts to stand up from his seat. "Should I talk to him? How do I talk to him? Like do I say...hey Minho, nice to see you again! My memory's sh*t, so, I just want to know if we kissed yesterday? Perhaps?"

Felix blinks dazedly, as if he hadn't been paying much attention. "Uh, yeah, that sounds great."

"Lix," Jisung whines. "This is serious!"

"Would itreallybe the end of the world if you did kiss him?" Felix asks, clearly not understanding the sheer gravity of the situation. "I mean, on no Alabama sh*t, but Minho's not a terrible looking guy."

"That's not the point." Jisung rolls his eyes. "My mom will skin me–f*cking–alive. And I'm not gay."

"Well, Momma' Han isn't here to skin you alive," Felix points out. "She's all the way in f*ckin' Kentucky with the cows 'n sh*t. Plus, if you're kissing guys, I have bad news for you, bestie."

Felix talks about sexuality as if it's the simplest thing ever. To Jisung, it couldn't be farther from simple. He's certain that he's uninterested in guys. Penises don't exactlyflatterhim. But Minho...he was different. Jisung can still loosely feel how his skin buzzed like a springtime honeybee when Minho spoke to him, drinking up the honey in his voice. And Minho isleaguesaway from being 'not a terrible looking guy'. He's beautiful. Unreal type beautiful. And Jisung can't want him.

Felix, noticing the awkward air that had time to fester, speaks up again. "Listen, I'm not accusing you of liking men. If you kissed him, I'm sure it was an accident—"

"That doesn't make it better—"

"Shh, listen." Felix places a finger to Jisung's lips. "Just talk to him. Scope out how he feels about it all, too. 'S not just about you."

Jisung frowns. "You have a point."

Felix grins, his ego blowing up like an inflatable balloon. "Of course I do. Now, can I go back to my comfort food?Pretty please?"

"Fine," Jisung sighs.

They return to their seats, surprised by the absense of Mr. Lee. As Jisung takes his seat, Felix co*cks a brow—one of those parental looks that your mother gives you when you forgot that you'resupposedto do something. Of course, in this hypothetical scenario, your mother is well aware that you havent gotten off your ass and is waiting for the moment to scold you for it.

"What?" Jisung asks, avoiding eye contact.

Felix eyes Jisung directly, then eyes something behind him. Jisung'saboutto look when Felix slaps his wrist with a whisper-yelled, "Sung. Do. Not. Look!"

"What?" Jisung echoes himself. He feels insane. Slightly.

"Minho Lee, six o'clock," Felix explains in a low whisper (and with his deep voice, it reallyislow). "Go get him, tiger."

"What?! No! Are you crazy?" Jisung has never sat in a chair faster, wincing at the ache that shoots through his butt. "What do I even say to him?!"

"Sung, say what we rehearsed outside!" Felix suggests as if it's the Most Obvious Thing Ever.

Newsflash, it'snot.

Jisung is quick to complain. "You weren't even listening!"

"Oh, who cares?" Felix scoffs. His hand flies into the air, waving around obnoxiously like he's one of those daytime drunks (his display accompanied with animalistic hollering). "Oh, Minho~?"

"Felix Lee. I willkillyou."

"Aw, how'd you know that I was into murder?" Felix coos, pinching Jisung's cheek. "Your boo's on his way F.Y.I., act natural."

"He isnotmy—"

"Felix, hey~," Minho beams, quick to engulf his cousin in a suffocating embrace. Jisung hates it,loatheshow his smooth-beating heart turns into a butterfly swarm once Minho smiles. "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing," Felix says with mock dismissal. "Just wanted to introduce you to Jisung! C'mon Sung, say hi~!"

Embarrassment is a funny phenomenon. It makes Jisung's hands all clammy, and his heart beat at a rapid pace. He feels the smallest he's ever felt, left to be scrutinized under a microscope for his every word.

Embarrassment is a funny thing. Jisung forgets how to speak.

"I–I...um," Jisung stammers, his face glowing ruby red.

"There's no need." Minho forces a smile with no teeth. He spares Jisung a tentative glance. "We...um, we met. Last night."

"Oh, did you now?" Felix asks in a tone far too high pitched for his natural register. "At the party, right?"

Jisung feels like a deer caught in headlights, his gaze fixated on his fidgeting hands. He isn't sure why he's fidgeting, he just is. "Yeah, um, we did."

"Oh!" Felix gasps in mock surprise. "Well, I'll leave you two to reminisce or whatever. I've gotta' make sure my dad isn't talking poor Grandma Lee's ears off."

Once Felix scampers off, the atmosphere stretches like a rubber band pulled taut—tense, like at any moment, it could snap. Jisung's heart is rabbiting in his chest, his voice lost somewhere in his throat as he and Minho stare at each other. It feels like some awkward standoff...one that Minho Lee's winning by a long shot.

"Hi," Minho greets, smiling dryly. If it's not the hangover that's visibly bothering him, it has to be something.

"Hi," Jisung parrots. His voice issoquiet, he can barely hear himself speak. "It's–um,uh–it's nice to see you."

Minho co*cks a skeptical brow. "Really? Do you evenrememberwhat you said last night?"

"No? Not really," Jisung mumbles. He's been rattling his brain for hints all morning, with only fragments of the night before puzzled together. "It's only small things that I remember."

"Oh yeah?" Minho seems unimpressed. "I'll jog your memory a bit. I was straightforward with you about my sexuality, 'nd you basically sh*t all over me with that 'I'm not one of you,' 'I'll make mommy and daddy proud,' bullsh*t."

Jisung's voice is knocked out of his lungs entirely, his lips parted into a small 'O'.I said that?he thinks, shaking his brain for memory as one would shake their piggy bank for spare change. Nothing. He'd love to backtrack on what he said—tell Minho that it's okay and that there's nothing wrong with him, but he can't. Minho is clearly hurt with how the pout on his lips deepens into a small frown. But Jisung isn't sure if he'd agree with himself telling Minho that there's nothing wrong with him. That having feelings for other men is "normal".

A fifty-ton weight drops in his stomach, anodized with guilt. Even if he stands by his beliefs, he hadn't meant to be so harsh to Minho. But the haze of alcohol had stripped him of his usual filter, exposing his deep-rooted fears. Now, faced with Minho's pain—hishurt, Jisung's heart clenches with empathy.

"Minho, I'm... I'm really sorry," Jisung stammers. "I didn't mean to say those things. I was drunk and stupid, y'know?"

"I don't want your apologies, Jisung," Minho sighs, collecting the empty plates from their table. "It means nothin' if you're going to say it again.Clearlythat's how mommy and daddy raised ya'."

Minho's words sting, overwhelming Jisung with guilt. Jisung swallows hard, a lump swelling in his throat. He hates that he can't find the right words; that his thoughts are still a jumbled mess of confusion; that he hurt Minho and doesn't know how to apologize.

How can he apologize for something he still doesn't fully understand himself?

"Is there any way I can make it up to you?" Jisung asks, his voice bordering a plead.

"Two ways," Minho hums. "One: go home educate yourself on mommy's fancy computer. Two: pick up some of these plates and help me out, will ya'?"

Jisung nods, relieved to at least have a chance to do something,anythingto mend the situation.

"Yeah, of course. I'll help."

He gathers some plates with rice cake residue smeared all over them, wincing a bit as the batter touches his fingers.Ew. Minho handles the cleanup situation with an abnormal amount of grace, swiping up the dirtied plates with ease. Jisung, to contrast, stumbles over tables with an awkward gait. Minho mocks him for that. He tries not to let his disgust show as he trails behind Minho into the back of the restaurant; his hands filled with plates; determined to get on Minho's good side.

Jisunghasto repair things between them.

Minho settles his stack of plates atop the counter, turning to Jisung with a cheeky grin.

He sighs dramatically—a quirk that reminds Jisung of Felix. "I've been washingall dayand my wrist hurts. Poor me. You mind taking over?"

Jisung suppresses a gag, the daunting task looming over him like an unfortunate curse. It's almost as bad as cleaning his room; and Jisungdoesn'tclean his room (he has a cleaning lady for that). Minho notices a sliver of discomfort painted on Jisung's face—hehasto with how his innocent grin stretches into a wide smile reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat.

Minho must be a sad*st. Jisung refuses to crumble under pressure.

Call him weird, but a part of him wants to prove Minho wrong?

"Sure...thing," he hesitates. "I mean, if you're inthatmuch pain, I guess I can sacrifice my delicate wrist for the cause."

Minho chuckles, handing over a rubber apron and motioning towards the sink area. "Wow, what a hero you are, Jisung. I'm truly touched by your sacrifice."

Minho rolls his eyes, leaning against the countertop and watching as Jisung slips the apron on. The older boy seems amused by Jisung's struggle with tying the knot—so amused, that he's not helping. He watches and laughs with his mouth covered by the sleeve of his sweater. Jisung would like to wipe that stupid smile off his stupid pretty face.

"I got it," he mutters, tugging the string into a tight knot.

Minho's eyebrows arch. "Congrats...you tied a piece of string."

Jisung pouts, ignoring the obvious dig. He rolls up his sleeves, approaching the sink with a reluctant sigh. He some flimsy plastic gloves that he hasn't had to wear since ninth grade science, feeling a bit out of place. He can't remember the last time he had to wash his own dish.

He looks at the mountain of dirty dishes with a grimace.

"You good?" Minho asks.

"Mhm, yep," Jisung nods, forcing a smile. "Good as ever."

Jisung picks up the first plate and holds it under the stream of water. The water splashes a bit, catching him off guard as he tries to find the right angle to prevent getting wet.

Of course, Minho mocks him for that as well. "It's just water!"he laughs.

"Yeah, I'm aware," Jisung snaps back.

With a tentative glance at the sponge, he swipes it across the surface of the plate, soap bubbles oozing from his awkward hand motions as he cleans.

It'ssobad, Minho has to step in.

"아이구[Oh my God]you're using too much soap," Minho scolds, shutting off the faucet. "Do youknowhow much dish soap costs in today's economy?"

"I—"

"No? Of course you don't," Minho interrupts. "Here, let me help you out."

Oh.Oh.

Jisung's heart does several somersaults as Minho's fingers brush against his, adjusting his grip on the sponge. And he's never handled gymnastics well. Minho's close proximity sends a jolt of electricity down his spine, and he's almost grateful for the apron concealing the incessant thumping of his heart. However, he can't escape the slight pink blush that dusts his cheeks, and Minho justhasto coo and point it out. Because he's a sad*st. And he's annoying like that.

"See, you've gotta be gentle," Minho explains, his voice softer now, breath warm against Jisung's ear. He moves Jisung's hand in deliberate circles, showing him how to scrub without using excessive force. "Or else you'll tire out too quickly."

Jisung's pulse quickens as Minho's guidance becomes a tactile lesson in more ways than one. He tries to focus on the dish in front of him, but it's hard to concentrate with Minho's bodysoclose, his hangover-brain turning into mush. The sensation of Minho's thumb brushing against his knuckles releases several butterflies in Jisung's belly—a sensation he can't quite explain.

"Got it?" Minho asks, his tone turning teasing again as he steps back slightly. Jisung finally feels like he can breathe again.

Jisung blinks, a little dazed. "Yeah, I think so. T–Thanks for showing me."

Chapter 3: The Lion's Den

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ ❥

THE SUMMER OF 2006
Ice Cream Mania

It's midday and the temperature has spiked into the nineties when Minho decides to take Jisung out for ice cream as a "reward".

There's a dull ache in his wrist, and his fingers are all pruny when Minho poses the question; and Jisung must've been high off rice cake air because he agrees with minimal hesitation.

It's not long before realization dawns on him: he isn't ready to spend time with Minho, alone. Not yet.

Jisung tries to drag Felix along with him—but the freckled traitor feigns a stomachache—forcing Jisung into the lion's den unarmored.

"You look uncomfortable," Minho points out as they're walking. He has a plastic, mini-fan pointed to his neck that does nothing to slow his sweating. "We're only going down the street. You'll be back with Lix soon. Drama Queen."

"It's like, a million degrees outside," Jisung complains. "And you've been torturing me all day."

"I wouldn't call ittorture," Minho says, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "I'm whippin' you into shape. You couldn't wash dishes before me. That's terrible."

Jisung rolls his eyes. "You're being a bit dramatic."

"Pot, kettle." Minho shrugs. There's a hint of teasing on his tongue when he says: "Drama Queen."

Minho's words only ring true as they continue walking down the street. The pavement practically radiates with heat, burning through Jisung's sneakers and sending his feet into a slow boil. In the distance, the air bends and shimmers, creating heatwaves that areunbearableto walk in. Jisung's steps are sluggish—dragged against the sidewalk—and he shoots an envious glance at Minho's mini-fan. He can't hold in an over-the-top groan, which pleases Minho's narrative as he (figuratively) adds jewels to his 'Drama Queen' crown.

Coupled with the throb in his head and the ache in his wrist, and Jisung is left undoubtedly cranky.

"You'rereallyenjoying that, aren't you?" Jisung grumbles, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

"Hey, survival of the fittest, my friend," Minho replies with a grin. "Only the strong can handle the heat and still keep their cool~."

"More like, only theinsane," Jisung mutters under his breath, earning a chuckle from Minho. A part of Jisung wants to lock it tight in a capsule so he can play the sound whenever he wants.

After what feels like an hour (that is really ten minutes), they reach the ice cream parlor—Smiley's—and Jisung is salivating as soon as the bell chime announces their entrance. The air conditioning wheezes with age, so it's not necissarilycoolwhen they step inside. Thankfully, the fans littered around the room turn the temperature pleasantly lukewarm. Jisung doesn't love it, but anything is better than facing the desert that awaits them outside.

Minho presses the pads of his fingers against the glass casing that shields the myriad of ice cream flavors. His eyes are as wide and round as tapioca pearls; he reminds Jisung of a small child in a candy store.

It's a little...adorable.

"Jisung. One: I can literallyfeelyou staring at me." Jisung has never pulled his eyes away from something or someoneso quickly. "Two: be a doll and recommend an ice cream flavor for me?"

Jisung feels like a hundred spotlights have landed on him, microphones in his face, paparazzi bombarding him with questions,everything.

"I–I...uh, what?"

"My god, you're hopeless," Minho teases. He motions toward the ice cream selections for emphasis. "Recommend a flavor. And don't tell me that the only ice cream you eat is gourmet."

"No, it–it's not!" Jisung insists, the stammer still evident in his voice. "I'm just surprised, is all. What if you don't like it?"

Minho laughs. "You care about what I like?" He dramatically places a hand to his chest. "Aw, I'mtouched."

Jisung blushes, his cheeks turning a shade of pink that matches the strawberry ice cream on display.

Avoiding Minho's playful gaze, he feigns nonchalance. "Don't flatter yourself. I just don't want to be responsible for ruining your ice cream experience."

Minho co*cks a brow, bemused. "Wow, Jisung, didn't know you were so invested in my ice cream choices. Alright, surprise me then. Pick something you think I'll like."

A nervous chuckle tumbles out of Jisung's lips before he can surpress it. His brain crackles with nerves, bordering on short-circuiting. There aresomany flavors lined up for Minho to enjoy—most of which Jisung's never heard of—and what if he picks the wrong one? He shouldn't carethismuch, but he does. It's some inner people-pleasing desire within him that he can't control.

Minho sighs, visibly impatient. "Jisung. What's your favorite flavor?"

"Huh?" Jisung's heart rabbits in his chest, skipping a beat or two. His mind races to catch up with the converstation, but coupled with the raging heat outside, he's lagging pathetically.

"What's your fav. flav'?" Minho repeats, a patient smile playing on his lips.

Jisung blinks dumbfoundedly. "Oh, uh...I–I guess I like vanilla. With sprinkles."

Minho giggles, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his nose scrunched. "Rainbow sprinkles, huh?"

There's no hiding the telltale blush on his cheeks when Jisung nods. It'sembarrasing, so banal and basic, and there's no way that Minho isn't internally mocking him right now.

"Sounds good to me." Minho smiles, beckoning over the disgruntled teen at the counter. "Can I get a vanilla scoop with sprinkles?"

The not-so-smiley 'Smiley's' worker gives Minho a half-assed grin, mumbling annoyed incoherencies before putting Minho's order together.

"Looks likesomeone'sin a sh*t mood," Minho scoffs mockingly. "Are you gonna' order somethin'?"

Jisung tenses before the front counter, almost as if he's lost control of his muscles. As if tattooed into his brain, the unhappy worker's face takes front and center in his mind. Hecan'tface that. Typically, he doesn't have to face anything at all. If not Felix, his parents do the talking at restaurants. What if he stammers? What if he makes a fool of himself? What if he forgets what he wants to order? Whatif—

"Jisung?"

The noise of the shop—the hum of the air conditioning, the croaks of the shoddy radio—feels overwhelming. Jisung can't concentrate. Sweat trickles down his neck, but he's not sure if it's from nerves or from the summertime heat. As he stands frozen, the seconds stretch into eternities, each tick of the clock a reminder that he's wasting time. Tick-Tock,Tick-Tock.Precious time. And Minho is impatient, so Minho will find him absolutely patheticand—

"Earth to Jisung?" Minho snaps his fingers, breaking through Jisung's mind gaze. "You good? Thought I was losin' ya' for a second."

Jisung's throat suddenly feelssodry. His words stick to his tongue like glue. "Oh, me? I'm fine. Just zoned out for a second. Let me—"

"No need." Minho interrupts. "I got you something. It's a lil'surprise, if you'd call it that."

What.What? "What?" If Jisung's brain was lagging before, it's full-on glitching now.

"Yeah," Minho offers a weak smile. He pauses to accept two ice cream cones from over the counter. "Strawberry. If I'm having your fav., you might as well have mine."

"You likestrawberryice cream?" Jisung gasps, mortified. "What if I don't like it?"

"More for me then," Minho says, a playful glint in his eyes. "Plus, most people who hate strawberry haven't even tried it. They just heard it's bad. It's not."

Jisung slams his mouth shut. Caught. Red. Handed. With his head bowed low, he accepts the strawberry cone—the scoop engrained with fruit bits and overflowing with strawberry syrup. It's a vibrant swirl of red amidst the dull pink and strawberry chunks.

"Thanks," he mumbles. Jisung can hardly hear his own voice. "You didn't have to."

"Minho's eyes go wide for a moment before flickering neutral. "Ah? It's nothin'. Plus, I kinda' hadto.You looked like a deer in headlights."

With the summer heat still bearing down, they find a seat near the window. The lukewarm air wraps around them, and Minho's ice cream spills all over his fingers—white streaks with rainbow specks painting Minho's slightly tanned skin.

　　Felix [12:43 pm]
　　Do NOT forget 2 ask Min abt the kiss ;-)
　　Hope you're enjoying the ice cream date LOL

　　Jisung [12:44 pm]
　　I hate you!!! SM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Are you gonna' eat that?" Minho asks with a brow raised. "Glad you're enjoying my presence somuch that you're textin' through it."

"Sorry." Jisung slams his phone shut. "It's Felix. He's being a little bitch."

"Oh, really?" Minho's brow raises further. "What'd he say?"

"Um," Jisung nervously laughs, his heart hammering nails into his chest. "Hewants me to askyouabout last night."

Minho's confusion only increases. "We talked about it already, no? You apologized for being an asshole and then—"

"N–Not that." Jisung draws in a breath. How does he evensaythis without being embarrassing?

Jisung screws his eyes shut. He can only begin to imagine the cherry-red that colors his cheeks. Still, deep down, he knows that he has to confront Minho. Heneedsto know the truth, and his sh*tty excuse for a hungover brain can't paint him the full picture.

With the hand that's not overflowing with strawberry ice cream, he grips his jeans. He jumps from the bridge.
　　
Jisung takes a slow breath. "I, uh. Well, I just... did we...y'know, kiss during Spin the Bottle?"

Minho blinks at Jisung, his ice cream cone momentarily forgotten. He can practicallyseethe gears turning in Minho's head as he tries to process the question. There aren't many moments where Jisung has witnessed Minho being caught off guard, but this is one of them.

"No," Minho finally answers, his brows knit with confusion. "We didn't...kiss during Spin the Bottle. Why?"

Jisung exhales a shaky breath, feeling the weight of embarrassment press into his shoulder blades.

"Oh, um, I just...I don't know. Felix was being all weirdly cryptic, and—um—I guess I just needed confirmation. Sorry for bringing it up."

Minho's confusion melts away to a soft smile as he reaches out to gently pat Jisung's arm. "No need to apologize, Jisung. For the record, if wehadkissed, I wouldn't have kept it a secret from you."

Jisung's heart flutters, making him slightly nauseous. "Thanks, Minho. I appreciate that. But..."

"But?" Minho tilts his head, full attention on Jisung.

"Why? Like–I–did you just not want to? With me?" Jisung stammers, watching as Minho grows evenmoreconfused. Someone kill him now.

"No?" Minho says as if it should be obvious. "You were drunk off your ass. Plus, you're straight, right?"

Suddenly, the room falls silent—sosilent, you could hear a pin drop and clink against marble flooring. In actuality, the shop is quiet. Somehow; there's an incessant echo of Minho's words that plays in Jisung's ears. 'You're straight, right?'The answer should be easy, right? He's always been straight; hell, he kissed Gina Green; that should make up for something, right? Regardless, his brain is a messy scramble of emotions and inconsistent thoughts that's impossible to articulate.

He's not a hom*osexual. He can't be. He accepts Felix as a hom*osexual...butbeinga hom*osexual is a scary thing. He can't go to Hell.

Jisung clears his throat, standing up from his seat. "Right. I–uh, I think we should head back now."

"Okay." Minho hums in agreement. "Sounds good to me."

Jisung ends up offering the rest of his ice cream to Minho as they walk back to Blossom Delights. He has no appetite. Part of it is because he's had far too much sugar from the rice cakes. Theotherpart is that thinking about Minho and potentially kissing him is driving him crazy. He wants to but he doesn't. Just to try it maybe? He never has to do it again. He can, but he can't. hom*osexuals go to hell. Jisung'sdelirious.Intrusive thoughts flood his mind with no way to stop the flow. He's wrestling with his emotions that are as sticky and tangled as the droplets of strawberry syrup on his fingers. He struggles, pressing flimsy wooden swords to blatant contradictions in his mind.

He wants to explore the possibility of kissing Minho, to feel the thrill of something that seems to lurkjustbeyond reach. Yet, at the same time, his mind is plagued with uncertainty, caught in the maelstrom of juxtaposition. He can't. He knows he can't. It's not normal.

Jisung wonders if he would dare to cross a line he had never even considered before. A part of him longs to take the plunge, to quench his curiosity and take a stolen taste of the forbidden. He toys with the thought of a fleeting moment—a kiss that might reveal something new about himself. And perhaps, once that curiosity was satiated, he could tuck it away, a mere memory to recall at will. No one has to know about it. He'd never do it again.

Nausea swirls within him, akin to a tempestuous whirlwind. These thoughts, they're not normal. Not about another man. It's like he's caught in a storm—one with no clear end in sight.

　　Jisung [1:05 pm]
　　We NEED to talk. ASAP
　　
　　Felix [1:06 pm]
　　Kk. Dad will drive us home.
　　We can chat in my room ;-)

Jisung's realization appears as a gnarled thorn that's been insidiously woven into the fabric of his identity. Odd. Weird. Disgusting. Abnormal. It's the sharp pang of guilt that emerges uninvited—the shame cast over desires that should be kept hidden. It's the fear of his hungover reflection in the mirror, the fear that the mirror might whisper back a truth that society deems unacceptable. A hom*osexual. Something he absolutely, unequivocally cannot be.

'Plus, you're straight, right?'Jisung feels thick, green bile lap at the back of his throat. He could throw up.

Jisung's heart clings to the sentiments he grew up with—conservative beliefs that construct the foundation of his family. Being a hom*osexual is dirty. Being a hom*osexual is wrong. Being a hom*osexual isimperfect.

"Shut. Up!" Felix squeals, engulfing his friend in a hug. "Sung, you know what this means, right? You could totally bebi."

Jisung laughs dryly, suffocating in Felix's embrace.It's filthy, it's wrong and I shouldn't—"I don't–um–I don't think so."

"Jisung, you just told me that you were thinkin' about locking lips with Minho," Felix says matter-of-factly. "You can't be straight and have the hots forMinho Leeof all people."

With an awkward smile, Jisung attempts to brush off the weight of his conflicting emotions. He tries to muster a lighthearted chuckle, but it sounds strained even to his own ears.

"Yeah, well, I mean, people joke about stuff like that, right?" Jisung's voice wavers as he struggles to maintain the façade. It's ajoke. Totally. His laugh is dry in his throat. "I'm just hungover. And not thinking straight."

Felix's eyes squint slightly, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Jisung,c'mon. I know when you're joking and when you're serious. This isn't a joke, is it? No takebacks."

Jisung's gaze falters, avoiding Felix's penetrating stare. He fidgets, fingers nervously tracing the edge of his shirt. "Look, Lix, it's just...I've never thought about this stuff seriously before. It's probably just a phase or something. I like girls."

"Sung...is this about your parents?" Felix asks, his voice tentative as if he's tiptoeing around a pulsating nerve. "It's okay to like both. Girls and guys."

"Lix, stop," Jisung sighs defeatedly. "It's not. My parents will f*ckin' kill me. So–so–so, no it's not okay. It's not normal."

"Ouch." Felix dramatically clutches his chest. "I would argue that it'ssonormal to like guys. Somanlytoo. Two men in one setting—sheesh!"

That pulls a more genuine laugh from Jisung's lips, lightening the mood. "You're not serious. Liking guys is the most un-manly sh*t I've ever heard of."

Felix rolls his eyes. "Ignoring that. Anyway, when you get over all'at wannabe straight sh*t, I'm sure you two could have agreattime."

(Cue Felix doing the most obnoxious finger-in-hole gesture. Ever.)

"Felix Lee!" Jisung growls, hitting the blond repeatedly with a pillow. "I. Do. Not. Like. Minho!"

"You think he's cute though," Felix retorts, "morethan cute. You forget that I know you 'nd I know that there's something there."

Jisung can deny it all he wants, but the way his heart clenches at the thought of something more being between him and Felix's hot cousin tells him all he needs to know. And heruinedit. Let all the indescribable connection between them catch fire, with Jisung being the one to set the flame.

"Even if there was something, I ruined it all at that party. And I wassoawkward today," Jisung sighs, finding comfort in Felix's cluttered bed. "He probably doesn't want anything to do with me."

(And Jisung hates how saying that aloud makes his heart ache.)

"Aw...Sung, that's not true," Felix insists. "You're like,sohis type. Minho's just a tsundere at heart. He likes to act like he doesn't give a sh*t. But he does."

Jisung groans. "And what the hell am I supposed to do with this information?"

"Let him be your gay awakening, duh," Felix says. "I can put my matchmaking skills to good use!"

"Felix, no," Jisung scoffs. "Matchmake me with a hot chick, not a guy with a dick."

"Absolutely not." Felix folds his arms. "You need to explore these feelings while Momma' Han is too far away to kill you over 'em."

There's still a huge elephant in the room. "Okay, what about my dad?"

"The alcoholic? He probably won't give a sh*t," Felix says with a shrug. "Comeon. Just see where things go with Minho. It's like a limited time offer."

"You didnotjust refer to your cousin as a 'limited time offer'."

"Okay, okay,fine. Not a limited time offer. Let's call it an 'exclusive opportunity' instead."

Jisung lets out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head at Felix's antics. "You're impossible, you know that?"

Felix shrugs nonchalantly. "Hey, I'm just trying to help you out. And honestly, I think you're overthinkin' it. Just be yourself, and if something's meant to happen with Minho, it will."

Jisung props himself up on his elbows, looking at Felix with apprehension painted on his face. "You'rereallysure about this?"

"Sung, I've known you for a long time. You're my best friend, and I wanna' see you happy," Felix says with a small smile. "If there's any time to explore your feelings, it's now. You know that."

Jisung sighs. "I guess you're right. But it's easier said than done."

Felix pats Jisung's shoulder reassuringly. "Of course it is. But you've got the bestest best friend to support you! And who knows, maybe this journey will help you understand yourself better."

Jisung's mind is a chaotic mess of contradicting emotions. He's terrified and uncertain, yet Felix's words provide him with a sense of calm. Jisung isn't sure if he's ready for this—whatever this may be—but somewhere in the midst of Jisung's conflicting emotions, Felix is right.

"I just wish it wasn't so complicated," Jisung mumbles.

Felix offers him a gentle smile. "Life's never really simple, is it? But that's what makes it interesting."

"Ugh," Jisung groans. "I hate that you're right."

CLICK!

Jisung's heart thrums in his chest like an electric guitar at a rock concert. It's so silent, that he can hear the echoes of his shoes as he steps into his home, riddled with anticipative fear. The hallway is dimly lit with the exception of the sunset's orange glows bleeding through slits in the curtains.I was supposed to be home hours ago; I was supposed to be home since morning.

The halls are draped in an eerie quiet. It's so silent, that Jisung can hear his own unsteady breaths as he kicks off his shoes—the jingle of his keys as he pockets them. It's unusually silent. Too silent.

"Dad?" Jisung calls into the darkness that soaks the house in murky tones. No response. "Miss Celine?"

A shiver traces the contours of Jisung's spine as he ventures further into the dimness, his every step a tentative display of uncertainty. Jisung's stomach twists into knots—a bundle of nerves that tightens by the second. If he strains his ears, he can very loosely hear drunken grumbles in the distance.

sh*t.

As he enters the living room, his gaze falls upon his father laid slouched in an armchair, bathing in dim shadows. The pungent scent of Jack Daniel's wafts in the air, intermingling with the tension that hangs heavy. The tension is pulled taut, like it could snap any moment.

"Dad," Jisung's voice wavers as he approaches his cautiously, his fingers trembling at his sides. His father's glassy eyes turn towards him, a gross burp tumbling out of his throat.Ew.

"Who're you?" his father slurs, voice dripping with annoyance.

"It's me, Jisung, your son," he replies softly, his heart silently cracking at the sight of his father's disheveled state. Soimperfect.The man before him is an enigma—a stranger buried in the aftermath of his own sins.

His father's brow furrows as he squints at Jisung, as if trying to piece together the puzzle pieces of reality.

"You're home late," his father grumbles. He caresses Jisung's cheek with a sweaty palm. "Was worried about ya'."

Jisung swallows harshly. "Dad, you've been drinking again. Let's get you to bed."

A mirthless chuckle escapes his father's lips, stained with bitterness. "You sound like your mother. Blah,blah, blah. You think you can control me? Huh?!"

"Dad," Jisung pleads. "Stop."

"Who're you tellin' to stop?Huh?" his father asks in a threatening tone, sitting up in the armchair. "You ain't grown! This ain't your house!"

Jisung's heart tightens, compressed by his father's words alone. "Dad, I know you're upset. But—but, this isn't—this isn't good for you."

"Don't tell me what's good for me, you little sh*t!" his father roars. Jisung stumbles back, distancing himself from his father. "It ain't good for you to be outta' the house all day, but you do it anyway!"

"I'm sorry," Jisung squeaks. He could throw up the rice cakes from noon right now. He could.

His father's laugh is bitter and harsh. "Youabandonedme, just like your mother did!"

Tears prick at the corners of Jisung's eyes, but he blinks them away. He can't let his father's words cut him too deeply; he's already bleeding from the puncture in his heart.

"I didn't abandon youI—"

"Jisung, you are all I have," his father grabs his face, thumbing at his cheeks in smooth circles (that feel like daggers against his skin). "You're such a good kid, hm? Such a good son. And when you go on and have your kids, you'll make mesoproud."

Jisung suddenly can't breathe. "What? What are you talking about—no, what are you saying?"

An amused laugh barrels out of Jisung's throat, but nothing is funny. Jisung's heart races, his mind frantically trying to comprehend the absurdity of his father's words whilst acknowledging the irony of his words now more than ever. Panic pulses through his veins—the pieces of his day in direct conflict with his father's interests. Could he know? That his son is a filthy sinner?

"Dad, you're drunk. You don't know what you're saying," Jisung stammers, attempting to pull away from his father's grasp.

His father's grip only tightens, and a manic smile creeps across his lips. "You'll understand one day, Jisung. When you have your own little family, you'll know what it's like to be a father. Aman."

Jisung's breath catches, and he shakes his head vehemently. "Please let me go to my room."

Jisung hardly waits for a reply, because in the next second he's slipping from his father's grasp and darting towards his bedroom—teary-eyed, and all. He slams his door shut, locks it, then spends the next minute or so laying against the door, exhaling labored breaths.

He sinks to the floor, his back pressed against the door as tears stream down his cheeks. It hurts. It hurtssomuch. Jisung thought he could keep his sins hidden, bury them deep within himself and pretend they didn't exist. But his father's words have ripped open fresh wounds, exposing the ugly truth to the world.

It wouldn't hurt so much if he were unequivocally straight. Like he claims.

Perhaps he's not. Maybe, he's just like Felix and Minho—a hom*osexual—and maybe, he'llnevermake his parents proud.

It's erratic, how he rushes from the floor to his computer, typing frantically into the search engine.

Boys liking boys...|

Is being gay a sin? Bible verse...|

Bisexual definition...|

The computer screen blinds Jisung's eyes with a truth he doesn't want to acknowledge. A truth that cannot be real. A truth that he cannot deny. His fingers tremble as he scrolls through articles, personal stories, and forums that resonate with his feelings. Feelings he shouldn't want. Feelings he shouldn'thave.

Chapter 4: Summer Turned Homicidal

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ ❥

THE SUMMER OF 2006
Fourth of July Party

After fivewholedays of moping in his bedroom and lurking on chatrooms for gay teenagers, Felix manages to coax Jisung out of his balmy covers, into some half-decent clothes, and to Pacific Shores Mall.

According to Felix, there's a huge Fourth of July party being held at Chris', and that's too great of an opportunity to pass up on.

"Listen Ji," Felix says, rummaging through racks of H&M's Clearance section. "It'scrucialthat we dress to impress this time around. Eli–f*ckin'–Anderson is gonna' be there."

"Yeah," Jisung hums. He loosely scans through clothes he'll never wear. "Why do I care about Eli A. again?"

"Uh, only 'cause he isthebiggest douche of '06?" Felix says matter-of-factly. "Plus, Minho'll be there. If that means anything."

Jisung inhales sharply. His voice holds a tinge of skepticism as he insists: "It doesn't."

For the past five days, it's been uncomfortable for Jisung to exist within his own skin. His sinning, vermilion flesh threatens to burst from bisque skin, brimming with a reality he still can't confront confidently. Bisexual. From his research, he's certain that the term encapsulates his feelings perfectly: simultaneously attracted to women and men. Still, it doesn't feel right—being attracted tomendoesn't feel right—even if it's beyond his control.

Minho Lee has been on his mind...alot.The subtle, crooked curve that tugs on his lips, his attentive gaze through long eyelashes, the phantom of his hands slotted to Jisung's waist—something that sends arctic shivers down his spine. His heart flutters around Minho Lee like a mesmerized firefly, drawn to the enigmatic glow he emits.

It's a little nauseating. Jisung doesn't want to admit his Minho-concerned feelings to anyone but the anonymous teens in PlanetOut chatrooms.

As Felix thumbs through a row of graphic tees, he glances over at Jisung with a knowing look.

"C'mon, Sung, I can see through that lil' act of yours. It totally does mean something," Felix says with a teasing glint in his voice. "Think about it: I get to show Eli what he's missin' andyouget to let Minho be your gay awakening."

Jisung sighs into his palms. "Please, stop saying 'gay awakening'."

Felix pauses in his shopping spree, peering at Jisung with a raised brow. "Ji, y'know...I thought you'd be fine after I gave you some space. What's going on?"

"It's nothing," Jisung mumbles, busying himself with faux-interest in H&M's Clearance section.

"It'snotnothing." Felix's eyes remain fixed on Jisung, concern evident on his features. "C'mon, talk to me."

Jisung sighs once more, entirely defeated. Opening up about his feelings is like stepping into uncharted territory. Jisung's not ready. Not yet.

"Felix. It's nothing. Drop it."

"Fine," Felix says flatly, picking a top from the rack. "I'll drop it, for now. But if you don't want me to be annoying about it, you gotta' lighten up."

Jisung offers up a half-smile, one too perfect around the edges to be genuine. "I know you're just trying to help, Lix. It's just a bit complicated."

"Which is why I won't push," Felix reassures. He squeezes Jisung's shoulder ever-so-softly. "You talk to me about it when you're ready, 'kay?"

"'Kay."

Hold yourself together, Jisung.

Sure, uncovering the secrets of his identity buried under the dirt of his upbringing is...comforting. It's relieving to have the answers to his confusion in the palm of his trembling hand. In the same breath, being potentially bisexual is scary. It's terrifying.

Now that he has the truth, what is he to do with it? How is he supposed to accept the fact that his brain is rewiring—molding into a new shape that's in opposition to the principles he grew up with?

Is he supposed to be complacent with Hell?

"Jisung Han," Felix scolds, whacking him with a hanger. "Get out of those thoughts. Now. D'yawantto go to Chris' all mopey 'n sh*t?"

"Sorry," Jisung mutters under his breath. "I promise that'll be the last time."

"Good." Felix gives him a reassuring smile. "Now, back to business. Let's find you somethin' that'll make jaws drop. Including mine."

Jisung chuckles nervously, but he lets Felix guide him toward a rack of well-fitted jeans and other denim items—a vast difference from the typical khakis that his mother subjects him to. As they continue shopping, Felix keeps the conversation light, sharing stories and cracking jokes to ease the tension. Gradually, Jisung begins to relax, his thoughts temporarily shifting away from the blatant confusion within.

Perhaps a party would be a good thing for Jisung. After all, he's in desperate need of a distraction.

Felix pauses browsing to hold up a denim jacket, a mischievous grin plastered on his face. "How about this? I'm thinkin' we crop it 'n glue rhinestones that spell out: S.E.X.Y~."

"Foryou, correct?" Jisung asks worriedly. "I'm hardly sexy."

"Sung, it's for you, duh." Felix shoves the jacket into Jisung's arms. "I'mnot the one in need of a closet upgrade."

"Fine, but no rhinestones," Jisung retorts, though he can't help the amusem*nt that tugs at his lips. "I don't do rhinestones."

Felix rolls his eyes. "That kind of thinking will hold you back, Jisung. Anyone can rock rhinestones."

Jisung can feign disinterest all he wants, but deep down, his inner child is squealing to be bedazzled; embellished in jewels; like the Disney princesses he and Felix grew upobsessedwith. There's that craving again, that guilty pleasure honing an insatiable appetite to be feminine—to be pretty—and while Jisung can acknowledge the long list of sins he's committed, he can't deny his temptations wholly.

He can't help but feel at war with his inner child, with his desires, and with what his parents have instilled to him.

Jisung, you're a man.

And while you may not be one-hundred-percent straight, you might as well be masculine.

Feminine guys aren't normal. And people will think you look so stupid. So, so, stupid.

What will your parents think? What will God think?—

"Jisung, what happened to no zoning out?" Felix chastises, flicking Jisung's forehead. "We're dazzling you up whether you like it or not. 'S time you step out of your comfort zone."

"Ow! Was Chris' first party not enough?" Jisung whines, rubbing the ache away. "I wore a...crop top...for you, Lix!"

"Yeah, and you almost scored one of the hottest hom*os in Marino Hills," Felix counters. He latches a hand around Jisung's wrist and pulls him to the dressing rooms. "No complaining, try it on. Now."

"Fine, Mom," Jisung scoffs with an eyeroll snatching the denim jacket from Felix's grasp and locking himself into a dressing room.

Here goes nothing.

Jisung stuffs his arms through the sleeves, pleased at how smoothly the fabric fits onto his frame. It fits too perfectly, and Jisung's marveling as he imagines the jacket croppedjustat his waist, dazzling in the night with glitter and pearls glued onto the fabric.

In the next second, he realizes he shouldn't be.

He shouldn't be thinking about pairing a cropped jacket with one of Felix's bold, cropped t-shirts.

He shouldn't be thinking how his waist would be outlined so well and soprettilyonce the outfit-to-be is in its final stages.

He shouldn't be feeling pretty over a fantasy.

He shouldn't feel pretty. Point blank. He shouldn't wonder ifMinho'llfind him pretty. Jisung's stomach reels at the fleeting thought, entirely unwelcome to his consciousness but finding residence regardless.

Saliva balls in Jisung's mouth, earning a nervous gulp from him. Is this right?

KNOCK! KNOCK!

"Jisung, is everything alright in there?" Felix asks, knocking on the stall door. "Does it fit?"

"Y–Yeah, it fits," Jisung croaks.

"Could you see my vision? With it all cropped and cute 'n sh*t?" Felix taunts, encumbering Jisung's brain with even more thoughts.Pretty. I could be pretty. And it's wrong but what if—"Earth to Jisung?"

"Oh–uh, yeah!" Jisung laughs nervously. He throws the jacket off. "It's perfect, Lix."

"Great!" Felix squeals, clapping his hands on delight. "Now let's get home so I can fix it up in time for Chris'!"

"Got it."

Sometimes, the most effective way to refrain from screwing up is to begin with a mistake. Maybethisis the mistake: the makeup, the femininity, the alcohol, the boys, the fashion sense.

Jisung slows his ever-quickening breath. After this party, heneverhas to do any of this again.

Jisung isnotfine.

He barely pushes through the crowd of sweaty teenagers before he makes it to the toilet, spilling his guts out with tears brimming his eyes. Something about the crowd of people and the overwhelmingly loud shouts leaves waves of anxiety washing over his trembling, slightly intoxicated body.

What the hell is happening to him?

"f*ck," Jisung pants, cringing at the distasteful sight. "Is this how it feels when you start—. f*cking—.Dying?"

Jisung sputters a bit more into the toilet, the world spinning around him whilst the loud music vibrates in his ears. His mascara is ruined by now with how hard he's sobbing as he clutches the toilet, vision blurred and head heavy. Jisung feels like an absolute wreck—barely lasting a little over an hour at Chris' Fourth of July party.

It's hard to catch his breath with how terror paralyzes his body, leaving his lungs little room to open up for air. He wonders how even when he's by himself, he still feels as though he's suffocating in the midst of a loud, sweaty crowd.

He barely manages to type out an 'SOS' to Felix's phone, hoping to God that he doesn't die right here, right now. Because he totally could.

Just breathe Jisung, his brain supplies;It's just a party, Jisung. You're okay, you're okay.

"Jisung?"

f*ck. That'snotFelix. In fact, he knows exactly who it is.

Jisung clutches his chest, sucking in his lower lip in an attempt to muffle his rapid breaths. He's unable to stop himself from trembling as he tries to stand up from the low crouch he was in only moments prior. Embarrassing. f*cking embarrassing.

Through his blurred and teary vision, Jisung can barely make out the details in Minho's face that makes him recognizable. But he knows it's Minho. It's only been around a week, so Jisungdefinitelyremembers how Minho's distinct honeyed voice sounds.

"Woah—sh*t," Minho starts, though to Jisung it sounds distant, muffled even. It's as if Minho is underwater trying to speak to him. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Jisung says through a choked sob. He's not fine, but he feels like he'll do anything to stop the twisting and turning of his heart from just hearing the sincerity in Minho's voice. "I'mokay."

"You're lyin'," Minho counters, slight slur in his voice. He then holds up a phone, Felix's phone that shows his 'SOS' message on full display. "He's sh*tfaced, and using Chris to f*ck with Eli."

"Oh." Jisung turns to the sink to wash his hands. "Well, I'm okay now. It wasjust—I don't know what it was—but it's over."

An unreadable expression paints Minho's face. "Are you sure you wanna' go back out there? You look a little shaken...and pale. Do you even wanna' be here?"

"I do!" Jisung argues. What does Minho know? "Felix put my outfit together, and I need a distraction. Bad. This is the funnest thing ever!"

With a huff, Jisung pushes past Minho to open the door, but that intense feeling of worry spreads from his fingertips to his whole body before he can even crack the door open. The fear is suffocating, eating his body whole, holding it captive. He whimpers, turning to Minho, who's confused expression doesn't make the situation any better.

So. f*cking.Embarrassing.

"I–I can't," Jisung whispers, looking down at his fingers that have started to fidget with the doorknob.

A moment of silence draws out between them, long and painfully embarrassing for Jisung. He's sixteen and his body is reacting negatively to a party, flinching at every pop of the fireworks.

"Do you wanna' get out of here?" Minho asks, caution lacing his tone. "Get some fresh air?"

"And gowhere?" Jisung asks. He fully blames his lack of reluctance on the alcohol he chugged down on a dare. He's unfamiliar of many locations on this side of town other than Chris' house and Pepper's Pies (a.k.a. Felix's place).

"We could go to the roof?" Minho proposes. "It's pretty chill up there—not that I want to do anything—but it might make you feel better."

It sounds to good to be true; to the point where it's laughable. Minho should be weirded out by him, Minho should want absolutely nothing to do with him after everything. Jisung is rude and pathetic and awkward. Yet here he is, proposing that the two go to the roof together where Jisung will likely feel a lot calmer.

"I'm afraid of heights," Jisung throws Minho a sincere smile. "But thanks."

Before he can leave, Minho grabs his wrist, placing Felix's phone into his pocket. "You seem more afraid of what'sin therethan the heights. Plus, we can escape through the window~."

Jisung glances at Minho nervously, feeling the cold night air blowing through a window left slightly ajar. Electricity crackles between their skin contact, and Jisung's slightly inebriated brain wants nothing more but to run into the obscure with Minho Lee.

"I'll go," Jisung smiles. "Thank you."

Minho hums, cracking open the window, "It's nothing. Let's just hurry b'fore someone comes in with no decency lookin' to get off."

Jisung wants to ask what Minho means but doesn't, instead watching as Minho opens the window further to climb through and out of the boisterous house. He follows almost instantly, the rush of doing something rebellious and "non-perfect" feeling akin to how he felt when Felix dolled him up for Chris' first party.

Even now, dressed in low waisted, baggy jeans with a cropped 'S.E.X.Y' jacket, and a more appropriate cropped shirt leaves his insides bubbling with something that feels akin tomagic.

He doesn't worry about how his skin will scar from crawling out on the concrete, or how his father will freak out upon seeing his son's hungover self tumbling into the house the following morning. Jisung doesn't care anymore. The liberation of doing what he wants and not feeling suffocated by the party allows him to throwallhis worries away.

"Wow," Jisung gasps, smiling hard. "This feels a lot better than I thought it would."

"Maybe because you're not crying and throwing up?" Minho jokes. Jisung's heart does an uncomfortably hard thump in his chest when his eyes meet Minho's warm smile.

"No...it's more of just," Jisung pauses in-between drunken giggles, "...it feels freeing you know?"

"Well, itisthe Fourth of July," Minho notes, helping Jisung into the roof. "Land of the free?"

Amidst the chaos of Fourth of July festivities, Chris' rooftop is surprisingly calm. The cool breeze carries the distant sounds of laughter, music, and fireworks, creating an atmosphere of celebration—but instead of being in the middle of it, Jisung's viewing it from a high vantage point. The night sky is sprinkled with stars, their faint glimmers intermittently outshone by bursts of colorful fireworks that paint the darkness in garish glows.

With his hand slotted in Minho's, Jisung realizes thatthisis what he needed all night.

"I wish it couldalwaysfeel this free," Jisung says, exaggerating his pronunciation. "Like I can do anythin' I want in the whole world~!"

"It could," Minho remarks. "If you'd stop being such a puss* about everythin'."

"Hey!" Jisung slaps Minho's arm, more drunken laughs tumbling from his lips. "And here I was startin' to think you'renicerwhen you're drunk."

"I'm always nice," Minho scoffs. "I just saved you, no? Aren't I your hero?"

"Nope." Jisung shakes his head. "If being corny was a superpower, maybe."

"Hey, 'corny' is the code word for 'charming', okay?" Minho retorts, giving Jisung's hand a playful squeeze. "Somethin' tells me you don't entirely hate it."

Jisung giggles as if it's the only action his body can perform well. "And what if I don't?"

Minho gulps, like he wants to say something, but can't. "Um, I—it'd be an ego boost, for sure."

"Aw~," Jisung coos. "Who's the puss* now? Say what you were gonna' say."

"Fine,fine," Minho concedes, his ears tinted with a faint blush. "It was more of a thought...and it was completely unrelated."

"Still," Jisung insists. "Tell me."

Minho's lips curl into a half-smile, his eyes flickering from Jisung's eyes to his lips. "I was gonna' say... you havenoidea how badly I've wanted to do this."

And with that, Minho captures Jisung's lips in a gentle and almost hesitant kiss, the fireworks painting the sky with bursts of color mirroring the explosion of emotions within him.What the f*ck? What the f*ck?! What the f*ck!Jisung tenses, sitting beside Minho as if he's transformed into a stone statue, unmoving and unresponsive.

"Minho." Jisung gently pushes Minho back, anxiety pulsing in his fingertips. "It's not...um...it's not like that."

Out of panic, Jisung scoots away from Minho on the roof. He traces the outline of Minho's kiss on his lips, his fingers quivering with fear. His parents would be so disappointed,everyonewould be so disappointed. And through his drunken haze and visionary daze, everything feels so real.

"Jisung..wait," Minho tries, sounding more desperate he's ever sounded. He approaches Jisung cautiously, an apologetic expression on his face, "Don't go–f*ck–I'm sorry."

When his gaze fully meets Minho's, Jisung notices how glassy the older's eyes and how red his nose is.Is Minho about to cry?This is not what Jisung wants at all, no, he just wants to cut off anything before it gets messy (but it seems like he's far too late).

"I–I'm gonna' be honest," Minho starts, voice repeatedly cracking. "I'm into you, Jisung. A lot more than I should be and...and I'm sorry for confusing you. About everything."

(Cue the record-scratching sequence.)

Not even the best fortune teller could've seen this coming. Plot twist if the century, Minho beinginterestedin him?

"But, I told you I was s–straight," Jisung stammers. The words don't even sound truthful coming from his mouth. "You—you can't keep f*ckin' up like this. I can't like you like that, I'm not...y'know."

"Youcan'tor youdon't?" Minho raises a brow, doing nothing to quell the nerves that run amok in Jisung's system.

"I–I don't know!" Jisung cries, shooing away Minho's attempts at calming him down. "Stop confusing me! Please!"

"I'm sorry, I'm just tryingto—"

"Well stop! Just f*cking stop!" Jisung shouts.

It's alltoomuch, and Jisung can't take it anymore.

In a split second of confusion and anger, Jisung's frustration boils over. He pushes Minho away from him with all his might, and the world seems to slow down as he watches Minho stumble backward. Time stretches as if it were suspended, and Jisung's heart races in his chest. Then, with a horrifying realization, he witnesses Minho teeter on the edge of the roof, struggling to maintain balance.

Minho's body tips over the edge.

It's as if the sounds of the celebration have been sucked out of the air, leaving a haunting silence in their place. Jisung's eyes widen, his mind unable to process the horror of what he's just done.

THUD!

For a few breathless moments, Jisung remains rooted to the spot, his heart pounding so loudly he can hear it in his ears.

Jisung scrambles to the edge of the roof, peering over the side to see if Minho's alright. A fifty-ton weight replaces his heart when he spots Minho lying motionless on the ground below. Panic surges through Jisung's veins, his mind struggling to figure out what to do next.

BEEP! BEEP!

Each passing second in the bleak hospital only adds to the recurring nightmare that takes residence in Jisung's brain. There's a long list of distinct reasons why the law forbids teenagers from alcohol access. As Jisung sits by Minho's bedside, he starts to understand the law a little more. Guilt wraps around him like a compression device, squeezing tighter with every beep of the heart monitor.

Minho had been lucky, the doctors said. Broken leg, stitches here and there, nasty bruises, and a mild concussion—but he would recover.

Perhaps that's why Felix Lee couldn't carelessabout the well-being of his cousin.

"What the f*ck? My phone's cracked," Felix complains, inspecting his phone's battered state. "I'm never letting Minho near my stuff again!"

Miss Pepper sighs, rubbing soothing circles into her son's back. "Lix, we'll get you a new phone soon.Minho'sin a hospital bed."

"Yeah, but he'll live," Felix whines. "This was my first camera phone, Mom! All of my memories are gone!"

Jisung allows their voices to fade to a distant buzz, unable to shake off the memories from the night before that torment his mind. He's ignored his father's calls and texts because of it, and he's doing a pretty decent job at ignoring both his fatigue and hangover symptoms as well.

Minho's in a hospital bed. And it's my fault.

Jisung's fingers tremble as he reaches out to hold Minho's hand, a tiny spark of warmth in the hospital room. He's not sure how to fix this, how to make things right between them. Every time he looks at Minho, all he sees is the fall, all he hears is the sound of Minho's body hitting the ground.

He hasn't brought himself to tell anyone thathe'sat fault for Minho's injury, instead playing it off as a drunken fall from the roof. It pumps him full of more guilt; but how would he even begin to explain what happened? He could'vekilledMinho.

"Jisung," Miss Pepper calls, momentarily snapping Jisung out of his incessant nightmare. "We're going to grab some breakfast. You comin'?"

"I'm not hungry," Jisung declines politely, unable to pull his eyes away from Minho. "I'll wait for Minho to wake up."

Felix eyes Jisung with a suspicious look. "Uh...okay Sung. Call me—! Wait, actually, you can't. Because a soon-to-be dead mankilledmy phone!"

Jisung laughs dryly. "It's okay. I'll be here when you get back."

"Get some rest, Sung-ah," Miss Pepper says with a sympathetic smile. "Minho'll be just fine."

Jisung nods faintly, offering a small smile in return.

As the door clicks shut and the others leave the room, the hospital's suffocating atmosphere seems to close in on Jisung.

Each beep of the heart monitor is a taunting reminder of what he'd done to Minho, who's still unmoving in the hospital bed. Sure, it was an accident, but one that could've beenfatal—and it would've been over something as trivial as a kiss. They were drunk. Minho would've never kissed him sober, Jisung knows that. He only wishes that Drunk Jisung was equipped with that knowledge before frantically pushing Minho off the roof.

The room is quiet, save for the occasional distant sounds of footsteps and hushed conversations echoing through the corridor. The guilt continues to gnaw away at his belly, and he wonders if he'll ever find a way to make amends for what he's done.

Could Minhoeverforgive him? Jisung wouldn't.

Minutes stretch into half-hours, and the sun's rays cast soft shadows across the room as it starts to rise into midday. In the meantime, Jisung faced his monstrous reflection in the mirror, brushed the odor from his mouth, and slapped some water on his face to keep awake.

When he returns to Minho, the brunet is still peacefully unconscious in bed.

"I'm so sorry," Jisung whispers, tears welling up in his eyes. "I–I'm sorry I can't be honest with myself...or with you...and now look what happened. I'm such an idiot."

Minho stirs a little, almost laughing when he says: "You are."

Jisung's eyes widen with shock. Minho lazily blinks the swell from his eyes, barely looking over Jisung's presence. Jisung is startled, but relieved to see Minho conscious more than anything.

"I...I didn't mean to," Jisung stammers, his voice trembling. "I–I messed up, Minho. I pushed you. I never, ever meant for any of this to happen and—"

"Jisung," Minho interrupts, half-awake. "Breathe. It's okay."

"How can you say that?" Jisung asks, his voice raised several octaves. Minho plugs his ears. "I–I mean, you're in thehospital, Minho!"

"Uh...yeah, no sh*t," Minho says rather nonchalantly. "I've been in the hospital before, Jisung. Plus, Chris' roof isn'tthathigh up. Drama Queen."

And he laughs, f*ckinglaughs. To say that Jisung is bewildered is an understatement.

"I–I don't get it. How are you not mad at me?"

"I am mad at you," Minho corrects. "But I f*cked up too. Worst case scenario is that I can't dance or help 할머니[grandma]for a few months. I'll live."

"You dance." Jisung blinks dumbly. Suddenly, the impossible muscles at seventeen years old make a lot more sense.

"I do," Minho smiles softly as he speaks. "Thought it was obvious, but you are a little dumb."

Silence falls between them, audioed by Jisung anxiously drumming his fingers on his thighs. He's unsure of what to say, unsure of what todoto make this unfortunate situation better.

But honesty is a good start, he supposes.

"Minho," Jisung starts, not daring to look him in the eye.

"Hm?"

Jisung's voice shudders as he speaks. "I'm...I think—I think I'm bisexual."

"Well, hi 'Bisexual', I'm Minho," he jokes, albeit very badly. "Oh. You're serious."

"I am," Jisung admits in a low mumble. "I did the research. Like you said. So, I don't know why I freaked out over the...the y'know...the kiss."

Minho sighs.

"Jisung. Just because you may be attracted to guys doesn't mean you wanna' kisseveryguy. I should've asked ya' first. Plus, you just found out that you're bi. It makes sense that you'd freak."

"So...pushing you off the roof is justified?" Jisung jokes.

"Yeah," Minho says with an airy laugh. "The idiot who kissed you should've asked first."

Jisung's not thinking straight when he says: "Does the idiot want a second chance?" He's not sure if he'severthought straight when it comes to Minho.

Jisung's heart races as he waits for Minho's response, the weight of his words hanging in the air. There's no alcohol in his system to blame his antics on.

"I think the idiot would very much like a second chance," Minho replies with a genuine smile, his eyes locking onto Jisung's. "If you're willing to give him one."

Minho's close, very close, and Jisung's having trouble with keeping his cool amidst the heat between them. A warm hand moves from Jisung's cheek to the back of his neck, the touch alone leaving his thoughts racing and unhinged. Jisung's mind crowds with a million thoughts as they all try to piece together Minho's next move.What the f*ck, what the f*ck, what the fu—

"Is this okay?" Minho asks sweetly, so close that his hot breath fans against Jisung's lips. An incoherent whimper escapes Jisung's lips, unable to form a satisfactory reply. "Use your words, Jisung."

"Yeah," Jisung breathes out, atmosphere getting hotter by the second. "Yeah, it's okay.I'mokay."

In the next moment, Minho's closed the space between them, their lips slotting together "too-perfectly". Jisung's emotions explode within him, engulfing him in a foreign, almost magical feeling he doesn't recall ever feeling before. Electricity courses through his veins—hot and powerful and aching for more of that emotion Jisung thought only existed in fairytales.

And then it stops.

The kiss must've lasted two seconds at most because as soon as Minho's lips are on his, they're pulled back from him.

"Was that okay?" Minho asks again (but something about hearing that question the second time around feels irritating).

"Yes, Minho."

"So, do you wanna' do it again?" Minho asks, concern dancing about in his eyes. "One: I don't wanna' make you uncomfortable. Two: if you do, you we should pro'lly do it before the med' high wears off—"

Without thinking, Jisung presses his lips to Minho's. He's notreallysure when the last time he thought something through was. He's unsure when the last time he's thought of anything other thanMinho.

Minho's lips move slowly against his own, chaste, like he's afraid that Jisung's crack. Shatter into pieces—and Jisungcould—break into uneven shards of a sinful attraction he shouldn't want. His mother always tells him that once you've sinned, it's hard to resist the temptation again. It's hard to do what's right, to deny the cloying juices of the forbidden fruit, embellished in rich carmine.

Something is exploding in Jisung, and it's not just his heart. It's a realization—a sudden awareness that he canhavethis.

Jisung's kissed a boy, and he doesn't want to remember his monotone life before doing so.

Chapter 5: Bisexual Awakening

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ ❥

THE SUMMER OF 2006
A Father-Son Moment

Jisung Han has never been high off psychedelics before, but from what he's heard from Felix, it all feels a little like this. Floating on a cloud of oblivious euphoria, where every sense is amplified by myriad of colors dancing about in your mind. Worries melt away, an overheated glacier, leaving an array of happy-go-lucky emotions behind.

Every touch feels soreal, yet, every problem feels so distant—like a child stuffing their face full of rainbow candy floss, unbeknownst to the cavities forming between their rotting teeth.

Jisung wants it. Wants to feel it forever and ever and everand—

He'd kissed Minho at least three more times before the broken-legged brunet shooed him out of his hospital room (since Jisung had been there for halfthe day...at least). He was the first person to sign Minho's cast, giddily signing his name in perfect cursive with a sloppily drawn heart trailing behind.

"Jisungie, you cannot draw for sh*t,"Minho laughed, poking fun at the pink heart that resembled a deformed blob.

Jisungie. Minho called him Jisungie now.

He also learned some interesting new things about Minho: that he lives with his grandmother at Blossom Delights and has an addiction to animated shows.

"Hey! It's hard to write on a cast!"Jisung whined. He capped the Sharpie with a huff."When you push me off a roof as revenge, you'll see."

There's another thing that Felix warned him about psychedelic highs.

The worst part about any high is when it all comes crashing down. An avalanche disturbed. When you finally pull your head out of the clouds and realize that life isjustas sh*tty as it usually is.

Jisung doesn't come down from his "I KISSED A BOY!" high until he's half-skipped home from a janky busride, a generic pop song blasting from his iPod and into his eardrums. He's absentmindedly humming along to James Blunt'sYou're Beautifulwhen the buoyant bubble pops.

"You're home late. Again," his father notes, his voice stern, gruff, and surprisingly sober. "Where the hell were you? Huh? I called you several times."

"Out," Jisung responds. He eyes his father's pathetic attempt at a serious stance in the hallway, bottle of Jack Daniel's hand. "You're getting drunk.Again."

Jisung hardly registers his flippant attitude, as he's too busy wallowing in the mood swing from his crash landing, the effects of his high wearing off.

"I KISSED A BOY!" turns intoI...kissed a boy, and he desperately wipes at the tattoo imprint of Minho's lips that lies on his mouth. He can't. But he wants to take it back, to hit an 'undo' button on his life that doesn't exist. He's betrayed each and every lesson of morality embedded into his mind. He sank his teeth into the forbidden fruit, anyway, drinking until there's nothing left. It slowly compresses his heart, pressing a heavy weight to his aorta. It crushes him.

And hereallydoesn't want to talk to his father right now.

"You're mad at me." His father states the obvious. "Listen, I'm sorry for last week. I was just worried about ya', kid! You were out all day without—"

"Dad, stop," Jisung interrupts. "You know that's not true. You get drunk because you like it. Not because you care about your kid."

Jisung attempts to push past his father—who takes up the entire hallway—and realizes he can't. He's stuck here. Stuck to talk about something he doesn't want to discuss. Not right now.

His father's expression softens slightly, lines etched with regret creasing his forehead. "Jisung, you don't get it. It'snotthat simple."

"It's always complicated with you," Jisung fires back, anger fueling his every syllable. "You say that you're worried about mebut—but you don't even know who I am. You don't even care to know."

"Of course I do! Jisung, you have no idea how hard it is to hold this family together." His father's shoulders sag, and he takes a slow swig straight from the Jack Daniel's bottle. "I mean, your mother's impossible. It wouldn't kill ya' to have some more respect for me."

"Maybe when you deserve it," Jisung's voice sharpens, revealing a hint of hurt behind his words. "Now, can I please go to my room?"

There's a brief silence that stretches between them, filled by his father's hesitant stance. It's as if he doesn't want to let Jisung slip through his fingers like grainy sand, but can't do anything about it.

It's the law of gravity; no matter how badly you want some things to stay afloat, they inevitably come to land. They always do.

"Fine, go," his father sighs, defeated. "We'll talk about this later. You're my son, and I wish you'd see that I only want what's best for you."

Jisung responds with pursed lips, awkwardly slipping past his father.

There's tears pooling in his waterline once he's retreated to the safety of his bedroom, his torturous heart palpitations picking up where they left off. Everything is wrong, andsof*cked up, and so imperfect. How could he be so foolish? How could he be so easily swayed by the Devil? How could kissing aboyfeel so right then, but so wrong now?

Cheap rhinestones fall from his jacket when he finally rips it off his skin, aching for a semblance of normalcy. Boys wearing f*ckingrhinestonesisn't normal. Jisung's surprised that his father hadn't commented on it, or on the skin-tight t-shirt he's wearing that's clearly not his. The collar of his shirt constricts around his throat, suffocating him. A boy being bisexual isn't normal. A boy isn't meant to be with another boy—amanisn't meant to be attracted to another man. It's not normal.

Jisung gasps for air. He can't breathe. It won't go away. It won'tstop.

His fingers are tingling with erratic movements as he scrambles to tear the clothing from off his skin. The t-shirt he wore when he kissed a man, the jeans he wore when helikedit, the underwear he wore when he thought about it all the way home. It doesn't change anything. The incessant voice belittling him in his mind doesn't slow in its bark. A compression sleeve fits around his heart, squeezing, squashing, crushing, waiting for it to explode into a mass of crimson. It doesn't stop pumping.

In a hopeless attempt at washing the sin from dirtied skin, Jisung steps into the shower.

On his skin, the water is scalding, an attempt at cleaning more than just his physical body—a second chance at baptism. The rush of water feels like a futile effort, much like his attempt to wash away the irreversible: his temptuous actions and perverted desires.

He scrubs his skin vigorously, as if he could scrub away the influence of unclean spirits—as if he could wash away the remnants of his thoughts and the guilt that has wrapped itself around his heart. The soap betrays traditional use and becomes a self-punishment tool as he works it into his skin. It burns on his lips and stings in his eyes, hoping to scrub away the taste of another man's lips, to burn the attraction from his eyes.

One good thing about the shower is that the water overpowers his sobs, hiding his saltine tears.

You're not normal. Everyone can see it.

It's only a matter of time before Mom and Dad figure it out too. And what happens then?

After shimmying into a random pyjama combination, Jisung slumps onto his bed.

He feels empty, hollowed out, like a vessel devoid of purpose. It all started as a desperate pursuit of happiness, but now that euphoria has turned into a nightmare, haunting his every move.

Jisung's brooding is interrupted by three knocks on his door. It's his father.

"Jisung, we need to talk," his father says, cracking open the door.Seriously, what's the point of knocking if you're going to barge in anyway?"Can I come in?"

"Sure, whatever," Jisung mumbles into his pillow.

"What the hell happened to you?" his father asks, his words surprisingly coherent. Not drunk. Not exactly sober. "You alright, kid?"

Jisung groans. "'M fine."

"C'mon, don't do this.Talk to me." There's almost a plead behind his words. "What's going on? Is it Felix? Are you guys having issues?"

Jisung sits up in his bed, facing his father. "No, Dad. It's nothing."

"Don't tell me it's nothing," his father frowns... and it feels oddly genuine. "You've been crying, haven't you? You know I hate it when you cry, c'mon man."

Right.Hans don't cry.

"Sorry." Jisung's voice is strained, like he's trying to speak as he's being choked.

Don't cry, don't cry, don't—

Mid-sentence, Jisung's train of thought is interrupted by a sudden rush of tears. He can't hold them in any longer, and they stream down his face in a torrential downpour. The dam he built to keep his emotions at bay finally gives way, and he's left sobbing before the very man who hates it.

His father's face softens defeatedly as he takes a seat on the edge of Jisung's bed, wrapping his arm around him in a tight, comforting hug. Jisung tenses up.

This is all too f*cking weird.

"Hey, it's okay. Stop crying," his father whispers. A glassy hand meant to be comforting sends chills down Jisung's back. "Tell me what's up, and stop. You know I hate your tears, Jisung."

"I just want—hic!—to be left alone," Jisung cries, wriggling out of his father's grasp. "Please, leave me alone."

His father flinches, hurt flashing across his features.

"I can't just leave you alone when you're clearly upset!" he argues, not budging in his spot on the bed. "Jisung, this hurtsmetoo! I may not always know how to handle things, but I love you. I'm here for you."

Jisung's heart squeezes with conflict. Love doesn't look like drunken nights and empty apologies. Being loved doesn't feel like fighting an internal battle with yourself just to maintain it.

For as long as Jisung's remembered, he's been tossed aside, belittled,silenced, all in the name of love.

From the moment he was old enough to remember Narae Park and Kijung Yang swear at each other in the name of love, with no idea what they should do with a four year old son neither of them wanted. To the moment Kijung kissed him goodnight and was never to be seen again. To the moment Narae exiled Kijung from their life, robbing Jisung of his birthgiven surname in place of 'Park'. To the moment the family of two unloaded their suitcases in America under the promise they could start anew. To Narae's second husband, culturally detached, Chinese-American, John Han.

All preceding the moment the cycle began once more. Now, John and Narae swear at each other, all in the name of love.

Love doesn't feel like bitter insults washed away by Jack Daniel's. Love isn't swearing to disown your son if he were to ever become 'like Felix and the Lees'—claiming that hom*osexuality is the biggest sin whilst drinking your liver to a crisp.

Jisung's not sure what love feels like, but he's certain it'snotthis.

"Y'know kiddo', I'm not leaving until we figure this out," John says, sternly, as if he's growing impatient. "Do you want me to get your mother involved?"

'Are you guys even talking?'Jisung wants to ask, but bites his tongue.

"No," he mumbles instead.

"Thentalkto me, son," John says, voice bordering a beg. "Stop fighting me. Stop pulling away I—"

"I... I kissed a boy," Jisung murmurs faintly, tearing his gaze from his father and to his fingers that tangle in the fabric of his shirt. The silence that follows is painful. "I–I'm sorry."

John's brows furrow and his grip tightens on Jisung's bedsheets; a telltale sign of anger.

"What?!" John's question is sharp, slicing a cut into Jisung's heart. "Is this a joke?"

"It's not," Jisung says with a quivering lip. He wants to hit 'undo', to take it all back.

Jisung's throat closes up, like he's grown gills where his lungs should be and can no longer breathe oxygen. He looks at his twitching fingertips, wishing they'd vanish into thin air, wishhe'dbe nothing more than a ghost—never having to face the consequences of his actions.

"So you're gay now?" John asks, his voice raising an octave. "I can't f*ckin' believe this. Tell me this is a joke,please."

Jisung shakes his head, the waterworks streaming down his face.

"No, Dad, I–I'm bisexual, I think," he chokes out, words hardly coherent between sobs. "I'm sorry I— I don't want it either, Iknow, it's wrong and—"

John recoils as if he's been slapped, face red with anger. "If it's wrong, then why are you doing it?"

"Because I can't control it!" Jisung cries, breaking out into a series of harsh sobs. "I–I don't want it Dad, I don't. I don'twantto be this way."

John's anger softens, and he unclenches his fists. He steadies a breath that wobbles on balance beams.

"Look, I won't lie. I'm very disappointed in you, kid," John admits with a sigh that slices Jisung's heart into pieces. "But, you still like girls, right? You still have a chance."

Jisung swallows harshly. He should've expected this reaction from John—his father's words shouldn't feel like a million different stabs to his chest.

He does like girls, he thinks. But they all pale in comparison to Minho.

Nausea swirls in the pit of Jisung's stomach, the pressure to please his father eating himalive; picking away at his sanity.

"I do," Jisung's words become monosyllabic as his crying slows.

John's expression stretches into a smile that feels uncomfortable on Jisung's skin. Like a troupe of ants marching along his forearms.

"Good, then it should be fine then, right?" John asks, and Jisung nods. "You have a chance, kid. Don't worry. This is all a phase, I bet."

"Mhm." Jisung smiles, a smile that mimics the performative ones that his parents display all the time. "A phase."

Once his father leaves, Jisung feels as if the frozen lake that kept his chest heavy has melted into cool water. His stomach flutters in a sickly way, leaving him feeling as though he's on the verge of throwing up. Deep down, Jisung knows he can't deny the undeniable: his confusing attraction to guys.

On the flip side, Jisung also knows that he can't afford to lose the support of his parents, not at sixteen.

Jisung craves acceptance like how a heroin addict craves a needle. He's desperate to feel truly and wholly loved by somebody—anybody, especially after the letdowns from his father.

And although Jisung knows by now that sneaking out is on theTop Ten list of "Wrongs"and that where he wants to go is even worse...

There's still tears on his face when Jisung steps before Blossom Delights, feeling a mix of dread, fear, andguilt. He knows that what he's doing is unfair to not only his parents for illogically sneaking out, but to the habitants of the tiny shop he's essentially trespassing on.

The lights are still on despite the 'CLOSED!' sign and it being nearly nine o'clock at night, and a new car is parked in the crumbling parking lot—one Jisung hadn't noticed the first time he came here.

Still, he knocks on the door, desperate to see the only person who accepts him completely amidst his struggles with his sexuality.

The front door clicks open, revealing a more-gorgeous-than-ever Minho Lee dressed in kitty pyjama shorts, leaning against a crutch, and rubbing his eyes tiredly.

It takes Jisung a few moments to take in the sight that feels almost unreal to his eyes. Yes, he's at Minho's house, but he didn't quite expect toseeMinho (in his defense, he figured that he would've chickened out of his plan).

Turns out, Minho is equally as dumbfounded by Jisung's presence, his jaw slacked and eyes wide.

"Jisung? What the hell are you doing here?"

"I needed to see you," Jisung admits desperately. "And, I know this is super inappropriate but—"

"My parents are here!" Minho whisper-shouts, worriedly looking around his surroundings. "Not to mention, we'reclosed?"

"Your parents...?" Jisung blinks slowly, dumbfounded. "I thought you live with your grandma?"

"Ido," Minho says, voice still hushed. "That doesn't mean I don't have f*ckin' parents."

"I—"

"Look, Jisungie," Minho sighs. "I'm into you and everything,slightly, but that doesn't mean you can just come over any time you want!"

"Minho please," and if Jisung didn't sound desperate before, he's full on begging now. "You're the only person I can go to."

Minho keeps talking, visibly grumpy and ignoring Jisung's words. "Unless you have nowhere else to go, you must send me an email atleastfive hours in advance and—" he stops himself. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"You have nowhere else to go?" Minho raises a brow. "What happened to Felix?"

"I didn't want to bother him," Jisung mumbles. Felix is going through stage three of his breakup (endless crying fests while running cable shows), and Jisung doesn't want to interrupt that.

Minho laughs dryly. "So, you came to bothermeinstead?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Fine," Minho sighs after a brief moment, struggling to maneuver as he opens the door for Jisung to enter. "I hope you're not allergic to cats."

"I'msorry?!" Jisung echoes with wide, incredulous eyes.

Minho slaps him, wobbling with his crutch. "Shut up will you? Do youwantMr. and Mrs. Lee to question why a young, attractive man is coming to see me at nine–PM at night?!"

As if on cue, the presumed 'Mr. and Mrs. Lee' enter the scene. Jisung's heart enters immediate freefall.

"아들아, 이 사람이 누구야? 왜 여기 왔어?"[Son, who is this? Why is he here?]Minho's father asks, leaving Jisung stunned from the brash and gruffly-spoken Korean.

Jisung remembers minimal bits of Korean from growing up in Seoul, but his both his parents have spoken English with him since birth. To say he's left out of the conversational loop is an understatement.

Minho's Korean is as effortless as his father's, leaving Jisung a little envious. "아빠, 이분은 '블라썸 딜라이츠' 에서 새로 온 일꾼이에요. 훈련 받으러 온 거에요!"[Dad, this is a new worker at 'Blossom Delights'. He's here for training.]

The familiarity of Korean syllables brushes against the loose edges of his memory—he recognizes the sounds but not the words. Jisung feels like an outsider looking in, bewildered by the scene before him with no way of entry. Being present in a scene doesn't equate to being apartof it, that much is clear.

His mother, who scarily resembles Minho, is next to speak. Of course, in Korean. "새 일꾼? 이 시간에?"[A new worker?At this hour?]

A nervous chuckle tumbles out of Minho's lips. "네, 새로 오신 분이에요. 열정적으로 배우려고 하셔서 일정을 바꾸게 됐어요."[Yes, he's new. He's eager to learn, so we had to adjust the schedule.]

Minho's mother still remains displeased. Either that, or it's the genetic Resting Bitch Face that confuses Jisung without context.

"자, 빨리 떠나게 해. 이 시간에 남아 있으면 안 돼,"[Well, make him leave soon. He shouldn't be here at this time.]she says, sounding like Jisung's mother when it's time for bed on a school evening.

Minho beams, like he's trying too hard to be convincing. "걱정 마, 엄마. 빨리 끝낼게요."[Don't worry Mom, it won't take long.]

Suddenly, all eyes shoot to Jisung, as if they're expecting him to say something.

"What do I say?" Jisung whispers to Minho, practically on full panic mode.

"Anything!" Minho whispers back. "You don't know Korean?"

"No? Obviously not!"

"Just say '안녕하세요', it means hello," Minho advises in a hushed tone, his eyes darting nervously between his parents and Jisung.

Jisung repeats the word to himself a few times, trying to commit it to memory. With a deep breath, he looks up at Minho's parents and musters up the courage to speak.

"Annyeonghaseyo?" he says, the words coming out awkward, stiff, and nowherenearfluent.

Minho visibly cringes. "Yeah, um, we're done here," he says, patting Jisung's back reassuringly. "엄마, 아빠, 필요하면 뒷쪽에 있을게요."[Mom, Dad, I'll be in the back if you need me.]

There's an awkward clank of Minho's crutch against the floor as he hobbles to the back of the cramped shop. Jisung stiffly follows, like the leash attached to a puppydog as it roams. Minho leads him through the kitchen where he suffered 'wash duty Hell' and into a small room attached to it that he hadn't noticed the first time Minho led him back here.

"This is my temporary bedroom," Minho says, showing off a bleak room with a makeshift bed in the corner (that's really a mattress with mismatched sheets). "It's too hard to get upstairs, and I can't ask 할머니[grandma]for help so..."

There are posters peeling from the walls, a light stench of something ashen, and a flickering lightbulb overhead. It doesn't look remotely comfortable, but Jisung's in no place to judge. Not when he's at fault for Minho's grim sleeping situation.

At the corner of the "bed" sits a bag of...Friskies?

A large, orange striped cat digs its paws into the bag, munching on its contents despite the bag being nearly empty. Another orange cat, this one drastically smaller, licks at the crumbs that made its way onto Minho's bedsheets, purring friendlily.
Jisung stares dumbfounded at the two cats that enjoy a late-night snack atop of Minho's covers.

Since when did Minho have cats?

After some time of standing and staring, Minho breaks the silence once more.

"Hum... okay," Minho says, shooing the cats off his bed. "What the actual hell are you doing here? I mean, you can't just come to my f*ckin' place whenever you want JisungI— are you crying?"

Jisung's unsure what's come over him when he starts to cry in front of Minho. He doesn't even notice the first tear until Minho's pointed it out. Even if it's not the first time, Jisung's gut swells with shame as he pours out all sense of stability within him with each harsh sob.

Minho's demeanor softens and he opens up his arm to invite Jisung in for a side hug. It's not exactly a hug, and Minho stumbles a bit, but it's something.

Safe. Minho always feels so safe.

"You're okay," Minho says in a reassuring manner. He rubs circles into Jisung's back soothingly, shushing him as though he were a whining baby. "Wanna' talk about what happened? I'm all ears."

"In the span of two weeks, I've done everything wrong," Jisung sniffles, rattling off the long list of catastrophes that have happened thus far. "Andthen, I told my Dad that I was bi."

Minho remains silent for a moment, pulling away to just observe Jisung's face, his red eyes, his flushed, swollen cheeks, all the way to his chapped lips. His expression is pained, moreso than the hurt on his face when he first awoke in the hospital.

"Jisung...why?" he asks, his voice almost inaudible. "I–I mean, kudos to you, but... your parents don't seem the most accepting."

"They're not," Jisung tries to laugh it off, failing miserably. "But he thinks that since I'm bi, I still have a chance at getting a girlfriend."

Minho tilts his head, squinting with scrutiny. "Seriously? That makes zero f*ckin' sense. Mommy and Daddy seem a bit insane. Sheesh."

Jisung laughs, though nothing is particularly funny. There's a pleasant pause in their conversation as Minho scolds his cats—Soonie and Doongie—for being 'greedy' and digging in their cat food for more. Apparently cat food is also unnecessarily expensive in today's economy. According to Minho.

"If you plan on crashing, we've gotta' share," Minho says as he struggles to separate cat-from-Friskies. "You're not on 'sleep in my bedroom' status yet, and I share it with 할머니. You willnotbe sleeping with my grandma."

"I–I was going to go home actually," Jisung stammers. Those feelings that arise whenever Minho's around begin to bloom in his chest; a whole garden of dahlias and dandelions.

Minho clicks his tongue. "You should stay. It's late out, bus rides after eight are shady A.F., and it doesn't seem safe with your dad."

Jisung's eyes narrow confusedly. "He's notabusive. He's just unsupportive. I think it's safe at home."

"Did you tell him you were comin' here?" Minho asks, sliding into bed as soon as his cats have retreated.

"N–No."

"Then it's not safe," Minho says sternly. "Go search the drawer for something that can fit you and join me in bed."

"Okay," Jisung squeaks. His heart has went from flowery thumping to quick and powerful thrumming that makes him a bit nauseous.

Are they going to share a bed? Like...actuallyshare a bed? Minho must want Jisung to die.

The tension runs thick as Jisung changes out of his clothes into some immodest band tee he found while sifting through Minho's clothes. Minho doesn't watch him as he changes, but his presence alone makes Jisung's body illuminate bright red, his insides lit ablaze like a wildfire. Minho is silent, agonizingly silent as Jisung joins him under the covers.

"Minho," Jisung says, his voice struggling to survive in the thick atmosphere.Can Minho feel this too?When Minho replies with a little 'hm?', Jisung continues, "Thank you... for everything."

"Mhm," Minho hums. "You owe me big time."

Silence.

Despite it being silent between them, Jisung's thoughts couldn't be more loud. After everything, after swearing he didn't want to be a hom*osexual, here he is, laid in bed with aman.The same man whose touch eternally lies on his lips. The same man who makes Jisung's insides feel all topsy-turvy and spawn a butterfly swarm around his heart. Is it wrong to want something that feels so right? Is attraction really all that unnatural?

"Jisung. Stop squirming," Minho groans. "If you knock into my leg, it'll hurt aton."

"Sorry."

"Stop apologizing," Minho turns to face him. Under the golden flickers, Minho couldn't look more beautiful. f*cked, Jisung's so f*cked. "Just do. Actions speak louder than words."

Jisung can't really focus on what Minho's saying. Rather, he's hyperfocused on Minho.MinhoMinhoMinho.His nose is trained to the scent of a floral fabric softener, one that perfumes the clothes of Minho's that Jisung borrowed. His eyes lock to Minho's face, the mole that sits atop his perfect nose, his lips that he wants but can't have, his two front teeth that are uneven and a little adorable. His heart is hypersensitive to each semblance of Minho that runs amok in his mind, ridding him of the ability to think of anything else.

It's like his father's words hardly exist anymore.

"Minho," Jisung starts, his voice uncertain. "Am I in love with you?"

Minho barks out a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. Jisung wants to hear it forever and ever and— "What?"

"I–I mean, there's just s–something there," Jisung explains through broken stutters. "It's hard to describe."

"I'm flattered~," Minho smiles cutely, sliding a hand up to press on Jisung's hammering chest. "But you'renotin love with me, Jisungie," he giggles.

"What do you mean?"

"Love is... it's different," Minho clarifies. Still, Jisung is confused. "It's bigger than a concerning heart rate. I think... you might have a crush, but it's not love. Love builds up over time. If you were in love with me, you wouldn't have to ask."

"I'm sorry," Jisung crumbles with embarrassment. "That was a sh*tty question."

"It wasn't," Minho reassures. "If it makes you feel better, I have a crush on you too. Slightly."

"Slightly?" Jisung raises a brow. "I don't do 'slightly'."

Minho rolls his eyes. "Okay, maybe not slightly. But it's embarrassing to admit that you're into someone who's f*ckin' crazy aboutnotliking guys."

"I just feel like I'm doing something wrong," Jisung admits, peeling his gaze away from Minho. "I still do. B–But my dad might tell my mom that I–I'm bisexual, and I may never be able to see you again."

"Aw, you're not doing anything wrong," Minho coos, thumbing at the tears beginning to form. "And if they try that, I'll pull up and whack them over the head with a crutch. Slightly."

Jisung gasps, shocked. "How do you even do thatslightly?"

"It's easy." A playful glint twinkles in Minho's dark eyes. "You don't."

"I'm not giving you permission to knock out my parents, Minho," Jisung says in-between laughs. "You'd go to jail. And I still love them."

"Fine," Minho chuckles, mirth in his eyes. "But if anything happens, you know who to call. I may not be entirely mobile, but I can still fight."

Jisung grimaces, remembering the awkward clatter of Minho's crutches as he moved. "How're you holding up by the way? With the broken leg and everything?"

Minho turns away. "Don't ask me how I'm doing. I can hardly talk about it without acting ridiculous."

"Huh? What do you mean?" Jisung asks, a brow raised confusedly.

"I mean, I'm too f*ckin' emotional about it," Minho responds, looking everywhere but Jisung's face. "'M not mad at you, or anything, but I underestimated how hard it is to have a broken leg."

Jisung gulps, guilt working its way back into his system.

"It's okay to be emotional, Minho," Jisung says, unsure if he believes the words coming out of his mouth. "And...if you want to talk about it, I'll listen to you."

Minho huffs, pretty lips downturned into a small frown. "I'll only talk about it if you swear not to apologize. Itreallymakes things worse."

"I promise. I'll just be apologizing mentally."

"Don't," Minho counters, "at all. I don't want you to feel sorry for me, or feel like it'sallyour fault. No apologies period."

"Fine. No apologies," Jisung says. "Just tell me what's up."

Minho freezes up, as if the summertime air has gone ice cold (which it hasn't). He doesn't meet Jisung's probing gaze as his frown droops further, quickly wiping at his eyes as if Jisung can't see it. Spoiler: he can.

"It's nothin' serious." Minhotriesto deflect, but the expectant silence doesn't allow him to. "I'm just helpless right now. It f*ckin' sucks. 할머니 needs me in the shop, but I can hardly work. My team needs me, but I can't dance, obviously. It's only the first day of this sh*t, and it's been theworst."

It's hard to hold back the apology that threatens to roll off his tongue, but he bites it. Minho's on the verge of tears, and Jisung feels his heart breaking a million times over. He just wants to alleviate some of that pain, even a fraction, but there's nothing he can do. There's no clock that turns back the time.

In a way, they share that helplessness.

"I don't want you to ever feel upset because you think you've hurt me," Minho adds, finally meeting Jisung's gaze with glazed eyes. "It ain't your fault. Sometimes, sh*t happens, and you just gotta' deal with it."

Jisung nods, not having any words to say other than the apology Minho doesn't want. Instead, he thumbs away at the tears on Minho's cheeks. His motions are tentative, as if his touch alone might hurt Minho a second time.

"It's really embarrassing to cry," Minho chuckles bitterly. "Especially over something like this."

Jisung shakes his head. "It's not. I'm not making fun of you. You have every right to be upset."

"People go through worse," Minho murmurs, blinking the rest of his tears away. "Peopledie."

"Yeah, that's true," Jisung says softly. "But that doesn't mean you're not allowed to feel sad. Your emotions matter, too."

Some may say that pain is relative, that experiences are incomparable, but empathy transcends those barriers. Pain cannot be identical across people, and may vary in severity, but it stillmatters. And the fact that Minho sees his pain as lesser than breaks Jisung inside. All it takes is a beautiful fake smile to hide an injured soul, and they'll never notice how broken someone truly is.

Jisung's unsure if he'lleverknow how broken Minho is.

"Thank you," Minho whispers, caressing Jisung's face with a warm hand. "You're so... lovely sometimes."

"L–Lovely?" Jisung sputters in surprise. He's been called many things before, but 'lovely' is a first.

"Yeah, when you're not being a dickhe*d is when I like you the most," Minho half-jokes, a smile playing on his lips. Jisung almost wants to ki—Snap out of it, Jisung."You're not half bad, Jisung Han."

Jisung's cheeks warm at the unexpected compliment, and he's certain Minho can feel it too. "Thanks Minho, you're not too bad yourself."

After a comfortable silence, Minho clicks off the lights and warns Jisung that his cats enjoy walking on people in their sleep, but that his parents will be back the following morning (before opening) to bring them back to the house. It doesn't take long for Minho to drift into slumber.

Once he does so, Jisung stares at a dark ceiling and grins to himself.

Everything will be okay.

Chapter 6: Playing with Perfection

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ ❥

THE SUMMER OF 2006
Choosing Happiness

When Jisung stirs awake, it's pleasantly peaceful.

There's the subtle marigold sun rays kissing his face, the string of drool on his cheek, the annoying, tired blinking of his light blindness away—typical early morning behavior. Except, the room is scented of Minho andcats (which makes Jisung sneeze), yet there's no trace of Minho to be found. Other than the fixture of crumbled bedsheets where his body lay during the night.

So far, things have been goingpretty okay.

Until...

f*ck.

Suddenly, his groggy mind is infused with memories of yesterday. Jisung came clean to his father, ripped the band-aid off, and now his father is aware of the fact that Jisung is bisexual... or so he claims. Stupid, Jisung is so stupid. What was he thinking? He knows his family, and he knows that he can never,everface his father again—

Jisung's breath hitches, a poisonous thorn encasing itself around his throat and making it fatal to breathe. His vision blurs. His mind races. He could be hallucinating, but he can hear the disapproved voices from his parents.

What if his father's text is a trap? To lure him home and face the scrutiny of his parents? Their words consume him, replaying in his mind like a broken record. "Perverted," "disgraceful," "unnatural," "sinful."

Jisung shudders, feverishly wiping at the tears in his waterline. He's like a glass figurine, teetering on the edge of shattering, though he's already beginning to crack. "Imperfect," "immoral," "impure."

Anxiety is a strange feeling that pumps through his veins, making his body tremble and his chest feel hollowed. It's so potent, it's slowly driving him into insanity, because anxiety is a made up phenomenon, and Jisung's not sure ifanythinghe's experiencing right now is real. Perhaps, it's a message from God, warning him of his sinful path and urging him to take a more reputable one.

The only other side of Heaven is Hell. And to get into Heaven, you cannot feelthingsfor other men. It's immoral, it's strange, it's wrong.

But, would God really create himthisflawed? If it's so wrong to like other men, why would God fix his lens to be wired that way?

Would it be better to never have known, to never feel, and to never be granted a chance at love? Jisung supposes it would be. To be hollow, devoid of emotion so that it wouldn't feel hard letting love go.

Once a to-be alcoholic takes their first sip of liquor for the night, it's hard for them to stop. It's all sin. But if God sought out perfection, why would he create humans in a world of sin?

Nonesense, that's the Devil talking.

Jisung's fingers are trembling by now, picking skin off his thumbs seemingly until they're as bare as a skinned orange.

What is he supposed to do now? Is he to forget the heart-bursting feeling of kissing Minho? No, that could never happen.But... Now that he knows what Minho tastes like, his sinful hunger should be satiated. It should be enough.Please let it be enough.

Jisung'strembling fingers meet his quivering lips. And he decides it's not. Not enough. He's gotten a taste of Hell and cannotreturn to Heaven.

There's a sudden clank at the door. Jisung flinches. After a moment of banging and frustrated swearing, the door creaks open and Minho hobbles in. A fairly dejected looking Minho; with downturned lips, swollen cheeks, and droopy eyes. Jisung's eyes widen.

"You look... awful," Jisung whispers, his voice tentative. He makes room for Minho to slump into the bed, taking note of the pained expression on the brunet's face.

"Gee, thanks." Minho offers a rectangular, half-assed smile. "Youlook like you've seen a ghost."

Sensing that Minho likely doesn't want to open new wounds so quickly, Jisung doesn't press him. Instead, he lets out a shaky laugh (sodry, it's awkward), choosing to confront his own demons.

"I feel like I have," he responds.

Minho's eyes narrow, concern drawn on his features. "What happened?"

Jisung hesitates. A part of him wants to cry, even. He doesn't want to be likethis, whatever it is that plagues his mind and makes him feel like he's no good. And Minho has always been so patient with him, through everything, and that breaks Jisung's heart a little. In the silence of the "bedroom", Jisung can almosthearhis heart as it cracks; a glass replica lying where his heart should be.

"Pretty much the same thing as last night," Jisung says, avoiding Minho's gaze. "Plus, my Dad texted me... he wants me to come home. He said he's sorry."

Minho scoffs, bemused, followed by an eyeroll.

"He's a dickhe*d," Minho spits. "Like father, like son. 'Least you're only a dickhe*d sometimes."

A small smile plays on Jisung's lips. "Am I supposed to feel offended?"

Minho's silent for a moment, pausing for a beat or two to pass.

"Take it how you will, Jisungie," Minho says simply. "'Nd c'mere."

Minho bounces back from his slump scarily quickly, sitting up in the mattress to better hold Jisung in a loose side hug. Jisung still melts into him. Somehow, being in Minho's arms feels like the safest place in the world; infinitely warm and eternally gentle.

Beneath it all, Jisung can sense Minho's fractures, the sudden icy cold behind his warm demeanor.

"Minho," Jisung whispers, his irises shaking when he meets Minho's gaze. "You're... broken."

A small gasp tears itself out of Minho's throat. He freezes, avoiding Jisung's probing gaze. For a moment, there's that flicker of hurt that matches his swollen cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. In the next, Minho's created a fortress of icicles and glaciers, sealing off the entrance for Jisung to observe.

"I don't wanna' talk about it, Jisung," Minho says through a pained smile. He shakes Jisung a little, as if he's trying to rattle the truth out of him. "Tell me what's going on with you, hm?"

Minho is an expert at keeping up an act and playing 'fine'. Most of the time. But now, his emotions feel erratic, like he's desperately trying to switch the topic—to forget about (or simply ignore) something that Jisung is unaware of.

Jisung sighs, a little defeatedly. He understands that he can't forcefully pry Minho open and assess the emotions left repressed; it'd be like beating a dead horse. And if you beat a dead horse, it doesn't magically resurrect, instead becoming a bloody mess like all the other deceased fauna before it.

"It's the same problem as yesterday," Jisung reiterates with a bitter chuckle. "You probably don't have the energy to listen to me whine about religion and my sexuality,haha."

"No, it's alright." Minho's frown deepens. "You can vent to me, I can take it."

Jisung hesitates, unsure if he should dump his burdens into Minho's weakened shoulders. It's easy to say youcanhandle something, but it's hard when push comes to shove. When you have to hold onto your feelings as well as the burden of someone else's.

Jisung doesn't want to be a burden. Not anymore.

"Jisungie, c'mon, talk to me," Minho pleads softly, trying to coax it out of him. "Let me help you."

Can you help others if you can't help yourself? Is that possible?Jisung thinks, not daring to voice his questions aloud. It still plays in the back of Jisung's mind like an incessant, itchy mosquito bite that can't be ignored.

"I–I'm just scared," Jisung admits, nausea churning within him, goosebumps dancing along his skin. "I–I'm not u–used to doing things against my parents' word. My mom'll beso madwhen she comes back."

Minho hums, wiping the tears that have began to form on Jisung's face.Pathetic. Can he not go one day without crying? "Do you think it's wrong? What you're doing... rather, whatwe'redoing?"

"It doesn't matter what you think if you're sick in the head," Jisung grumbles.

"Who told you that you're sick in the head?" Minho asks, his voice tinged with something... violent.

"The Bible? I–I don't know," Jisung sighs, feeling almost frustrated with himself.Stop stuttering. "My family... we–we've never been super religious, b–but my mom is very conservative a–and uses religion to back it."

"Aw," Minho coos. He presses a chaste kiss to Jisung's temple. "Jisungie... God knows that we're not perfect. It's alright to be different."

"No." Jisung shakes his head. His words feel robotic, as if he'd been programmed to think this way. "God made us perfect, crafted in his image. Sin ruins that, and hom*osexuality i–is a sin."

"Is that Mommy and the f*ckin'Bibletalking, or Jisung Han?" Minho queries.

Jisung slams his mouth shut, rapid tears flowing down his cheeks, salty on his lips. He deflates like a balloon with a poked hole in it, unsure of how to answer Minho's question. What the Bible says is objectivelytrue, but when Jisung is with Minho, it doesn't feel like sin. It doesn't feel wrong.

Minho sighs. "Jisung,Ican't make you feel better about yourself.Ican't reverse years of thinking that all this is wrong. Neither of us know for certain what is 'true'."

Minho caresses Jisung's cheek with a warm hand, shushing his tears as he continues.

"The only thingIknow is how I feel," Minho starts, placing his free hand on Jisung's chest. His heart is beatingsofast. "I can't chase after you Jisungie, literally," he jokes, eyeing his crutches. "You have to know how you feel. You have towant it."

"I want to be happy," Jisung mumbles. His heart threatens to burst into a gooey, pink and red mess.

"Then choose happiness," Minho says, "even if it's not with me."

Jisung's eyes tremble as he searches Minho's expression for something—anything—a green light perhaps. He looks so tired, so worn, yet there's a hint of fondness hidden beneath the exhaustion. Minho is so patient with him, so unyieldingly patient, and Jisung's heart aches.

He can't let Minho go. Not yet. Not when there's so muchmoreto uncover about himself through Minho.

Jisung's hand meets the nape of Minho's neck, fingers brushing over the small hairs that rest there. Jisung leans in. Minho is soft, so warm, like the sweetest marshmallow. It's addicting. BecauseMinhois happiness, and even if it's only temporary, Jisung wants to savor every last drop until there's nothing left.

Minho pops off of Jisung's lips, nose scrunched cutely. "Jisungie, I'm flattered, but you taste like my f*ckin' ashtray. Morning breath."

"Oh,ew," Jisung gasps, his face blooming bright red.

"It's no problem," Minho reassures, giggling. "Just use one of 할머니's[grandma]coupon freebies. She has like a million toothbrushes rotting in there."

"She'll be okay with me stealing her stuff?" Jisung raises a brow, his mind flashing with memories Minho's intimidating parents and their resting bitch faces.Terrifying.

"Don't worry, 할머니's cool with you," Minho says. "Plus, my parents already swung by for the cats, so you don't have much to worry about."

As if on cue, the "bedroom" door swings open, and in comes Minho's grandmother, dressed in bright pink pajamas and bunny slippers.

She lightly whacks Minho with her cane.

"민호야, 새로운 남자친구와 키스하지 말고 부엌에서 할머니 도와줘!"[Minho, stop kissing your new boyfriend and help your grandma in the kitchen!]she scolds.

Even though Jisung can't understand what she's saying, it's amusing to watch Minho flare up in embarrassment.

"그는 내 남자 친구가 아니다!"[He's not my boyfriend!]Minho snaps, faux annoyance apparent on his face. He even folds his arms like a petulant child. Jisung finds it... a little adorable.

"What did she say?" Jisung asks, not-so-subtly in the small space.

"That you're too f*ckin' nosy," Minho playfully scoffs.

"야!" she smacks Minho with her cane once more. "민호야, 욕하지 마!"[Hey! Minho, don't curse!]

Minho yelps, rolling his eyes.

Jisung can't help but laugh at the exchange; a fleeting moment of lightheartedness in the midst of his inner turmoil. Minho and his grandmother share a playful banter with each other... and for some reason, it makes something painful swell in Jisung's heart. Something that's as fiery as envy but as solemn as melancholy.

"So, are you guys datin' or somethin' now?"

When Felix suggested that he and Jisung have a catch up evening—as they eat out the leftovers from a busy day at Pepper's Pie Shop—Jisung hadn't expected beingthefocal point of conversation. Unrelated to the restaurant's name, Felix snacks on a serving of waffle fries, encased in a red-white, checkerboard, box.

It was fairly easy to pryeverythingout of Jisung; from coming out to his father, to spending an evening (or three) at Minho's, until he started freaking out again and, subsequently, has been ignoring Minho for atleasta week.

Of course, Felix is oblivious to that last bit of information, lest Jisung turn this get-together into a scolding session.

As for his father, they've been exchanging one-worded conversations for the past week since Jisung returned home.

"I love you, Jisung,"his father would say. Sometimes, he would sound like he was actually trying.

"Okay,"Jisung would respond, monosyllabic.

It would hurt, but he reassured himself that it's not as bad as being vulnerable to be hurt by John again. It was easier this way, with neither of them having to address the elephant in the room that was (and still is) his bisexuality.

"We're not," Jisung mumbles, swirling his straw in a strawberry milkshake that tastes a little stale. "I'm not sure if I'm interested in him likethat."

It's a boldfaced lie, and unfortunately, Felix can see right through Jisung's bullsh*t.

"Right...," Felix comments, sounding unamused. "You can probably count how many times you've kissed him on two fingers. Atleasttwo."

Jisung giggles, feeling giddy. "Well... heisa good kisser."

But Felix isn't laughing, and Jisung can feel the chastise incoming. "And if you really don't like him, you're using him."

Jisung chews on his lower lip, left speechless, as if his words have jumbled into an incomprehensible mess. A part of him always pictured his relationship with Minho as a separate entity to the reality he lives in—which, in hindsight, is naïve, but he wants to keep it that way. Minho is the scarlet mixed with bubblegum pink that fuels the beating of his heart. He's the rainbow after the rain. It clashes with the monotone grays and blacks that illustrate the world around him. Jisung's realityisthe rain.

It's fine to keep them separate. It's fine to keep Minho a secret.

The second he voices the truth to someone else, it becomes intertwined with reality. And it doesn't have to bereal, not yet. It doesn't have to move past the parameters of PlanetOut chatrooms at midnight. Jisung can enjoy the world's ignorance of the sinning he does behind closed doors.

The truth only holds value between him and Minho, anyway.

"Using him?" Jisung barks out a surprised laugh. "It's not... Lix, I wouldn't do that."

Felix still looks unimpressed, eyes narrowed suspiciously, and all. Avoiding Jisung's gaze, he mutters: "I think you would."

"Excuse me?" Jisung raises a brow. Why does it matter to Felix anyway? It's none of his business.

Felix sighs, carding a hand through his blond hair. "Minho really likes you, Jisung. I think that you like bein'likedmore than you like him."

Jisung's eyes widen. He's not using Minho for validation; he'dneveruse Minho to fulfill some kind of f*cked-up attention he craves. Naturally, without the full truth, Felix Lee has succumbed to the 'dumb blonde' stereotype and has no idea what he's talking about.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Jisung snaps, far more harshly than he would've liked.

"You're my best friend, Jisung," Felix sighs once more, extending a hand to rest atop Jisung's palm. "And Minho's my cousin. I know more than you think."

Jisung co*cks a brow, visibly confused. "Have you spoken to Minho?"

"Is that any of your business?" Felix mirrors Jisung's raised brow. "He's my family, obvi' I talk to him."

The booth they're seated at falls silent for a moment, excusing the generic pop music that blasts over the speakers. Realizing it's gotten a little heated between them, the annoyance on the freckled blond's features subsides ever-so-slightly.

"Are you mad at me?" Jisung asks, drumming an anxious set of fingers on the table.

"No, Ji, 'M not," Felix reassures, but his tone couldn't sound any more unclear. "Just frustrated that mybest friendis playin' my cousin. Like a f*ckin' fiddle."

"I'm not?" Jisung argues, more like a question than a statement. As if he's unsure. "Lix, I love you, but this really isn't your business."

Felix's jaw slacks, a flicker of offense dancing across his features.

"Minhoasked me to talk to you," Felix counters matter-of-factly. "'Cause you've been ignoring him and his emails for a week."

Jisung recoils at the accusation. His heart sinks in his chest. Sure, hehadbeen ignoring Minho for quite some time, but it wouldn't be forever. And Felix didn't have to get involved, not unless Minho was taking it all harder than Jisung could've imagined. Eventually, even the most patient of people have their patience run thin. Jisung's been stringing Minho's patience along for the longest.

"If you don't like him, just tell him that, Ji," Felix continues before Jisung can speak. "Don't waste his time. Minho... he tries to act like he hasn't, but he's been through a lot. Jisung, you know I love you, but youcan'thurt him."

Jisung wants to ask what Felix means by that, but immediately concludes that he doesn't deserve to know. His heart breaks a million times over. He hasn't hurt Minho intentionally, at least, not entirely.

Jisung has been trying to hide the truth for so long that it's become second nature to constantly deny it.

Minho tells him all the time that 'it's alrightto be different', but it's a whole different story when it comes to believing that sentiment.

All his life, he's believed that being hom*osexual is a sin. Minho's words may reassure him, but it's only ever been temporary; before the telltale feeling of intense worry plagues his body and causes him to hate himself and question his feelings.

"I didn't mean to hurt him," Jisung says quietly, peering down at his half-finished milkshake and plate of poked-at pasta.

"I know that, Ji." Felix offers an empathetic grin. "But, I dunno', maybe it's best if you take a break. To figure out things with your dad, 'n your feelings, 'n sh*t. You can't just keep ghosting Minho."

A lumpy mass ofsomethinggrows in Jisung's throat. A break? Does he really need a break from Minho? From the only person who makes himfeelthings he's never felt before? Jisung's heart starts to tear into twos as he mulls over the potential outcomes: it's almost like...breaking up.But maybe Felix is right. Maybe, it's necessary to step back and figure some things out, even if it's hard.

Minho deserves someone who'll interlock fingers with him and barrel down a sunflower field, laughter crackling in the air. Minho deserves someone who'll embrace him wholly, kiss the frown off his lips, and be the sole reason of his pretty smile each and every day. Minho deserves someone who isn't afraid of their own feelings for him—who isn't content with living in denial.

Jisung knows that can't be him. It'll never be him.

Jisung wantseverythingto do with him.

He's a bit unsure of the timeline of events that led to Jisung sitting in Minho's lap, with the brunet's hands holding Jisung steady by the waist, sucking tenderly at his neck. His knees are wrapped around Minho's lower spine, careful to not knock into his cast-enclosed foot that hangs off the mattress. A ball of fireworks takes residence where his heart should beat, exploding and calling out Minho's name several times over. Jisung realizesveryquickly that his mental Minho slander has done nothing to quell the intense pull towards him.

It's a phenomenon of the rom-coms. The female lead always finds herself locking lips with everything she shouldn't want in male form.

Jisung feels like the lead girl in a rom-com, ditsy, scatterbrained, and absolutely falling for the wrong guy. When will he regret it like those bubbly blondes always do? He's unsure.

Felix's advice becomes an afterthought; a new thought takes center stage:MinhoMinhoMinho—

"I missed you," Minho murmurs into Jisung's neck, sending electric shockwaves into Jisung's spine. "You decided to be a dickhe*d again, hm?"

"S–Sorry," Jisung whispers, finding his fingers tangled in Minho's silky, brunet hair. "I did."

Everything about Minho reminds Jisung of honey drizzle. It's nauseating. He tastes like the saccharine, sugary-sweet candies that your dentist warns you against. Jisung wants to taste it forever and ever andever—

"'S okay, Jisungie." Minho pulls away, a pretty smile stretched on his lips. "'M not hurt anymore. 'M not mad."

Jisung's mind blanks. It's moments like these where he finds Minho the most beautiful. Raw, unfiltered features illuminated by the moonlight filtering in through the windows. Eyes the color of syrupy brown darkened into a blackish shade, dripping with want. Pretty, pouty, pink lips that feel plush against Jisung's lips. He'ssobeautiful. He always has been.

"You're not?" Jisung asks, a little dumbfounded.

(The way Felix made it seem, you'd think that Minho was rotting away in his room for several days straight.)

"I could never be mad at you," Minho says cheesily, craning Jisung's neck so their mouths can meet. "I can't be mad at hot guys."

Jisung giggles into Minho's mouth, the sound swallowed by a feverish kiss that lights Jisung's body ablaze. Minho's lips are slightly chapped from overstimulation, tasting of ashes and strawberry—a clash between sweet and bitter that leaves Jisung wanting more. Their pace is a little awkward, sloppy even, but it's enough for Jisung's insides to ignite the fuse in his heart.

He hopes that Minho can feel this, too.

They part momentarily with a wetpop!, panting heavily in between the confined space they've given each other.

"You're so pretty," Minho mutters against Jisung's lips, licking into his mouth tentatively. "f*ck, I'm gonna'die."

Jisung chuckles, high on laughing gas. Felix must've spiked his milkshake. "You're really beautiful, Minho."

"Stop," Minho whines, shutting him up with a peck. "Stop being f*ckin' lovely... you dickhe*d."

"You give so many compliments, but you can't take them for sh*t," Jisung jokes, mewling as Minho peppers featherlight kisses along his jaw. "Mm,youstop. You're distracting me from the point."

"What's the point?" Minho bats his eyelashes innocently.

"That you're pretty," Jisung repeats, "pretty beautiful."

Minho visibly cringes, nose scrunched in mock disgust. "I'm going to be sick. f*ckin'stop. 'M serious."

Jisung's laughter subsides, replaced with a soft smile as he cups Minho's cheek gently. "I'm serious too. Don't dish out what you can't take,beautiful."

"Ew." Minho gags, feigning repulsion. "I'm about to shut you up withsomany kisses."

"Sounds like the best punishment ever~," Jisung chirps, cupping Minho's face with tender hands.MinhoMinhoMinhoMinho—

Minho's lips press carefully against his own, as if the second time, he might break Jisung. He's slow, agonizingly slow, and Jisung's starting to understand the "punishment" aspect of it all. Deviating from the kiss, Minho's hands are strong and gentle as they map out Jisung's back, cupping behind his neck, only to kiss him deeper. It feels nothing like the frenzied, teenage kissing that he's used to.

It's more mature, and it's too much yet not enough.

Jisung's had a taste of Heaven and doesn't want to go back.

Minho pulls away slowly, giving Jisung some time to blink the daze out of his mind.

"Do you mean it?" Minho mumbles, his eyes twinkling with curiosity.

Underneath all those layers of overconfidence and co*ckiness is a semblance of insecurity. Jisung feels honored to witness it, to help Minho repair what's broken inside of him.

After a silent beat or two, Jisung nods with a hum.

"You're themostbeautiful," he parrots, looking down at Minho through half-lidded eyes. "And—"

Jisung's voice hitches in his throat.You're using him, Jisung. He doesn't deserve someone like you.

You'll only ruin him. You'll only hurt him.

You need to take a break.

"And?" Minho asks, honey dripping from his smooth voice.

"And," Jisung steadies his breath. "We need to stop this. All of this."

Minho pulls away further, his irises trembling as he assesses Jisung's words. He looks wounded, broken, like he's been stabbed in the gut and Jisung had been wielding the blade.

"What the actualf*ck, Jisung?" Minho scoffs in disbelief, folding his arms. "Are you f*ckin' with me?"

Jisung gulps, unwilling to tell Minho the truth, but unable to lie. It's not far for Minho to lookthishurt, they've only gotten closer over the span of three weeks. Should they be something more? Is itsowrong to cut this off when it's become too toxic to handle?

Jisung doesn't accept himself. Hecan'taccept Minho. They shouldn't be together.

"Minho, you're great... but—"

"But you wanna' be 'straight' now, huh?" Minho rolls his eyes. "Jisung, you made out with me for half a f*ckin'hour!"

Jisung huffs, trying hard to come up with a decent defense. "I told you about how I felt... I–I was honest with you from the jump!"

"Yeah, 'cause ghosting me issohonest," Minho spits. "Get the f*ck off me."

Jisung obeys, mainly because with how Minho pushes him, he doesn't have much of a choice.

"I–I just don't know how I feel!" Jisung tries, which only makes the ugly scowl on Minho's face deepen.

"Youdo!" Minho shouts, fighting back frustrated tears, tone aggressive and tearing holes into Jisung's fragile heart. "Youknowthat you like me, but admitting that to yourself makes you f*ckin' hate yourself."

"I–I don't hate myself," Jisung argues.

Minho scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Be honest Jisung. You don't even remotelylikeyourself."

Jisung's jaw drops, a flash of hurt plaguing his features. He watches with half-angry half-apologetic eyes as Minho's frown deepens, shuddering as if he's about to cry. Guilt eats at Jisung's stomach, yes, but a part of him burns with envy—it'ssoeasy for Minho, he'd never understand.

"You're being unfair," Jisung spits, accusatory. "Not everyone can grow up with an accepting family."

Minho laughs, bordering hysteria. "You don't knowsh*tabout my family. I think you should go."

Something in Jisung's heart breaks at that. Instead of him voluntarily choosing to go, Minho actuallywantshim gone (and it's all his fault).

"Minho—"

"I don't f*ckin' care about what you have to say," Minho snaps. "I don't care anymore. Just get the f*ck out."

With no fight left in his system, Jisung leaves Minho's room. It takes a while for Minho to get up on his crutches and slam the door shut, which does nothing but stall the eventual heartache from watching the door slam in his face.

Why can't he be honest? Why does he hurt people every time he feels insecure?Minho's been nothing but patient with him and still, Jisung continues to shut him out.

All he knows is to run away from the truth when it scares him the most—when it threatens the ideals of perfection instilled into him at birth.

He doesn't deserve Minho's kindness.

He doesn't deserve Minho at all.

Admittedly, he has always been scared. When Minho first pressed his lips on his, it revealed everything about himself he's been battling so hard to suppress—tohide. He was so,soscared when Minho kissed him. But what terrifies Jisung the most as he stands outside Minho's door, is that helikedit. So much so that he couldn't stop, that he became an addict.

All addictions eventually end in ruin.

Jisung could have gotten lost in that feeling of Minho's lips on his a million times, with no map to escape the velvety, mushy feelings that build and burn at the pit of his stomach. It's driving himcrazy, but not more crazy than he's driving Minho with his inconsistent behavior. He's been leading Minho blindly along a tightrope only to cut it once they're near the end.

Unsure of what to do, Jisung just finds comfort in sitting outside Minho's door, listening to the endless clicks of his lighter intermingled with pained sobs.

He's never heard Minho cry like this. It's like his heart has been ripped from his chest and spat on. Maybe it was. MaybeJisungis the perpetrator.

Maybe he always has been.

As he sits outside of Minho's door, in the dark of Blossom Delights' kitchen, Jisung is left wondering.

How many times has Jisung hurt Minho trying to protecthimself?

Chapter 7: Kiss and Make Up

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ ❥

THE SUMMER OF 2006
Ending Summer Break

"Something up? You haven't eaten."

Jisung glances up from his soggy bowl of Frosted Flakes, having spent the latter portion of breakfast listening to the clink of his spoon against porcelain. When Jisung lifts his spoon, the cereal is brittle on his tongue, far too sweet, and nauseatingly so.

He hasn't eaten much ever since breaking things off with Minho. He hasn't been able to. His appetite never seems to accept the food it's given. All of his meals taste stale to the tongue.

John's expression betrays his concern—Jisung canfeelthe worry all the way from the other end of the dinner table (one that's decorated with faux fruit and glazed in a mahogany finish).

"Jisung...," John speaks again after Jisung's silent response. "Still not talking to me?"

"Nope," Jisung mumbles, words in tandem with rapidclink!s of his spoon against the bowl.

His breakfast doesn't resemble something edible anymore—rather, an ugly mess of gooey cereal that mirrors the mess in his heart. Heartbreak. It feels like Jisung's heart has melted into something unrecognizable, morphed into something worse than broken. If you break something, there's a possibility to glue it back together. You can't restore something that's been deformed back to its original state.

Jisung knows it hasn't truly broken. He knows that his heart is still the same volatile organ he's always known it to be and wishes he never had.

"C'mon, sport." John's frown droops, wrinkles protruding from his spotty forehead. "Your mom's coming back next month. Do youreallywant her to get involved?"

"No." Jisung's voice is small and weak, his throat tight and dry. It feels like he's at war with himself just tospeak.

John sighs, carding his fingers through his thinning hair. "Then talk to me. Please."

It's moments like these where Jisung feels a little bad; when his father desperately tries to get in and Jisung vehemently denies entry. John is trying, he knows that, but sometimes, trying isn't enough. Jisung still can't shake the past off his shoulders, still can't erase the evenings spent inebriated or the ridiculous spouting of Jisung's apparent need for a girlfriend.

All of John's current actions are stained with those of the past. Jisung can't ignore it—he can't ignore how ithurt. But maybe that's the problem. Jisung knows he can't forget, so instead, he just won't let John in. He'll ignore the elephant in the room until it trumpets so loud hecan'tignore it.

It's otherwise silent if you ignore Miss Celine shuffling about in the house, dusting the furniture to pristine perfection, and vacuuming the speckles of dirt from the floor.

"Jisung..." John, growing impatient, tries to spark conversation once more. It doesn't catch flame. "I can't stand seeing you like this. I'm your father. I want to see you happy."

"Yeah, well," Jisung pauses briefly, sipping slowly on a glass of orange juice. It's sour on his tongue, "you didn't care about me being happy when I opened up to you about being bisexual. You think I'm disgusting."

"I don't think you're disgusting." John's face pales, mouth agape in shock. "I never said that."

Jisung balls his fists, voice dripping with anger when he says: "Yeah, because betting on my sexuality being a 'joke' issomuch better."

The wounds are still fresh, the scars still tender, and John is spilling salt right into his gaping flesh. Itstings, itburns. No amount of bandaging can soothe the aching of his heart.

"I've apologized for that," John says, his gaze downcast. "Jisung... I've been misguided my whole life. But I'm trying to be better. I'm drinking less, I'm reading more. And it's for you, kiddo'."

Jisung's breath hitches. It's a little hard to breathe. His heart wants to trust, but his mind can't. If he takes any more blows, he mightdie.

It's far too late to accept now, isn't it? Jisung's body is already littered in the scars of his upbringing, the blatant indoctrination that influences his every thought. You can't reverse ideology that's been embedded into your brain since birth. You can't unlearn the principles that make you who you are—at least, not overnight.

Jisung needed this acceptance when Felix first publicly came out at thirteen. Instead, he's heard vile things about Felix and the Lees and thinly-veiled threats if he were to ever follow a similar path. For four years, Jisung has had tofightto stay friends with Felix, promising his parents that he wouldn't be a "bad influence".

Because being gay is wrong. Being 'openly out' is wrong. Jisung wasn't to have a similar outcome, hecouldn't.

But he did, and John found him humorous for it."Disgusting," "sinful," "immoral."A joke.

It's too late to accept now. You can't turn back the clock and undo the years of instilling 'the truth' into Jisung's mind via the Bible's word.

Even if he's in tune with his sexuality, you can't just make him 'okay' with it. Perhaps his father is in a similar boat, but Jisung'll still blame him for it.

"Why? Why now?" he asks.

"Because I love you," John responds, voice quivering. "And I want to be the father you deserve. Iwantto accept you. I want to support you, even if it doesn't always show."

Jisung's eyes sting. It's a strange sensation, one he can't quite describe. It feels like a tiny seed, interwoven in his heart. The seed isn't blooming yet, but it's growing, ever so slowly.

"I'm trying," John continues. "I don't think I'll evernotbe disappointed. I had a vision in my head that you'd be dating a chick in your grade and be killing it on the football team. It would be perfect."

John's eyes are distant, as if his vision is playing out in front of him. Jisung can't help but feel a little hurt—John's expectations were never his own. He signed up for football last yearforhis father, and quickly realized he'd never be a star athlete. He'd never be the mini-version of John that he sought out in his son.

"I'm sorry you didn't get the perfect son." Jisung frowns. It's silent at the breakfast table once more, an unreadable expression on his father's face.

"I'm sorryyoudidn't get the perfect father," John laughs. "I'm a drunk, I'm a hothead, and I can't even accept my own son."

"Dad—"

"But, you and Narae changed my life," his father interrupts, something fond swirling in his hazel irises. "I know, I'm a different person when I drink. I know, I can be scary. But if there's anything to trust me about, please, let it be this."

Jisung gulps, once again unknowing of what to say. John istryingto accept him, and that should be good enough. Jisung can feel the seed growing, growing and taking root in his heart. It's a strange, new sensation that feels a little like hope. Hope for a better future, a future where being his parents' mold of perfection isn't everything.

Maybe Jisung can finally find peace. Maybe he can eventually move on from the lessons that shaped his childhood. Maybe... it'll be a bit easier to choose happiness.

John reaches out, beckoning Jisung closer. Jisung hesitates for a moment, but eventually gives in and meets his father at the other end of the table. Wordlessly, John captures his son into an embrace, wrapping his arms around Jisung.

It's the first time he's been hugged by his father in awhile—it'd always been aggressive fist bumps and pats on the back.

But this... it's different.

"Can I ask you something?" John queries, petting Jisung's mess of dark hair with a warm hand.

It's all so overwhelming, Jisung feels like hecouldshed a tear, but doesn't. John isn't a completely changed man; he still hates seeing his son cry.

"What is it?" Jisung pulls back slightly, knitting his brows quizzically.

"Do you love him?"

It's a simple question, yet, it's enough to catch Jisung completely off guard. His shoulders tense, his eyes widen, and his mouth parts in a tiny 'O' shape.

"W–What?" Jisung sputters, face flushing crimson.

"The boy you kissed, does he mean a lot to you?" John rephrases the question, but it still holds that unbearable amount of weight that threatens to crush Jisung.

Love.It's a big word with small letters that Jisung can't even begin to conceptualize.

When it comes to Minho, Jisung has always been too scared to fully dive in, too scared to take the plunge and shoot at whatcould, one day, be love. Being 'straight' is safe, and nothing concerning Minho feels safe, except for the moments where he tucks Jisung into his arms and reassures him that itissafe.

Jisung won't be selfish. He knows that he can't have Minho back, not anymore. He's already burned that bridge, burned it to the ground and left it in ashes. But he still can't shake the longing, the feeling of being incomplete without the person who made him feel the mostalive.

Perhaps Minho was always a risk that Jisung should've taken.

Regardless, he was the risk that Jisung wasn't willing to take. Maybe he always was.

"I–I don't love him," Jisung says honestly. "But... he means a lot. I honestly wish he didn't mean so much. I'll only ruin it. I... I already have."

John ruffles his hair, a teasing smile on his face. "Trust me, it hasn't totally gone to sh*t."

"How do you know?"

Jisung doesn't see Minho again until July's completely whisked by, summer vacation coming to a close as it bleeds into August. He'd like to think he hasn't been ignoring Minho—hehasn't!—it just so happens that after declaring their break, they've completely split ways.

During the remaining weeks of July, Felix would provide very vague details about Minho's wellbeing. For the most part, things seem to be fine with the broken-legged brunet. For the most part.

Naturally, since Minho hasn't gone out of his way to see Jisung, and vice versa, the next time Jisung sees Minho is at the Marino Hills Tigers' first football game of the season.

John practicallybeggedJisung to get out of the house and tag alongside Felix and his friends at the first home game of the football season, because (quote)—"football iscool, Jisung! Just check it out, and if you don't like it, call me, and I'll pick you up."

Jisung is starting to regret ever coming along.

Football games have always been an enigma to Jisung. Half of the crowd isn'treallyhere for football, they're just looming around because the games have turned into social events. Guys come to ogle at the prissy cheerleaders, girls come to drool over the football players and their insane muscles, and casual high school football fans come to cheer their school on.

Jisung doesn't fit into any of those categories, out-of-touch with the appeal of it all.

He spots Minho on the bleachers, squeezed between his crutches, Ricky Campbell and Mitchell Price, watching the game intently as if theyactuallygive a sh*t about football. Ricky is blond, with a boyish look to him and goofy smile that reminds Jisung of a golden retriever. Mitchell's hair is golden brown, swept into a slick, curtain cut. And he'shot, not that Jisung wants him. But he's a senior, baseball player, and objectively hot.

Jisung pales in comparison, with his terribly lanky build, polo shirts too big, khakis too small—and hair that grows too much, too fast, and doesn't frame his face so nicely.

His only true friend is Felix Lee. Everyone else at school avoids him as if he's an infectious disease they don't want to catch.

Jisung doesn't care. He doesn't. Or, at least, he's damn good at pretending he doesn't.

He is completely fine with looking like Felix Lee's pathetic lapdog who's attached to the freckled blond by the leash. Jisung doesn't fit in with Felix either: he's a faux blond with impeccable fashion sense, and a deep voice that makes the ladiesswoon. Jisung is incomparable.

Jisung doesn't care. But... Mitchell Price has friends, alotof friends, and doesn't sulk in the shadows of others. And he's pressed up against Minho, giggling and laughing, barreling into each other with joyful tears heading at their eyes.

Jisung doesn't care though, he's certain he doesn't.

"Oh. My. God," one of Felix's girl friends, Kira Keyes, gasps. "Look at that babe! Leon Smith really had a glow up, sheesh!"

Sadie Martin, dressed in a bra masquerading as a crop top, wiggles her fingers with a squeal. "Ugh, Iknow. I'd totally bang him."

"Girl, wouldn't we all?" Kira laughs. "I wanna' see what's underneath that uniform.Justa peek."

"You guys are such f*ckin' slu*ts," Felix jokes, causing the trio to erupt into laughter.

Jisung tries his best to laugh along with Felix and his friends, but his bitter chuckles only exacerbates the truth: he doesn't fit in. While the trio obscenely gawk over the football players, Jisung can't help but feel like an outsider. He's never had such sexually charged thoughts about anyone, let alone a bunch of guys on Auerelia Bay High's football team.

It's moments like these that remind Jisung of his isolation, of the invisible wall that separates him from his fellow peers.

He glances at Minho and Mitchell once more, their bodies intertwined in a way that makes Jisung's heart twinge with jealousy.

Don't be selfish, Jisung. You're no good for him.

But... is it so wrong to seek closure? He and Minho ended things on dubious terms at best, uncertain of a clear conclusion. Jisung almost thinks of walking up to Minho, because if he did, it's not like Minho could run away from confrontation.

He stops himself. It only takes one look at the wide smile splayed on Minho's face for Jisung to retract his decision.

Don't. You'll only hurt him.

Jisung can actually picture Minho being with someone like Mitchell. Someone who can understand Minho in ways Jisung can't—perhaps, someone accepting of Minho's sexuality and comfortable in his own.

That's someone who Jisung isn't. He's not sure if it's someone who Jisung will ever be.

He wonders if it's normal to be a little sick at the idea of Minho being with someone else. Probably not.

"Hey, Jisung~," Sadie calls, snapping Jisung out of his reverie. She only ever talks to Jisung when she wants something. "Mind grabbing us some snacks? I'll give ya' twenty."

Begrudgingly, Jisung pockets the crumbled bill from Sadie's wallet, trudging off to the nearest snack stand.

A fifty-ton weight takes residence where his heart should beat, and he's not sure why. Perhaps, he wasn't ready to see Minho again, but it'd be impossible to ignore him, no? Maybe, it's the prospect of Minho being so close, yet so out of reach. Or, rather, it's the fact that he's still uncomfortable in his own sexuality.

Perhaps it's all of the above, or none of them at all.

They don't tell you that it'sthishard accepting that your sexuality deviates from the societal norm. Being gay is one thing, but bisexuality is a whole different beast. Knowing that youcouldhave the 'norm'—that you could fall for the opposite sex and no one would bat an eye—but your heart craves the abnormality you've been trying so hard to suppress. Knowing that you could, one day, have a biological family, but your heart pines for a touch that renders that dream impossible.

Jisung shakes the thoughts out of his head, nearing the concession stand—a garish display that overflows with overpriced snacks.

The concession stand is bustling with people, their chatter loud enough to drown the boisterous noise from the game in the distance.

As he squeezes himself in line, he can't help but feel envious of the football fanatics dressed in red, white, and blue; everyone here iswithsomeone. Everyone is chatting and laughing, enjoying the fruits of life without a care in the world.

Everyone except for Jisung, who's going into junior year withonefriend, who's out-of-tune with Felix's crude humor.

Jisung whips out his camera phone, threatening to call his father,beghim to stop by the football field, and take him home. Quickly, the idea is shut down: he'd look so pathetic if his father knew of the thoughts brewing inside of him.

And Jisungwantsto be cool. Somewhat.

When he returns to the bleachers with Sadie's snacks, the trio are no longer seated where Jisung remembers. The tsunami of teenagers have flooded to the parking lot, sharing liquor and overwhelming the air with their relentless chatter. It's typical halftime behavior, and Jisung wants no part of it.

Jisung shudders, finding a random seat on the bleachers. He'd rathernottread straight into the lion's den. He wouldn't last five seconds in that crowd.

But wait...

Scanning the bleachers properly, he catches on the fact that he's not the only lone ranger in the area. Sitting in the same spot as before, light breeze tousling brunet locks, is Minho Lee, who stares absently into the evergreen pitch.

Jisung hesitates for a moment, unsure if he should approach Minho.Don't be selfish,he tells himself, but it's a weak cry as he ditches Sadie's fifteen-dollar food and nears Minho's spot on the bleachers.

"Um," Jisung breaks the silence. He's not entirely sure what to say. "Hey, M–Minho. Mind if I sit?"

Minho looks up, surprise evident in his eyes. Under the sun's shimmer, his eyes glisten: a pool of honey.

Jisung's breath hitches in his throat. Even all these weeks later, Jisung feels like not a day has passed since they stopped talking. Minho isbeautiful.

"Jisung," Minho says softly, as if he's trying to fully process Jisung's presence. "Of course, sit."

Jisung plops down beside Minho, their shoulders barely touching. Goosebumps dot on Jisung's forearms from the crackling electricity alone. So close, yetsoout of reach. There's an awkward silence that stretches between them, heavy with a million words left unspoken.

"So, uh, how have you been?" Jisung queries, heart rabbiting in his chest. It's been long,toolong. Jisung forgets how to speak.

"Fine," Minho mumbles furtively. "I thought you'd ignore me the whole game."

Broken stammers jumble Jisung's words around like a game of Scrabble. What are words? Jisung can't find the right ones to say.

"I'd never," Jisung whispers. It's uncomfortable to be so close to Minho, to hear his own heartbeat pound in his ribcage, towantto touch and can't.

"But, you'd ignore me all summer?" Minho comments, words cutthroat. "Y'know, I still emailed you after everything."

Jisung bows his head, analyzing his shoelaces. "The point of a break is to take one, no?"

"You didn't really say it was a break," Minho counters, drumming his fingers on his thighs. "You kinda' just said we were done. Dick move."

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't," Minho interrupts. "I'msorry. I put a sh*t ton of pressure on you. You're right... you were always honest with me.Iwas being selfish.Iwanted more."

"I know the break was sh*tty though," Jisung mumbles. "But... I really needed it. They don't tell you that sexuality isthisconfusing."

Minho laughs, a giggly and airy sound that brings a small smile to Jisung's lips. "They really don't."

A comfortable silence stretches between them, giving Jisung some time to think.Thisfeels nice, sitting beside Minho, enjoying the warm winds of late-summer Californian sunshine.

For once,thisdoesn't feel wrong.

"So, you've been staying with your dad?" Minho queries, voice tinted with worry. "Psycho dad?" he adds.

"Yeah," Jisung nods. "But he's not... bad anymore. He doesn't drink as much. He's trying to be better."

"sh*t, really?" Minho gasps, finally meeting Jisung's gaze with those honey-glazed eyes. He snakes his arms around Jisung's torso, hugging him. "Aw, Jisungie, that's amazing~! I'm so happy for you!"

Jisung lets out a surprised sound, tentatively reciprocating the hug.Jisungie.The sound of his name on Minho's tongue, slathered in honey, sends a chill down Jisung's spine. Icy cold is juxtaposed by the boiling heat the flushes his body in pale reds; a furious blush that refuses to fade.

Having a crush is a funny thing. Weeks without seeing them provides the most overwhelming whiplash.

Jisung wantsmore.

"M–Minho," Jisung croaks, throat constricted. "I still like you."

Minho pulls away slightly, facing Jisung with pretty, parted lips. Speckles of red and blue confetti are sprinkled in his hair, brunet and tumbling off his forehead, stopping just short of his neck. Pink dusts Minho's cheeks, a gradient forming where blush meets bisque skin, kissed by the sunshine.

Minho Leeisthe sunshine.

And what is Jisung to do after tasting the sun? Settle for less? For artificial, sour, tangy, summertime drinks that claim to be the sunshine? Shall he make do with Sunny Delight?

Jisung expects rejection, his heart hammering nails into his flesh as he anticipates it. He expects Minho to say, 'Sorry, I have a boyfriend,'and forever feel inferior to Mitchell Price. A part of himwantsit even, to be rejected—to officially close the tumultuous story that is his relationship with Minho.

But, a shy smile tugs at Minho's lips. "I still like you too," he says.

Jisung is a bit dizzy, gaze flickering wildly between Minho's narrowed eyes and plush lips. Minho's eyes mirror Jisung's actions, his stare dripping with want.

Then, Minho pulls away.

Jisung hangs around the bleachers once the game is over, Auerelia High taking home a solid 9–3 victory on the field. He's giddy as he texts his father to pick him up an hour later, just so he'd have some time to catch up with Minho post-game.

The football game ends at seven thirty, but the tide of students doesn't clear until around eight thirty. Eventually, the water pools at Jisung's heels, and the coast is clear to see Minho after dark.

"Thought you wouldn't show," Minho teases, cracking open a bottle of offbrand liquor. He takes a slow swig, popping his mouth off the bottle with an 'ahh' sound. "Want some?"

Jisung nods, raising the bottle to his lips. The liquid is thick, bitter, tasting a little like burning isopropyl. It's like a wildfire down his throat, and Jisung sputters furiously, coughs aggressively, sticking his tongue out with a gag.

Minho chuckles, patting Jisung's back gently. "Easy there, champ. You'll get used to it."

Jisung has a nasty scowl on his face when he replies. "That was f*cking disgusting."

"'S worth it, though." Minho flashes Jisung a short-lived smile, taking another swig from the opaque, green, glass bottle. Jisung cringes at the sight. Ew.

"I hope you don't taste like that," Jisung says, eyeing Minho with a judging glance. "It's flavored like piss."

"Only one way to find out, right?" Minho asks, his voice sweet like sugar and smooth like velvet. He puckers his glossy, pink lips obnoxiously, reminding Jisung of a cartoon character.

Jisung recoils. "You're so... weird."

"You like 'weird', no?" Minho challenges, setting the alcohol aside with an echoedclink!.

"I do," Jisung admits, his cheeks boiling up—a blush that Minho (thankfully) can't see in the night.

So, to prove his point, Jisung tangles his fingers in Minho's t-shirt, and pulls him in for a kiss with minimal preamble.

Minho hums into Jisung's mouth, easing into the gentle rhythm. A restless hand fastens behind Jisung's neck, another soft against his jaw. And it comes with the secondhand taste of cheap booze: a smooth burn from tongue to chest, bitter with a hint of sweetness to it. It's mildly pleasant. And Minho's mouth also tastes rich, silken—caramelized butterscotch—like midsummer maturing into autumn, like a summer fling blossoming into something more, like coming back together, like returninghome.

Kissing Minho before felt like typical teenage liplocking; insatiable and messy; a jumble of feelings intertwining everywhere all at once.

Kissing Minho now...it's a feeling that Jisung never wants to get rid of.

It's a feeling he never wants to forget.

Is this how it feels...to love?

Chapter 8: Boyfriend and Girlfriend

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ ❥

THE SUMMER OF 2006
Situationship Concepts

"You're so," Minho drawls, peppering sweet kisses along Jisung's jawline, "f*ckin' lovely."

If you told Jisung at the start of the summer that he'd end the season in the lap of some (really hot) guy, he wouldn't have believed it. He might've laughed at it, crinkled his nose in disgust, and poked fun at the idea for being "gay sh*t," and by extension, something he'd never do. More bizzare than that, Jisung would've never believed that there was potential for love to be there—the same love he criticizes in cheesy rom-coms—he'dneverbelieve it.

Jisung mewls, accepting sloppy, open-mouthed kisses as if it's second nature. "Well, you're the one who makes me feel lovely."

"Bullsh*t," Minho curses, in-between kisses. "You're lovely all on your own."

To tell the truth, Jisung's not sure if what he's feeling is truly love. It'd be too soon to fall in love with Minho, no?

Perhaps it's a heart-bursting product of his naiveté because he hasn't felt anything like this before; it's possible that he's mistaken it all for love.

But...there's something about Minho that makes Jisung question everything he's ever known, ditching the ideals he's held tight for sixteen years and replacing it with something new.

It's not exclusively bound to the fact that Minho is his "gay awakening" (as Felix calls it), or the way simple touches ignite his body into volcanic flames. It's the way Minho looks at him—with so much adoration, Jisung feels special. It's the way he listens to Jisung's worries when he can't handle them on his own, really listens (even if it's pathetic), and remembers the small details for later.

It's terrifying to let his guard down...to jump into the unknown without a safety net. Jisung assumes that any consequences of this "summer fling" will be matters for Future Jisung Han to worry about.

For now, Jisung just wants to have fun. It's evident in how his backpack tossed carelessly on the floor, homework an afterthought as he spends the better half of the late afternoon lip-locking with Minho Lee.

"What time d'ya gottta' be home again?" Minho's breathless as he works down Jisung's neck, pecking, sucking, biting. "Let's not give your dad a heart attack."

"Four." Jisung's eyes flutter shut, teeth clamped into his lower lip.

"Four?" Minho gasps, a stupidly incredulous expression on his face. He quickly glances at the clock. "'S never that early," he whines. "It's already three-fifteen!"

"Oh, quit whining," Jisung teases, "you big baby. It's because my mom is coming home today."

Minho remains unimpressed, lips jutted into a small pout. "How am I going to get through my Calculus homework without my favorite smartass? Huh?"

"You'rethe senior," Jisung counters, flicking Minho's forehead. "You'll figure it out. I believe in you."

The pout doesn't budge, and Jisung has a strange urge to kiss it from his lips. He does. Minho breaks into a giddy smile, squeezing Jisung so tight, their hearts touch.

"I don't wanna' say goodbye," Minho murmurs, nose nuzzled into the nape of Jisung's neck. "I'll miss you too much."

Jisung laughs. Minho's...ridiculous. "Is that your attempt at being romantic? I'll see you tomorrow, won't I?"

Minho looks up at him through his long lashes, cheeks dusted a soft pink. His fingers perform a slow waltz in Jisung's messy, raven-black tresses. Minho hesitates, a flicker of a grimace gracing his features, a flash of uncertainty in his irises.

Jisung wants to ask, to pry; to peel him open 'til his fingers are sticky; but Minho never tells him when something's on his mind. There's an iceberg sitting there that blocks Minho's secrets, in the center of the arctic, refusing to melt for Jisung's entry.

Jisung only sees what Minho wants him to, and he's well aware of that.

"Yeah, of course," Minho finally responds after a suspicious minute. "Your mom's still a f*ckin' co*ckblock, though."

Jisung's face blanks, a little dazed, partially bewildered.Huh?Summer vacation has come to a close, and Jisung's still the same oblivious loser he went into it as. First, with the condoms, which he can assume has a sexual relation, and now...

"co*ckblock?" Jisung's brow furrows in puzzlement. "What does that mean?"

Minho's facial expression quickly goes from 'mock toddler tantrum' to mirroring Jisung's confusion. There's a hint of amusem*nt behind his parted lips and widened eyes. It makes Jisung feel a little stupid, like heshouldknow something and doesn't.

Like he's missing out.

"'S nothing," Minho says, waving a hand dissmissively. "Don't worry about it."

Jisung doesn't push the matter. It seems like an attempt at a joke that's fallen short. However, Jisung's wordless "response" allows room for a pregnant silence to grow—it lingers—eventually giving birth to anawkwardsilence that's uncomfortable to sit through.

The mood dies in the quiet, going from steaming hot to a bitter cold. Jisung's not sure what to say, wallowing in the secondhand embarrassment that Minho's failed joke causes.

"Um," Jisung clears his throat, climbing off of Minho's lap. "I–I should get going. Don't want my dad to freak,haha."

Jisung wants to evaporate and crumble to dust. He wants his skin to disintegrate into the ashes that grace the bottom of Minho's ashtray.

"Yeah, of course, go, I'll email you," Minho says, clearly plagued by the awkward atmosphere.

"Okay," Jisung replies. He slings his backpack over his shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow, Minho."

'I'll see you tomorrow, Jisung,'Minho doesn't say. Because Minho never promises a tomorrow. Even if he's always there to kiss the frown off Jisung's face and hold him under the late-summer's glows, heneverpromises tomorrow. As if he could disappear any moment.

Instead, Minho responds with a wordless half-smile, lips pursed into a soft grin. It reminds Jisung of plastic: fake.

'I'll see you tomorrow, Jisungie,' Jisung wishes he'd say. He's not sure why it bothers him so much, or why it feasts on his veins and triggers a ferocious storm within him. It's that sense of security he craves—reassurance that Minho isn't stringing him along, that he isn't showering him with love, only to abandon him altogether.

Only todisappear.

What Jisung has with Minho is new, it's beautiful, but most glaring of all, is that it's brittle. One wrong move, and it could all shatter into pieces.

The concept of 'tomorrow' is uncertain. Anything could happen and spark tragedy.

Hell, as Jisung speedwalks to the nearest bus stop, hecouldget hit by a car and become a bloodied mess on the asphalt. Then, his 'tomorrows' would be cut short—nonexistent—and his promises to Minho would fall short.

But, the way Minho acts, it's as if he doesn't even plan to experience 'tomorrow'. Like he's waiting for the drunken hit-and-run; left to be roadkill and the next sensationalized, teenage horror story to hit the news. Like he's already expected to leave Jisung once their spark fizzles out, once he gets bored, and Jisung no longer makes him happy anymore.

Or, perhaps, Jisung is paranoid.

Minho Lee is no Kijung Yang, and perhaps, Jisung should stop treating him as if their motivations were similar.

He can't help it.

Kijung left because Jisung, his own son, wasn't good enough. Because a two-year-old couldn't make his father happy—because Kijung was only ever miserable, just like his lover. And Minho could leave because Jisung isn't good enough for him; because Jisung doesn't make him happy enough; or, because Jisung can't make Minho laugh the way Ricky does, or smile the way Mitchell does.

Jisung bites back a vomit.Hold yourself together. It's not that serious.

But...

But what if?f*ck it.

Jisung fishes in his pockets for his camera phone, flipping it open and hastily dialing Minho's house line. Minho had given it to him through email, ordering him toneverdial the Blossom Delights line directly in all caps.

Needless to say, Jisung never thought he'dneedto call Minho.

The phone rings for a twenty-second interval that feels like five whole minutes. Jisung counts. On the twenty-first second, the line connects. Jisung exhales a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"Hello? Jisung?"Minho's voice is pleasantly surprised on the other end."Did you leave something over or—"

"Minho," Jisung interrupts. "I—" Jisung chokes on his words.

Ilove you.The words die out on his tongue; white sparkles fizzling and fading from a sparkler. The realization hits him like a freight train at full speed. He loves Minho; or at least, he was going tosayhe loves Minho; both outcomes of which are terrifying.

He suspects he's been 'in love' with Minho since the football game...but that isn't right, no? That's not how love works, right?

Love is a gradual thing, something that builds up over many months. A single summer of coming to terms with your sexuality and not evenseeingyour crush for a fair portion of it cannot lead to love. Love is more than that—it's otherworldly—it's nothing that Jisung is old enough to understand.

Then, what should Jisung call these feelings? It's easier to bury them into himself, to never acknowledge them. It's safer that way.

"You...?" Minho parrots, growing impatient. "C'mon Jisung, you're worrying me."

"I...um, I just wanted to say...," Jisung stalls, his tongue clinging to the syllables. "Can you come outside? Quickly?"

"Mm," Minho hums. "You're gonna' make the guy with a broken leg 'come outside quickly'?"

Jisung laughs, cherishing Minho's giggling that bubbles in afterward.

"Okay, okay, take your time." He's panting a bit as he speaks, breathes exasperated as he jogs back towards the small bake shop. "Just come out. I've got something to tell you."

"Why can't you tell me over the phone—?"

"Huh? What's that?" Jisung interrupts, mimicking a phone that's breaking up (or, rather, what he's observed in rom-coms). "You're breaking up Minho, I don't think I can hear you."

"Jisung, be serious—"

"Huh, what?" Jisung cuts Minho off once more, hanging up the phone before he can respond.

And then...he waits. He admonishes himself a bit too. This could go so wrong,could beso stupid—

The nerves melt away like snowflakes on a warm, sunny day, with Minho peeking his head through the door. Butterflies flutter in his chest to the best of Minho's crutches clanking all over the wooden floors, awkward and loud, but socomfortable.

"Okay?" Minho sighs, a brow co*cked quizzically. "What did you want to say—?"

Jisung kisses him.

Gentle fingers swipe beneath Minho's chin, another hand tucking loose strands behind his ears. The best way to describe it is comfortable, which is somewhat strange to Jisung because kisses are supposed to be anythingbutcomfortable, no? He expects the butterflies, the fireworks, the speckles of marigold sunlight and the odds of catching it, the whole shebang. He gets none of that.

It's comfortable. It's nothing grandiose, but it feels like an 'I love you'.

"Oh," it's soft and barely there when Minho pulls away—like a droplet of honey dripping from a bee's nest. "What wasthatfor?"

"No reason," Jisung chirps, watching a coy smile blossom on Minho's lips. "Just wanted to give you another reason to smile today~."

Minho rolls his eyes. "You're so corny," he cringes. "You make me smile all the f*ckin' time, Ji. I'm gonna' get wrinkles, seriously."

"You'd still be beautiful," Jisung mutters, evading eye contact in favor of his Converse sneakers.

Minho claps his hands to his cheeks, unfortunately not concealing the cherry-red blush that dusts his cheeks and flares at his ears. He giggles, honeyed sounds caramelizing the air, making it sweet.

"Go away, loverboy," Minho scoffs in a falsely annoyed tone. "You're so disgusting it hurts—!"

An interruption comes in the form of rapid-fire Korean, words tripping over each other in a teasing manner. "아이구, 민호야! 이게 뭐야? 넌 벌써 사랑해?"[Oh my, Minho! What's this? Are you already in love?]

Jisung eyes Minho, brows furrowed in confusion. He can catch a few words here and there, but nothing to the extent of fluency or understanding.

Minho's eyes widen, a groan slipping out of his mouth.

"할머니...그만해요!"[Grandma...stop it!]he whines.

"왜 그렇게 얼굴이 붉어져 있는거야?"[Why is your face turning so red?]she continues, snickering.

Minho's face blazes with embarrassment as he shoots a sheepish grin Jisung's way.

"She's just making fun of me," Minho explains, laughing nervously, "as per usual.Youshould head on home before the bus leaves."

"I'll go...," Jisung stalls a bit, "ifyou promise me that we'll see each other tomorrow."

Minho recoils, a flicker of surprise flashing across his features. "W–What? Of course?Jisung," Minho laughs dryly. "I wasn't like, going anywhere, and for the record I don't even knowwhyyou thought—"

"Minho," Jisung calls softly, reaching out to interlace his fingers with Minho's. "Just promise, okay? I don't need your explanations. I already feel stupid enough."

Things run fairly smoothly when Jisung's mother settles in. There's minimal chitchat about the contents of Jisung's summer, with John backing up hisincrediblysh*tty lies about SAT prep and impromptu community service events. They tiptoe around the existence of Minho, Jisung's "gay awakening" by proxy, and all the other wrongdoings that lie in the middle. There's no need to give his mother a heart attack on her first day back, right?

With Jisung withholding the contents of his summer, there's more room for his mother to talk about hers. So, for the better half of the dinner, Jisung's mother rambles on about business opportunities in Kentucky, and how the prices are cheaper than they are in California.

"So, are you saying we should move?" John asks, digging into a failed attempt at making a 'romantic dinner' for the night. "We canaffordthe house, Narae."

"Not quite," Narae responds, picking at her meal. Her thick, Korean accent is slathered all over her syllables—it'sonething that Jisung can understand. "But we could probably afford a larger home in Kentucky. I'm not saying we have to move, but it would give Jisung a fresh start."

Jisung chokes on half-burnt macaroni, eyes wide as he becomes the focal point of conversation.A fresh start? Jisung doesn'tneeda 'fresh start'. Not when he's finally coming to terms with who he is.

He grimaces. "Sure, mom,haha, sounds like something I totally need, you know?"

"That's exactly what I was thinking!" Narae beams, clasping her hands together. "A new school, maybe we could try football again, like your father always wanted? You could make more friends~."

Jisung's smile tightens, teeth grinding together slowly. His hand grips onto the fork a little too tightly, his knuckles white. His heart belts a tune,thump, thump, THUMP!ing in his chest, fingertips twitching nervously. A new school? More friends? The thought is a nightmare manifestation waiting for his eyelids to seal. The thought terrifies him.

Sure, he doesn't fit in, and people act like they can't pronounce his name, but he's used to it.

Porcelain screeches as his fork meets his plate, pushing his food around to stall. A fresh start...is that what he needs? And if so, what would that mean for his 'situationship' (as Felix calls it) with Minho?

Jisung's heart cracks a little when he notices John drawing a sip straight from the Jack Daniel's bottle.

"Narae, it's important tomethat we let Jisung stay in Marino Hills," there's no fight in his voice when John speaks. "He can make more friends right where he is."

"Jesus, John," Narae laughs bitterly. "It was just a suggestion! What? Is there something going on that I don't know about?"

Jisung glances nervously at John, praying that even through a tipsy haze, his father wouldn't let the truth slip.

"No, there's nothing going on," John replies. "Jisung has been through a lot. It's about time we give the kid some stability, no?"

"Stabilitylooks like having friends of your stature," Narae counters, tight lips downturned into a frown. "Felix Lee is not of Jisung's stature. Come on, both of you have to see that."

Sure, there's some truth behind Narae's words. Felix lives on the other side of Marino Hills, where houses are smaller and clean neighborhoods are harder to come by. Felix Lee is hyperfocused on boys, skimpy clothes, and sex, when Jisung couldn't be less educated on the topic.

Sure, by extension, they're polar opposites. But they weren'talwaysthat way.

When Jisung and Felix were in middle school, and Jisung was just beginning to get more freedom from his parents, they'd spend the afternoons roleplaying with Felix's neon-colored stuffed animals. And while Jisung always poked fun at his best friend for being "girly," there was a part of him that enjoyed it too—that craved a feminine touch to his character.

They weren'talwaysso polar. Felix and Jisung used to be one sour strawberry juxtaposed to another sweet one. Now, they're apples and oranges.

"All I'm saying," Narae says after a long silence, "is that Jisung would thrive in a place where more people arelike him. The Lees just don't understand how our household operates."

John takes another swig straight from the bottle.

"We've complained about them for years, Narae. It's about time we just let them be."

"Yeah, well," Narae huffs, standing up from the table. "Those parents failed that kid. It's like child abuse: raising your kid against God's word."

Jisung shudders, thumbing at the spot on his lips where Minho's met last. The room falls silent once more, Narae's words transforming into a tiny troupe that batters the back of Jisung's brain. A failure. It's like his mother is condemning him without even realizing it, her words wrapping around his neck with no reprieve.

"I...I think I'm going to head up to my room," Jisung murmurs. The floor screeches as he pushes his chair in.

"Jisung wait," John says, setting the bottle down with a thud. "Aren't you going to finish your food?"

"Nope." Jisung shakes his head. "Not hungry."

Jisung doesn't wait for his parents' response: likely a handful of sour statements masquerading as apologies.

Instead, he darts into his bedroom where the tension isn't as stiff and the air feels easier to breathe in.

If you told Jisung that his parents would explode into an argument the moment Narae returned home, he would've believed it. He would've also requested a new pair of noise-cancelling headphones, since his current ones don't do the job well enough.

An argument ensues; almost as if it's natural; bubbling up like a fiery volcano at eruption.

It's the "I wish I never met you!"s all over again.

It all feels a little numb, slightly surreal, to the point where Jisung can't cry about it. The sound of glass crashing against the floor is a tuneless lullaby, and the screaming amidst anger-induced insults combine to create the song of his parents' marriage: one that should've ended alongtime ago.

Jisung presses a pillow to his ears.

"You know, I always liked the idea of a forbidden romance~."

Late at night, after his parents have gone to sleep, Jisung phones Minho again, more or less drunk on the sound of his voice. Jisung pops open the bottle cap, and becomes a full-fledged alcoholic from the taste alone—pure velvet, sweet honey, smooth silk—all combined to create the co*cktail of Jisung's dreams. Every syllable is dipped in honey, caramelized gold that colors his wordssoprettily.

Minho's voice is Jisung's favorite song.

His computer screen bathes the bedroom in a gentle, bluish hue. He snuggles beneath tangled bedsheets, because despite summer heat breathing into the air, Jisung cannot sleep without a bedsheet.

"Forbidden romance, huh?" Jisung laughs, hushed, as if he's worried he'll wake his parents. "My mom will literally kill me if she finds out you exist."

"It'll be our little secret then, yeah?" Minho asks sweetly, voice flowing through the line like velvet. "You're like...the Rapunzel to my Flynn. I'll save you from that wretched tower!"

Jisung snorts, "You're such a dork."

But even as he says it, he's already picturing himself as the damsel in distress, waiting for his prince charming to save him at the end of the day.

Forbidden romance has always been an intriguing concept; the idea that if that love is kept secret, no one can ever take it away.

Simultaneously, Jisung wishes he could show Minho off, share their kisses before watchful eyes, rub it intoeveryone'sfaces who had the chance and let Minho go anyway. They're idiots.

"I'm your dork, aren't I?"Minho queries."And you're my princess~,"he singsongs. Jisung chokes up.

"W–What the f*ck?" Jisung sputters, eyes blown wide, incredulous. "Are you high?"

(It's not a far-fetched question! After all, Minho does smoke a lot.)

Minho tsks, and Jisung fights the urge to roll his eyes. "Careful Jisungie, princesses don't swear."

Jisung can practically hear the smirk in Minho's voice, and it only serves to fuel his annoyance.

"This one does," he spits, feigning annoyance.

"Oh? So you admit you're a princess?"Minho teases, adding more wood to the fire; more jet fuel to the engine.

Jisung's palm kisses his forehead in a smack that hurts way more than he'd like to admit. He groans.

"God, you're annoying," Jisung carps. Still, he can't hide the goofy smile that stretches across his mouth. "Why do I like you?" he sighs, exasperated.

Minho chuckles, a low, throaty sound that sends shivers down Jisung's spine. "Only 'cause I'm irresistible, obviously. And...hm...actually, that's all I think."

"Irresistible? More like a narcissist."

"Your narcissist~,"Minho counters in a singsong.

Jisung snorts, but the sound is more endearing than anything. Despite his protests, Jisung knows he's lost the battle. One reason: because Minho Leeisirresistible, that's a fact, an undeniable one.

"Fine, fine," Jisung concedes, a soft smile playing on his lips. "You win, narcissist.Mynarcissist."

Minho's voice softens, taking on a gentleness that tugs at Jisung's heartstrings.

"And you're my everything, Jisungie~," he whispers, almost reverent.

Oh.Oh.

Jisung's heart dances like a feather caught in the wind, struggling to keep afloat—to remain sane—lest it sink into the abyss of uncertainty. He wants to unravel the underdeveloped springbloom that is his relationship with Minho, but he shouldn't. He knows that. Still, each heartbeat sings a different tune, stringing together a contradicted symphony with conflicting desires.

Tolovemeans to love freely, to intertwine fingers in the middle of the courtyard and not care about the scrutiny that might follow. Still, he's so scared, terrified, even—and even if he feels the love waiting to burst from his chest, is heableto love?

Jisung's mind races. It crosses the finish line.

I love you Minho, I love you Minho, I love—

"Minho," Jisung gasps, breathing without air. "You're my everything, too."

"Oh–em–gee,"Minho squeals."We're like the modern day Romeo and Juliet."

Jisung huffs, amused. "That's a tragedy, isn't it? Though you'd be more optimistic about...us...I don't know."

Minho's laughter rings through the speaker, warm and dripping with honey like hot cocoa on a chilly winter's night. Jisung wants to hold it close, hold itforever, so he can listen to it whenever he's down.

"I don't mean literally,"Minho chuckles."We'll be the Romeo and Juliet that get a happy ending."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They fall into a comfortable silence, the crackle of the phone line filling the space between them.

Minho yawns.

"Jisungie, 'M tired," he whines. (Jisung's said this a million times by now, but he finds Minho adorable.)

"Becauseit's past your bedtime," Jisung chastises. "If you want to recover quickly, you have to rest."

Minho grumbles. "Fine. Going to bed in 3–2—"

"Wait!" Jisung interrupts, voice sounding far more desperate than he would've liked.Hold yourself together, Jisung."Just one more thing."

Minho sighs dramatically. "What is it? Now you're cutting into my beauty sleep!"

"Ignoring that," Jisung says, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt. "But...like...are we boyfriend and girlfriend now?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you want, Ji," Minho's words are slathered in a drawn-out yawn."I'll be your girlfriend, or whatever it is you want."

Jisung can't help but squeal. "Really?"

"Really,"Minho echoes."Now, I'm off to bed. G'night Jisungie."

"Oh, um, goodnight Min—" The call ends.

Jisung clutches his phone to his chest, his heart beating so hard it could launch the device into the air. Boyfriend and girlfriend. To some, it may seem trivial, because every high school junior has at least had one girlfriend or boyfriend. The closest thing that Jisung had to a relationshipbeforeMinho was Felix; and F.Y.I, Felix Lee and Jisung Han were never meant to be. Ever.

But now, he and Minho are more than just a 'situationship', they're dating! And if that's not a milestone, Jisung doesn't know what is.

I...HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!!!

Chapter 9: Corset of Whale Baleen

Chapter Text

act one: the interlude.

Love.

The concept of love is mythic: a fairy tale stuffed with inconsistencies and unrealistic consistencies that makes it nothing more than something only the children believe in.

Jisung supposes that he's living his fairy tale.

His heart has been torn open—red and fleshy—an unending torrent of emotion that's indescribable in words.

Itfeelslike love, like the out-of-reach spark that flickers when all Jisung has known is darkness. It's the first ray of sunshine that filters through bleak curtains; a kiss of warmth that graces broken skin.

It's too good to be true.

It's like tunnel vision, in an ever-perfect world where nothing bad happens as you fall further, fallharder. It's indescribable In monosyllabic terms; it's out of this galaxy; the hormonal high pales in comparison to psychedelics.

It's the painkiller after a surgery. It's the reason behind every dopey smile...or most, at least.

Love is a concept that Jisung Han doesn't understand quite yet. But that's alright. Sometimes you don't understand how you feel.

Sometimes it drives you insane, to the point where you're gripping at abused hair strands, clinging to the semblance of sanity you once knew. Sometimes you're begging your brain to simplyobeyand evict your special "person" from their residence in your head.

Sometimes, the fact that you don't just 'get it' frustrates you.

"I love you"s hold the weight of a million implications. The words feel foreign on his tongue, almost dead.

The statement blossoms in his irises, drowning Minho Lee in tawny, fond gazes that whisper"I love you"s unspoken. The truth dances along bisque skin, shooting lightning rods into Jisung's fingertips when they hold hands. "I love you"brews in his mouth, ready to be spilled into Minho's with a simple kiss.

Still,"I love you"is the sentence that dies out on his tongue.

(For f*ck's sake, Felix gets back together with Eli–f*cking–Anderson and exchanges "I love you"s within a week. Aweek!)

Jisung's seventeenth birthday swung by, and he stammered a jumbled mess of syllables when he really meant to say"I love you." He baked a cake with Minho from dawn until dusk, the phantom of Minho's warm hands forever embedded into his skeletal bones.

Jisung had never baked a cake before, but that's the crazy thing about love: it makes you do things you'd otherwise never do.

Love is an escape; a new home to seek refuge in while your life slowly shatters to pieces.

By the time Jisung turned seventeen, his family had already been at rock-bottom.

Arguments blast through the household almost every day, all centric around petty things like finances and Jisung's future. Explosive curse words masquerade as"I love you"s, and week-long breaks from each other pretend they're 'for the better'.

And Jisung watches from afar, studying each dejected facial expression from his father as he turns to alcohol once more. As John drinks his liver to a crisp—until it's nothing but speckles of ash.

Mornings are spent drunkenly rambling about a girlfriend that Jisung doesn't have and neverwillhave. Evenings are spent apologizing for inappropriate language and insisting that he loves Jisung regardless of his sexuality.

Love. It's a funny concept. Jisung's unsure what that looks like in his household.

Jisung often lies to his mother about his whereabouts. And if there's one fact he knows about love, it's that you don'tlieto the people who you claim to love.

With Minho, things are different. He can tell Minho anything, so he tells Minhoeverything.

Simultaneously, Jisung knows nothing about Minho. Minho pirouettes around talking about his family, or why he doesn't live with them. Minho dodges the truth when Jisung discovers the tiny slits on his chest—ones he insists are from the shower.

Minho is a fragile vase, one that cracks with each push, each press, every query for the truth that Minho refuses to tell.

It leaves Jisung questioning.

Is it true love if you can't be honest?

Rather, is it possible to fall for someone who, outside of meticulously crafted personas, you know nothing about?

❥ ❥ ❥

THE FALL OF 2006
A Monster

❥ ❥ ❥

It has been one month. One month since dating Minho Lee. Six weeks. Forty-one days.

Not that Jisung's counting.

Marino Hills transitions from blazing heatwaves and typical Californian wildfires to cooler temperatures, golden tree leaves, and crisp, chapped kisses shared in empty school stairwells.

It's October, and the garish, chartreuse tree leaves have detached from their branches, replaced with all shades of red, orange, and emerald green.

Downtown Aurelia's streets are alive with the sound of laughter as people savor the last of the warm weeks before winter. The scent of pumpkin spice wafts in the air, as people sip them in coffee shops and cafes, accompanied by miniature pumpkin pies to solidify the mood of the season.

Jisunglovesautumn. Californian summers are too hot, winters are too inconsistent, and spring is too...pollinated.

Autumn's the season of crimson blushes, cherry-tipped noses; soft kisses while playing in the leaves in the morning; and late, chilly, walks while the sun sets, leaving a burst of orange and red tinges splitting the horizon.

Autumn's the season of warmth within innocent embraces, warm morning coffees, and even warmer smiles.

(And warm butterfly-esque feelings about Minho Lee, but that's neither here nor there.)

Jisung's boots crush the leaf pathway underfoot, hands in his pockets as he whistles along to Justin Timberlake'sMy Love.

(Felix is under the belief that dating Minho has turned Jisung into a sappy romantic.)

He saunters past a couple of shops, most of them already being "in season" since August, advertising Halloween costumes and other on-trend trinkets. Restaurants and bakeries advertise their new pumpkin-themed treat that they'd love for him to try, splayed on orangey-red posters that justscream"fall spirit".

"Do your parents know that you're..." Jisung's voice gets captured by the wind, dying out in its chill howls.

"Gay?" Minho co*cks a brow, his fresh, auburn bangs swaying over his eyes. (It's a little bit of brunet, a tinge of red, and it suits himsowell.) "You don't have to say it like it's a bad word, Jisungie."

Jisung's fingers are a little clammy, interlaced in Minho's as they take an after-school stroll back to Blossom Delights. Two weeks ago, fourteen days ago, Minho got his cast taken off in favor of a walking boot that awkwardly clanks against the pavement. Funny thing is, Minho can hardly walk, taking unsteady steps as he struggles to keep up with Jisung's pace.

Luckily, if Minho continues to recover, he should have his boot off by his birthday. Maybe then, Jisung can watch him dance. Like Minho promised.

Jisung shrugs. "I–I know, it just seems like a touchy subject, I don't know. You never talk about your parents."

"I don't," Minho admits, an eerie smile gracing his lips that reminds Jisung of his mother.Too Perfect."That fact alone should tell you where I stand with 'em. They think I'm going to Hell."

Jisung grimaces, recognizing the sentiment all too well. It's been engraved, beaten,etchedinto his skull with inky lettering—that God created man to be with woman, and not man. Defying the Bible's word is a ticket and Fast Access Pass straight to Hell. Jisung recognizes the expression hiding behind Minho's hollow irises; wanting to crawl out of your own skin andbesomething different, something accepted. To this day, Jisung can't put a word to it.

"Oh," Jisung says, simply because there's nothing else to say. His brain forgets how words function. His mouth forgets to speak.

"Yeah," Minho responds. "It's why I've been living in a f*ckin' shop for the past few years. My parents kinda' kicked me out when they found out."

Anger bubbles beneath Jisung's skin, his body threatening to erupt into flames. Jisung isn't hot with rage, he's borderlinevolcanic.

"But...they should accept you! That's not fair!"

Minho snorts, bemused, "What, likeyoudid?"

Jisung freezes over, almost as if Minho stuffed his system with icy glaciers to cancel out the molten lava that took residence prior. The air is knocked out of his lungs, jaw hung open, eyes blown wide in shock. (Seriously, he looks like a posterboy slapped onto the advertisem*nt of a cheesy Halloween film.)

"That's not to be mean, Jisungie," Minho reassures. "'S just that...people can't handle what's not normal."

As if on cue, their hands part as a couple rounds the corner, eyeing them suspiciously.

Jisung embeds teeth imprints into his tongue. He wants to tell Minho that 'it's alright' and that there's nothing wrong with him, but he can't. Even if being hom*osexual is perfectly normal, Minho's living in a society that still views it as taboo. Jisung's unsure if having feelings for other men willeverbe seen as normal.

"So...they just kicked you out?" Jisung asks, tentatively, as if he's slowly ripping the band-aid from a fresh wound.

"Sorta'." Minho shrugs. "It's either I live with 할어니[Grandma], or I do therapy at the church. Turns out parentsdon'tlike it when their son sleeps with half of Marino Hills' male population."

Jisung recoils. He can't help the half-disgusted, half-surprised"What?"that bursts from his mouth.

"It's an exaggeration, of course," Minho laughs as if it's nothing. As if itmeansnothing. "It's more of what they think...versus what actually happened."

"Oh." Jisung stretches their distance ever-so slightly. "I–I didn't know."

Minho stops abruptly, yanking Jisung back in his step as if he were attached to a leash.

"Does it bother you?" he asks, his face devoid of expression. He looks so...empty.

"Doeswhatbother me?" Jisung counter-asks, partially-parrots.

"That 'M not a virgin," Minho's voice falls to a mumble, his irises curtained by long eyelashes, his eyes trained to the cracks in the concrete. "And don't tell me what I wanna' hear. Behonest."

Jisung's throat bobbles with a slow gulp. They're teenagers, so naturally, the prospect of sex is uncomfortable for Jisung to stomach. It shouldn't matter, he knows that, but itdoesmatter. It's even a little unreasonable for the bile to grow lumpy in his throat, but it does anyway. They're only teenagers; andsomuch could go wrong with underage, premarital sex; yet Minho loved anothersodeeply that he gave up his body to them.

Jisung wants to throw up. He doesn't.

"I–I mean, I just heard you can get AIDs," Jisung mumbles, picking anxiously at his fingers.

What is hesupposedto say? He's no genius. There's no way to turn back the clock to make surehewas Minho's first, or some idealistic sh*t like that.

Frankly, he doesn't care. He doesn't. Why would he?

"Uh, yeah," Minho chuckles. Like he's being held at gunpoint. "That's why you wear a condom, duh."

Jisung grimaces, his teeth grit into a slow grind, and eyebrows knit tightly.

"No way," Minho gasps, a little incredulously. "Don't tell me you don't know what acondomis."

Jisung's heart sinks in his chest, something akin to embarrassment building up underneath his skin. He suddenly feels out of place, suddenly stupid, forever out-of-step with basic teenage knowledge. And even more out of place when he declares himself the only teenager tonotknow what a condom is.

So embarrassing.Jisung frowns, fiddling with his fingers in his pockets.

"Jisung...did you learnnothingin SEX-ED?" Minho jabs further.

If Jisung weren't wallowing in so much shame, he'd mention how he associates Minho's laugh with springtime air and the permabloom of resplendent flowers. He doesn't. He's too consumed by feeling like an absolute idiot to evenconsiderit.

"I learned a little bit," Jisung mumbles. Minho's gaze is the plague and he's doing an excellent job at avoiding it.

"Aw, don't look so—I dunno'—down," Minho says, the tease still evident in his voice. "There's nothin' that you don't know that I can't teach you."

Jisung can'treallytell whether or not Minho's words are another one of his (lovely) jokes, or if he's being serious. Words don't weave sentences together in his brain.

Thankfully, leave it to Minho to fill an awkward silence with conversation. He balances out Jisung's shoddy social battery pretty well.

"You still didn't answer my question," Minho adds. "Does it bother you?"

"Does it matter if it bothers me?" Jisung answers in an ask.

Minho laughs nervously. "Uh, duh? You shouldn't date someone, who's like, a whor*."

"Hey!" Jisung chastises, nudging Minho softly. "That's my boyfriend you're calling a whor*."

"'Cause heisone." Minho rolls his eyes, insistent. "You'd have a f*ckin' aneurysm learning about my past."

"Noted," Jisung gulps.

Sometimes, Jisung worries that he's fallen for an idea rather than a person. A fantasy rather than the tangible reality before him. Even with a wounded leg, Minho effortlessly pirouettes around every topic Jisung throws at him—a dancer left to waltz without a partner. And Minho isawfulat it, because Jisung reads between every thin line and transparent curtain that cases the truth.

That Minho Lee is a liar. That Minho Lee is crafted of plastic skin, left to be shattered pieces in Jisung's hands. That Minho Lee is a person, made up of imperfect flesh and organs, masquerading as a children's doll.

That Minho Lee is perfect.Too Perfect.

But that perfection (alleged) comes with fragility. Maybe, if Jisung pokes enough, the crystalline, glass ball will crack and expose every last secret hidden behind pretty lips and honeyed lies.

(Minho posts cryptic statuses on MySpace once in a while. When Jisung inboxes him about it, Minho is quick to brush it off with a signature"I'm fine.")

It's silent the rest of the way to Blossom Delights. Jisung is tangled in the spiderweb of his thoughts, and Minho is just...acting weird (as per usual).

"See you tomorrow?" Jisung asks, standing below a pastel marquee, Minho standing in the doorway.

Minho steals a quick kiss from Jisung's lips, soft and gentle and tasting of sunflowers in an amber field.

"I'll email you," he responds, a pretty smile dancing on his lips. "Get home safe~."

"But, Minho, I—"

SLAM!The front door shuts.

It's the beginning of October when Jisung officially equates autumn with the beating of his forever-crimson heart. It's the beginning of October when Jisung realizes that he's okay with being a sinner if it means he could have something soreal.

How to make someone fall in love with you...|

How to know if someone loves you back...|

How to...|

Jisung's Calculus homework assignment is shoved into the wrong folder, locked away in his backpack, shoved into the corner of his room. For the past few hours—when heshould'vebeen studying for an exam tomorrow—he's been on Google, frantically typing out questions he'd never ask aloud.

It shouldn't matter if Minho loves him. It shouldn't matter, because it'sgay, and because they shouldn't be doing any of this to begin with.

The all-too-perfect family portrait stares him down with a glare of daggers. Jisung slams it facedown, refusing to face his mother's silicone smile, or his father's equally plastic-y one, their arms entangled around their son.

Their perfect son. Theirimperfect son.

A child birthed of blasphemy—of Satan's blood. Jisung's got more hunger than his body can hold, and has been eating from the Forbidden Tree for weeks. Bloated with want. Bloated with sin.

"5 Signs Someone is in Love With You," Jisung reads off his computer screen. Short, simple, straight to the point. Eagerly, he clicks on the article.

Jisung continues to read aloud. "Hint: it's not just buying you cute little gifts?"

He eyes a shelf that used to be packed with SAT 'self-study' books, now topped with every last gift from Minho. Favorite mangas, jewelry hecan'twear because...it's gay, cat toys he'll never use, and other random trinkets that Narae mistakes for clutter.

Well...Minho buys me 'cute little gifts.'

Jisung shakes his head, scrolling down further to read the list of things and—

1. They Maintain Eye Contact When Doing "It."

Jisung chokes up on nothing, like an elastic band that's just snapped.

He's dense when it comes to most things 'sex,' but there's no mistaking what the writer's intention is with the sh*tty infographics showing stick figures in sexual positions.

Jisung and Minho haven't done "it". Maybe theyneedto do "it" to solidify their love.

How do gay people even do "it"?, he queries. He doesn't want to Google the answer.

Does Minho want sex from me?It has to be why Minho's been acting so weird. Maybe, it's Minho who thinks thatJisungdoesn't love him back, solely because they haven'thad sex. If they're supposedly in love, making love falls under that somewhere...

Right?

Unable to quell his curiosity, Jisung spends the better half of the hour searching up a myriad of terms: condom (which lands him on'How to Use a Condom', featuring a rubber-encased Banana), and co*ckblock (which he finds out is a term for someone who interruptssex).

Jisung's heart drops to the pit of his stomach: he's such a sh*tty boyfriend, worse than the worst.

How could he not see the signs? Is Minho's wintry distance a result of boredom—?

KNOCK! KNOCK!

Jisung doesn't have much time to ponder over his relationship, Minho Lee, and teenage sex, as he's rudely interrupted—orco*ckblocked—by two knocks on the door. Knocks that sound like thuds. Knocks that vibrate into the soles of his feet. Knocks that are enough to make him flinch.

Jisung's breath hitches in his throat as he minimizes browser tabs, only successful after a few frantic clicks.

He's expecting the worst as he clicks open his bedroom door—and rightfully so—as he's met with his sickly-looking father, scalp greasy with sweat, and breathreekingof alcohol.

Jisung recoils, eyes clamped open. "D–Dad?"

"I think 's time we chat, son," John slurs out, words meshed in a drunken stupor. "Father–to–son, about this...issue."

"I'm sorry?" Jisung's voice dies in his throat.

He's petrified as his father finds home in his bedroom. Drunk. Drunker than he's ever been. Since his mother's return, Jisung's noticed that his father had slipped into relapse, but it's never been this bad. Not in the same ballpark. Not evenclose.

"Your mom's stayin' at Miss Anne's tonight," John says. Jisung loosely remembers Miss Anne as one of their rich neighbors. "So I figured that we ought to chat. Father–to–son."

"You...you,um, you said that already," Jisung stammers. Simply because he has nothing else to say. Is he in trouble?

"Don't get smart wit' me, kiddo'," John's voice raises a dangerous octave. "This sh*t's serious."

Jisung's heart slams against his ribcage, feeling like an open gunshot wound right in his chest. Why is his father here? What does he want?

"I know 'bout Minho Lee," John booms, leaving Jisung confused. Minho was never a secret to his father. Never has been. "And Iain'thappy 'bout it. Your momma' ain't gonna be happy either."

Jisung feels an icy chill run down his spine.

No. Nonononono—

"Did you tell her?"

"No. Not yet," John slurs, placing his bottle of Jack Daniel's atop his desk. "But she's gonna' be real disappointed to find out her son's a fa*ggot."

Jisung scoffs, surprised. "Awhat?"

In the next second, he's cornered into a wall, his father completely towering over him. "Need me to repeat it for ya'? f*ckin' fa*g."

"I'm not—Dad,I—"

"Shut up!" John yells, hot breath and saliva down pouring onto Jisung's face. "I'on want a fa*ggot in this house, you hear me?!"

"I want to be the father you deserve,"John had said once."I want to accept you."

Maybe, behind all the ounces of liquor in his blood, that accepting father is still in there.

Jisung balls his fists. "Dad, I–I love him. Youknowthat."

It's not a complete shock when the words roll off his tongue, but hearing it aloud makes it more real, more tangible.

Jisung's unsure if that's a good thing.

Especially when the bedroom is audioed by the sound of palm-against-skin, hand-against-cheek: an ill-intentioned slap.

The first time Jisung is hit by his father, it's when night has already slammed into the wall—dark and crisp and chillingly cold. Tears stream down bruised cheeks; saltwater on his tongue, kerosene on his face. Fingers move without a body, hands tentative as they gather around the burn, scared to touch. For once he dips his fingers into the volcano, it all becomes real: the pain, the hurt, the heartache. His nose drinks a full bottle of Jack Daniel's, shriveling up, almost allergic.

When Jisung finally opens his eyes, the man before him is no longer his father. The man before him is no longer a man.

Could it be God? Maybe, in some twisted realm that masquerades as Heaven, the pain is deserved.

In a world where "I love you"s are baseless. In a world where "I love you, son" is meaningless.

A world where the Bible is the only book his father knows. A world where Jenna Benson'sHow to Support Your LGBTQ+ Childmeans nothing.

Drunkenness is a disease. A plague. A poison.

The man before him is no god, nor an iteration of one.

The man before him is amonster.

And Jisung is unsuspecting prey, his torso held together by a corset of whale baleen, unclean skin threatening to peel from his body.

Minho doesn't question it when Jisung shows up at Blossom Delights in the middle of the night. With slight confusion on his face, Minho sleepily accepts frantic, open-mouthed kisses, perched atop some random counter in the shop. He knows. Or, maybe he doesn't know, and just doesn't ask.

"Hey, you~," Minho grumbles, pulling away with tired eyes. "'M flattered," he yawns, "y'know, that you came to see me, but—"

Jisung steals Minho's voice from his mouth, his salted, tear-stained lips meeting Minho's in the muted darkness. Minho hisses as Jisung's cold palm slides under an oversized tee, his fingertips dancing over the tiny, wet slits that are weaved into Minho's torso.Beautiful.Everything about Minho issobeautiful, and Jisung wants to have all of him.

For Minho is all he has left.

"Need you," Jisung whimpers, his voice brittle as it pours into Minho's mouth.

"Jisung," Minho sounds sweet yet dangerous. Like a caramelized blade in his abdomen. "What's wrong?"

Jisung exhales shakily, hands gripped tightly to Minho's shoulders, as if he could sink into the floor at any moment. "I...I just...I need you right now. I can't explain it, I don't want to."

Minho's brow furrows. "Jisungie, baby, you know I've got you. You know I'm here for you. Always."

There's a ripping pain so deep inside, tearing shreds into his aorta, slashing lacerations in his soul. Jisung hiccups, tracing the swell where his father hit him, drawing clusters of circles all over his cheek.Pain. It's a funny phenomenon. He's been slapped in the face, but he's feeling pain all over, left in bits for Minho to make something beautiful of. For Minho to make him lovable again.

Jisung's body shakes, and Minho holds him closer, wet tears staining his neck. Jisung buries his face into Minho's chest, inhaling deeply as if trying to absorb his heartbeat. Steady. Stable. A lullaby.

"It's okay," Minho whispers in-between soft pecks to his hair. "I'm here. I'll hold you until the storm passes, m'kay?"

But Jisung wants more. He wants toforget.

Minho lets out a surprised sound when Jisung kisses him again, sloppy and messy with spit. Again, Minho doesn't question it, easing into the kiss with warm fingers tangled in Jisung's hair. It started out that way—a scattered kiss, yes—but still gentle. Jisung's thumb brushes against Minho's jaw, pulling him in, relishing in the soft sounds that escape parted lips.

More.Moremoremoremore.

Jisung's hands are everywhere, nicking at clothing, massaging at delicate skin, pulling at the hem of Minho's signature, kitty pajama shorts and—

"Jisung, stop." Minho's hands are quick to stop Jisung's at the wrists. "What the f*ck?"

"What?"

"Um, hello? You're trying to jump me at midnight," Minho says matter-of-factly. His pout deepens with concern. "You're, like,soattractive, but I don't wanna' f*ck you."

Jisung pulls away, tone argumentative.

"Whynot?"

"Are you not happy with what we have now?" Minho counters, equally as explosive. "We don't need sex to be happy.Youdon't need sex to be happy. I f*cked around when I was way too young to be and...I regret it, so much."

"Iamhappy," Jisung insists. Minho raises an unbelieving brow. "And I want to. You had sex with all the other guys you were with, didn't you?"

Minho opens his mouth to speak, but doesn't say anything which tells Jisung all he needs to know.

Suddenly the velvety, soft, love-like feeling is replaced with hurt—an uncontrollable tug of his heartstrings in all directions as disappointment pools in his stomach. Jisung proceeds to step away further, instinctively aching for distance.

"Wait, Jisung—," Minho tries, following close behind Jisung's steps. "It's not what you...it'snotwhat you think."

"Then what is it Minho?" Jisung asks irritatedly. "I–I really liked you...I stilldoand I don't get why I'm different."

"We can start with the fact that you'reseventeen?" Minho starts, his honeyed voice beginning to rot.

"You'reseventeen!" Jisung argues.

Minho scoffs. "Have you ever thought that bein' different is a good thing? Why the hell d'ya' wanna' be like everyone else?"

Jisung knows it's not the best idea to do this in the middle of Blossom Delights, while Minho's grandmother is asleep, but he continues to return Minho's agitated energy.

"BecausemaybeI want you to like me? And to, for one second, feel like I'm not f*cking disgusting?"

"God, Jisung, of course I f*ckin' like you," Minho sighs. "What makes you think I don't like you?"

Anger wanes at confusion takes center stage, like the convoluted ruins after a raging wildfire.

"'Cause," Jisung hiccups before his voice breaks, "I'm...I'm gross. And I f*ck up everything."

"Disgusting," "sinful," "immoral," "a fa*ggot."John's words are the descriptors that define who Jisung Han is today.

Minho's expression softens and his shoulders slump. His voice is feeble, stained with something soreal, it's impossible for Minho to be faking it.

"Jisung...if only you knew," Minho whispers, wiping the tears from Jisung's cheeks. "I'mthe gross one. But you? No, never. You're beautiful. You've always been...beautiful."

Minho tugs Jisung's shirt over his head, discarding it to the side. At first, it feels like Minho's searching for something wrong, foronecrack to poke holes into. But when his eyes brush over Jisung's exposed skin, shadowed by the dark, there's something else that's more like admiration. Minho's fingers dance a broken waltz along Jisung's skin, sending shockwaves into his body.

"You're not disgusting," Minho says after a brief silence. It's not the words that catch Jisung's attention, but the way Minho says it. "You're not."

It's like Jisung is the most precious person in theworld.

Minho swallows harshly, throwing his own tee over his head, revealing a massacre to one's body. Tiny, lacerations that likely bloom garnet under the light, litter Minho's torso. Cuts, that probablystingwhenever he moves. Scars that are so ugly, that make Jisung so angry—because, how could Minho do this to himself?

Those are the scars that don't come from the shower.

"Why?" Jisung asks in a teary-eyed gasp. "Why would youdothat to yourself?!"

"I don't know," Minho mumbles. "I–I really can't explain it. I'm...f*ck, 'M sorry."

Jisung shakes his head, pulling Minho in for a hug that doesn't let up. It's like a whalebone corset, careful not to cinch Minho's waist too tight, but one that holds his torso together. Because Minho Lee isn't perfect. Because he's broken. Because while Jisung is broken from the inside out, Minho is broken from the outside in.

And even if the world erupts into flames tomorrow; even if it all becomes Hell; Jisung knows one thing.

Minho Lee is his 'forever'. Infinitely.

Chapter 10: Sincerely, Yours (ps: ILY)

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ ❥

THE FALL OF 2006
Bandaged Wounds

Minho and Jisung are the blissful silence in the dark, shared breaths in the midnight air, naked torsos sharing the same heartbeat. Jisung had tenderly pressed ointment into Minho's scars, bandaged with gentle kisses, and his boyfriend had done the same, but with the emotional cuts that slash Jisung's heart.

Neither of them talk aboutit—whether that be the reason behind each shade of garnet on Minho's stomach, or the reason behind Jisung's impromptu appearance on Minho's doorstep.

But the scars are bandaged for now. That's okay, for now.

Jisung looks up at Minho through his lashes, cheeks flaring pink when he finds that Minho is also glancing at him with a gaze so intense it could melt Jisung's flesh into mush. Jisung's stomach churns giddily, a potent mix of emotions whirring within his thrumming heart, threatening to break free.

He's happy. He's really–f*cking–happy.

Jisung's eyes flutter shut once Minho's fingers find themselves up in his inky tresses. They dance about in his thick, fluffy tresses of hair, repeating soothing motions that could send Jisung to sleep.

Gentle. Soft. Safe.Home. The aforementioned are all statements that can describe Jisung's perspective of his relationship with Minho. His Minho. Always, his Minho.

"You are my everything," Minho whispers, his nose brushing softly against Jisung's. "And...나는 너를 너무 사랑해."[I love you so much.]

Jisung giggles, his hands cupping the square of Minho's jaw. "Are you ever going to tell me what that means?"

"No," Minho teases, elongating the 'O' sound. "You'll figure it out soon enough."

"Minho," Jisung whines, similar in tone to a petulant child. "Tell me, come on."

"Alright, fine," Minho relents, his voice softening into velvet. "It means...you look like a pig."

Jisung gasps, offended. He plucks the nearest pillow from Minho's mattress and watches feathers fly as he whacks Minho with it repeatedly. Giggling fits intertwine, creating a symphony of broken laughs that are heartwarming to the ear. Jisung hears Minho's laugh and thinks:I love you. I love you more than anything.

"You're such an ass! There'snoway that's what it means," Jisung complains, hitting Minho over the head once more for emphasis.

"Ow! It doesn't," Minho says reassuringly. "You'll have to learn Korean to find out, though."

"Ugh, f*ck you," Jisung scoffs, folding his arms in disapproval.

"Oh, c'mon baby," Minho drawls, smooth hands caressing Jisung's cheeks. "You know I'd rather haveyouf*ck me."

"Ew, pervert!"

Minho leans in, kissing the scowl that's twisted itself on his boyfriend's lips in one, saccharine press. It's a kiss that tastes a little like "I love you."And while it is well into the evening, Jisung snags a taste of the sun—of athousandsuns—when his lips brush against Minho's. It's warm and humid inside his mouth, tasting of honey fresh from the hive.

"Yourpervert," Minho teases with a wide grin, smushing their noses together. "Don't act disgusted, Jisungie. You literally can't resist me."

"Oh, Isocan," Jisung says. Rather, he lies.

Because once the words have left his mouth, he's on top of Minho, careful not to nick his walking boot, with his moutheverywhere.

Minho Lee is so beautiful, so breathtaking beneath his boyfriend, body bathed in the moonlight shining through the curtains. Like a painting made of bisque and crimson. Jisung wants to snag an image of Minho like this, keep him forever, but it's impossible—perhaps, too much to ask for. Jisung already has Minho's care, holds the key to some sector of his heart, and that's enough. For now.

It takes such little effort on Minho's end, simply the half-dazed, half-dizzy reciprocation of Jisung's kisses. Minho's hands are slotted to the small of Jisung's waist, holding him as if he could break into a million pieces.

Gentle. Soft. Safe. Home. Minho will always be the home Jisung returns to. Always.

"Baby," Minho murmurs, pointing a finger to his neck, the other on Jisung's lip. "I want you here."

And Jisung would be afoolnot to comply.

Jisung drinks up every pretty sound from his boyfriend as he peppers a trail of soft, wet kisses along Minho's neck. Minho's grip on his waist tightens, pulling him closer, as if he can't bear to let Jisung go for a second.

As if he can't handle the idea oflosingJisung again.

"f*ck," Minho swears dazedly. "Jisung Han, you're perfect. I just...I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

Jisung freezes, his nose nuzzled into Minho's neck.

"Jisung Han, you're perfect,"his brain parrots.You're perfect. You're perfect. Perfectperfectperfect—

If he's so "perfect", then...why? Why does everyone else say otherwise?

"W–What?" Jisung stammers, slowly pulling away with trembling fingertips. He can't breathe. "No, stop, 'M not."

Minho tilts his head quizzically. He grabs Jisung's wrists that move without a mind, sitting up in the mattress.

"Jisung?" he calls, voice cautious. "Did I say something wrong?"

"I—," Jisung chokes.No,I'm okay. You could never,he wants to say, but the whole 'not being able to breathe' thing is seriously hindering him right now.

Jisung doesn't realize he's crying until a tear droplet drops from his waterline onto Minho's cheek. Like a raindrop without the downpour. His lip quivers, face twisting into a silent sob that he can't deny himself of. The burn on his cheek that he thought he'd forgotten returns, pulsating, ugly, and boiling red beneath the shadows of the night.

"Jisung, what the hell?" Minho panics, feverishly wiping the tears from Jisung's face. "What's going on? Talk to me, c'mon, talk to me."

"H–Hehitme," Jisung sobs. He doesn't resist it when Minho pulls him in for a hug. "He—hic!—f*cking hit me, Minho."

You don't break your perfect toys. You don'thitperfect children.

"What?" Minho's voice is borderline dangerous, murderous even. Arms like armor tighten around Jisung's back. "Your dad?"

Jisung doesn't respond, he doesn't have to. Minho knows. He's always known. When Minho clicks on a lamp, it further exacerbates what he's already known, makes the horrors true. In the dark, Minho couldn't have seen the extent of the swelling on his face, couldn't have seen the beginning stages of a bruise, but the lamplight makes it true, makes itreal.

Jisung's an ugly, broken mess, left to wither out in Minho's palms.

After a moment, Minho pulls away, hands cupping Jisung's face as he stares into his eyes.

"I'm so sorry," Minho says. It's almost a whisper, barely audible over the sound of Jisung's quiet sobs. "I'm so f*ckin' sorry."

It juxtaposes beautifully with: "I'on want a fa*ggot in this house, you hear me?!"

John's drunken words have been tattooed in his brain, ready to jump out whenever he's doing something wrong. No amount of apologies from a sober illusion of his father can reverse that.

There's a conflict of interest between what his heart wants and what his heart feels.

He feels like a dandelion, trapped in a field of flowers. On the surface, he's just like them, draped in marigold, pretty and striking among spikes of green. He smells like them to the nose, feels like them between soft fingertips, but he's not like them. He's a weed. He'stheweed in the center of a dandelion field.

Nobody picks weeds. They're ugly, wrong, abnormal, and have no place in a beautiful garden.

Minho Lee picks weeds. Every. Single. Time.

So...what Jisungwantspales in comparison to how he feels.

Jisung's 'want' rejects every single rule he has been taught to obey without question. A strict code of conduct that falls short whenever he's with Minho. Hissoulis different when Minho's around, like warm hands intertwining with cold fingers, like short kisses in abandoned stairwells, like love letters jammed into blue lockers.

It's love. It's always been love.

"Y–You have n–nothing to apologize for," Jisung says after a brief silence. "It's not y–your fault."

"I know that," Minho says, voice wavering. "I–I'm just so...angry. How could he put his f*cking hands on you?!"

"I–I don't know," Jisung whispers. "But I'm tired, Minho. I feel so dirty, sowrong, all the time."

"Baby," Minho frowns, kneading soothing circles into Jisung's back. "There's nothing dirty, or wrong, or disgusting about you. f*ck, Jisung, there aresomany people who love you."

"I–It doesn't feel like it." Jisung grumbles, swallowing back a sob.

"Then," Minho starts, "let me help you feel."

Minho kisses him again, and hefeels. Feels his heart unraveling and twirling, feels his heart in a flowing, pink ballgown—the essence of water. Feels his neck burning up, feels his lungs able to breathe in tandem with setting themselves on fire. Feels like he can't breathe. Feels like the only thing he wants to breathe is Minho's oxygen.

Feels an "I love you" between petaled, plush lips.

Unfortunately, the world is a cruel place, and the sun is a sad*st.

Jisung spends the following morning tangled in Minho's bedsheets, tangled under the premature, marigold sunbeams. Sunlight kisses his skin with gentle lips as he stirs awake, drool collecting at the side of his mouth. Ew. Jisung rubs the sleep from his eyes and sits up, his messy, inky hair sticking up in all directions. He glances at the clock on Minho's makeshift nightstand and groans.

"It's too f*cking early," he mutters, voice thick with sleep. "f*ck."

Jisung untangles himself from the sheets, careful not to wake Minho. The sleeping beauty stirs beside him, his arm flopping lazily across the phantom of Jisung's body in the bed. Sunbeams paint his skin a pretty shade of marigold, and Jisung wants to taste every shade of caramel that colors his skin.

"Wake up sleepyhead~," Jisung coos, shaking Minho awake, or, trying to. "It's morning."

Minho mumbles something incoherent in response, shifting a bit, but remaining asleep.Cute.Jisung caresses his boyfriend's cheek with a thumb, mind swirling with a myriad of anxious, angry, and loving thoughts. HelovesMinho, he'sangryhe can't have him, andanxiousfor his father's reaction to it all.

"Fine," Jisung yawns. He presses a fleeting kiss to Minho's cheek. "I've gotta' go now. My parents will freak."

"Mm," Minho grumbles, dazed with sleep. "Lufyoutoo."

Jisung's heart blossoms into an entire flower garden, dizzied with pollen. It sounds a little like an "I love you", even if it's incomprehensible.

Fate may have written their love story into the wrong time period, but Jisung will enjoy their love while he still can.

Jisung doesn't respond. There's nothing to say to his father, not with the pulsating swell that's developed since being slapped—an ache that lies not just on his cheek, but on the surface of his heart as well.

It hurts, so bad, toobad.

The phantom of his father's handprint resides where his face is now pale pink and freckled plum purple.

Brunch is as awkward as you'd expect it to be.

An uneasy knot twists and tightens in Jisung's chest, almost on the verge of snapping. Tears collect in his waterline, building up and ready to fall, so Jisung leaves his eyes open to sting as they dry out. He isn't sure why he's crying. There's nothing to cry about.

When his father asks if he's doing okay, Jisung says he's fine. It's not the truth, but it's not exactly a lie either. Instead, it's more like those affirmations you tell yourself when you really want to believe something. Heshouldbe fine. There's nothing to be upset about. Nothing to cry about.

John had dragged his son to some "rich people" café (called Éclair's), which really fits the part.

The scent of freshly baked pastries and rich coffee perfumes the air. Fine China in rose gold and aureate decorate the tables, faux flowers centering the rounded tablecloths. It's one ofthoseplaces. The ones that Felix Lee thinks are "too bougie" for broke high-school students—and he's right.

Éclair's' warmth inside contrasts with the lingering chill in Jisung's heart. His stomach rumbles at the promise of food, but he couldn't have less of an appetite. As they wait in line to place their order, John nudges Jisung's arm with his elbow and gives him an apologetic look.

Jisung already knows what's coming next. He's not sure if he wants to hear it.

"I'm really sorry, Jisung."

Jisung bites his lip, avoiding his father's gaze. "Yeah, whatever. I don't really want to talk about this."

The line inches forward, and soon they're placing their orders. John gets a ham and cheese croissant and a cappuccino, while Jisung opts for a simple French toast and iced coffee, not that he plans on eating. As they settle into a corner booth, Jisung takes a deep breath, trying to let go of the lingering tension.

There is absolutely nothing to be upset about.

Jisung peers down at his breakfast: french toast kissed around the edges with caramelization, and generic iced coffee on the side. It looksdelicious, topped with a drizzle of maple syrup that cascades like liquid amber. He stabs his fork into the bread's soft interior, watching the syrup spill over its tines.

Jisung's stomach grumbles. Still, he has no appetite in him to eat.

To satisfy his unhappy stomach, Jisung slowly brings the fork to his lips, sinking his teeth into the french toast. It's bittersweet. It tastes sweet, a little nauseatingly sweet, just how he likes it. But there's ahintof cinnamon, baked into the flour that feels prickly on his tongue—queasy in his mouth. A broken smile splits on his lips; it all reminds him of Minho.MinhoMinhoMinho—

"Jisung, I'm your father," John says, almost as if he'sremindingJisung of that fact.

And, of course, John has to ruin the moment.

"Yeah, well, fathers don't f*ck up their son's faces," Jisung scoffs, pointing to the sh*tty job at concealing his swelling with a band-aid.

"Look, I get you're mad," John speaks sternly, "but if you want this to remain a secret, you better learn to respect me."

Jisung stabs a fork into his meal, anger boiling over.

"Respectyou? Respect the man who decided to get drunk and slap the sh*t out of his own son? Is that what you want?"

People around them start to glance in their direction, their curiosity piqued by the sudden tension in the shop. Panic flickers across John's features, and he immediately begins 'damage control'.

"Jisung, last night was an accident," John insists. He spares a pleasing look to the fellow customers. "But this?Thisis uncalled for. You can't just sneak out when things go wrong."

"Okay, so I was supposed to just let you hit me?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying," his father sighs, shoulders slumping. "But something could've happened to you, Jisung. And your mother—"

His brain stirs off-kilter. Jisung feels like he's going to be sick.

"You're not getting the point," Jisung grumbles. "I can't believe I ever told you about Minho."

He squeezes out of their booth and flees to the nearest bathroom.

It startles him how fast he slams the stall door shut, leaning against it lest he collapse to the floor. His legs tremble like uncooked noodles that had been left in the pot for too long. He screws his eyes shut, trying to shut out the panic that threatens to climb up his sneakers and infiltrate his body.Everythingreminds him of the pain. Of the"f*ckin' fa*g"that's embedded into the scarring on his skin.

What would his mother think? What would his motherdo? Jisung silently sobs at the thought.

Jisung jolts when there's a sudden knock on the stall. His body is rattled, shaken up, like a deer caught in headlights. Though entirely unrealistic, Jisung has a fleeting hope that it's Minho on the other side. Jisung wants to engulf him, kiss his own heart better, spend the entire Sunday lazily making out. He wants to ask Minho if their love is truly worth all the pain.

But, as expected, a gruff, "Jisung?" comes from the other side of the stall door.
　　
"Jisung," John repeats, his words stern this time. "You have to talk to me. We're not doing this. I'm not gonna' tolerate this disrespect. You better talk to me, unless you want to talk to yourmother."

Jisung hesitates, his heart racing. He wants to scream at his father—to let out his feelings and thoughts from the inescapable prison that is his mind—but the words remain lodged in his throat.

The harrowing slap echoes in his mind.A fa*ggot. A filthy, f*cking fa*ggot.

"Dad," Jisung finally manages to speak, his voice wavering. "Just why?"

"I'm different when I'm drunk," John tries—a desperate attempt at reconciling with his son. "And youknowthat."

"Yeah? Well that's not...it's not an excuse!"

Jisung takes a shaky breath, steadying himself against the stall door. He wipes at his damp cheeks, trying to regain a semblance of composure. With another deep breath, he unlocks the stall door and steps out, coming face to face with his father.

"I love him, and there's nothing you can do about it," Jisung murmurs, hyperfocusing on the dents in his shoes.I love him, I love him I— "And the next time you hurt me over it, I'm not going to hear you out."

Jisung watches as multiple emotions flash over his father's features. Shock: wide eyes, parted lips, a tinge of offense. Anger: knit brows, curt lips, paling knuckles. Disappointment: subtle frown, narrowed gaze, and an exasperated sigh that bounces around the bathroom walls.

Jisung braces himself for the backlash, the shouting, another slap, perhaps. A twin slap to match the swelling on his face.

It never comes.

"Jisung, what you don't understand is that our family has a reputation," John starts, surprisingly calm, abnormally taboo for a conversation in a public bathroom. "I honestly thought that this...thing with Minho would die during the summer."

Jisung snorts, offended. "Wow."

"That's not to be rude," John is quick to rebuttal, saving what little skin he has left. "I just...I thought you wouldn't willingly choose this. I know you care about pleasing your mother more than anything."

Jisung flinches at the mention of his mother, guilt stabbing needles into his heart. It's twisted and mangled, the way his guilt morphs him into a new shape—a pale form. A sad reflection. And he's reminded of short pants between the sinful lips of two men that he should've never partook in. That he still wants. Again and again and again.

"I didn't willinglychooseanything," Jisung argues. "If you and mom really loved each other, you'd know it's not a choice."

If his mother had been home during the summer he met Minho Lee, he'd have never let things go so far.

Dinner is even worse than brunch could have ever been.

"Youhitour son?! What is wrong with you?" Narae booms, fists slammed into glazed mahogany that causes the cutlery to rattle.

John gives the same set of excuses he threw Jisung's way, how he was drunk and not thinking straight, how he's a different person when he's drunk, how it was one slap and not like hebeatJisung to death. Neither Jisung nor his father had talked about the intricate details of it all, like his not-so-secret boyfriend, but none of it really matters.

Narae looks like she could kill a man.

"Jisung, go to your room so your father and I can have a chat. Now."

　　[emailprotected]
　　[Subject: I H8 YOUR DAD!]
　　baby :( just remember that my door is
　　always open for you! let me know if
　　you plan on coming over so i can plan
　　something super fun for us! :)
　　
　　love – your minho ^-^

"Jisung?" Narae calls, followed by a knock (and it seems out-of-nowhere), "Are you awake? Your dinner is getting cold."

Running a hand through his bed-messy hair, Jisung gets up from his desk to open the door for his mother. The door gives away a soft click before his mother worriedly rushes into his bedroom with a tray of food.

"You need to eat," Narae scolds in a ramble-ish tone (to the point where it sounds like she's talking to herself), "you're already so small."

"Fell asleep," Jisung says with a sharp inhale, collapsing onto his bed. "It got bad with you...and Dad."

Narae purses her lips for a split second as if she's trying to formulate a response that says "enough" without saying too much. Jisung's never been good at reading them.

Instead of responding, she opts for ignoring the topic altogether: "Jesus Jisung—your face is all swollen!" she exclaims suddenly (and begins to ramble once more). "Your father should've never put those filthy f*ckin' hands of his on you."

Narae comes closer towards her son in an attempt to observe the swelling, to which Jisung violently flinches away from her. Jisung doesn't know what it is, but something about her getting close to him—close like his father did—feels unnatural, terrifying even. He gave John the key to his personal space, and that left his face all red and purple.

"Come here, I'm your mother," Narae tries, slight desperation in her tone. "I just want to take a look at your face."

"It's okay...pleasedon't—"

Narae huffs, and Jisung can tell she's getting impatient. "Don't tell me it's okay!" she chides. "Let me see."

It feels suffocating to keep up the fight, so Jisung gives in. He winces at the feeling of his mother's fingers on his face, not because of the pain from the swelling, but because his mothers fingersdon'tfeel safe. Not like Minho's. They feel predatory, as though a poisonous spider is crawling all over his face, ready to hurt him again.

"You want to know something Ji?" Narae asks, though she doesn't wait for an answer. "No matter who you date, make sure they're right for you. If I could go back, I would've never gotten with John...if I just knew better."

No matter who you date, echoes in his brain. A warm feeling of what appears to be acceptance appears before him, causing his lips to slightly curl upwards (because maybe his mom doesn't mind him liking guys...evenkissingguys after all!). Unlike John, his mother actually loves him—that can't ever change.

Right?

"Mom," Jisung starts, squirming out of Narae's hold.Here goes nothing."Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," Narae smiles, a smile that's somewhat glassy. More icy. She grabs the tray of dinner and places it on her son's lap. "Eat up though, you need to put some color back in those cheeks."

"Would you," Jisung pauses to chew on his mac' and cheese dinner which has gone cold hours ago, "well, would it matter if I had a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend?"

Jisung wildly gazes over his mother's puzzled expression, trying to see if he can notice anything that may translate into:you should've kept your mouth shut Jisung! Narae backs away from her son, hands placed on her hips with an irritated tap-tapping of her foot accompanying her stance.

He's grown to fear that tap-tapping over the years.

"Nonsense! Of course it matters," Narae spits, going off to irritatedly cuss in Korean. "When I say 'no matter who', I mean if you date a lawyer or a Mc'Donalds cashier. Why are you asking, huh? Are you gay?"

"No!" Jisung quickly responds. With an awkward laugh, he continues, "I–I–I mean, I would be uncomfortable if you thought it was okay for me to—um—think about boys."

"You know me and your father willneversupport you if you end up becoming like your friend Felix," Narae says in a soothing tone despite each word piercing a hole of their own into his heart. "And that fat-f*ck of a mother just lets him be that way. It's really terrible."

Jisung swallows harshly. He should've expected this response. His mother's words shouldn't feel like a million different stabs to him and his permanently suppressed authentic self. Jisung wants to stick up for Felix and Miss Pepper, but the perpetual nagging feeling at the back of his mind when he isn't pleasing his mother eats him alive and hinders his speech. He forgets words.

And then there's the feeling of guilt that presses down on his chest from constantly lying, repressing his thoughts, and hiding his true self. (But then again, does Jisung even know what his true self is?)

"Well, I'm going to bed," Narae yawns. "Finish your food and we'll see what we can do about those marks tomorrow before school."

"Okay Mom," Jisung smiles, a smile that mimics the performative ones his parents display all the time. "Night, I love you."

"Goodnight Jisung."

Once his mother leaves, Jisung feels as if the figurative corset that once kept him together—negligee, baby pink and lacy—has torn into shreds. There's no"I love you too, Jisung"to remedy the presumption that his parents hate him...that they alwayshavehated him.

In hindsight, Narae is typically like this; cold-as-ice and locked up in her tower of glaciers, too freezing cold for entry. But now, especially, it hurts more.

An icy dagger cuts into Jisung's chest, slashes there. There's an innate craving to feel wholly loved by somebody—anybody, like love is a necessity, a drug, and he's a lowly addict.

Gentle. Soft. Safe. Home. Minho will always be the home Jisung returns to. Always.

Chapter 11: The Translation of Love

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ ❥

THE FALL OF 2006
Marino High Annual Movie Night

It's the middle of October when Minho asks Jisung out to their school's drive-in movie event.

So, when Friday evening comes around, he curls his hair into silky, inky waves, and "borrows" (i.e., steals) his mother's jewelry for the night. He steps out of his usual polo shirt and khakis for a more flattering combo of oversized tee and baggy jeans.

(For reference, the oversized tee is Minho's, and the jeans are a pair he has yet to return to Felix.)

As Jisung gazes into his slightly dirtied mirror, he contemplates every decision that he put into his appearance. Minho would undoubtedly knowthat Jisung tried to dress up for their time out. Would he like it? Would he be disgusted? Jisung doesn't know. Would hisparents approve? Suddenly, Jisung contemplates each strand of carefully curled hair that rests atop his head.

What if it's too much? Toogay? What if his father hits him again over it?

But...

What ifMinholikes it?

Regardless of the thoughts that bounce about in Jisung's head, it's far too late to go back on any of his cosmetic decisions. Minho'll be here any moment now, and that fact alone sets Jisung's heart at the edge of a cliff.

He didn't tell Felix about his plans to dress up all nice and pretty for Minho—no—because Felix would act like an immature twelve-year-old and tease him. He didn't tell his parents about his evening plans because they don't know Minho, and Jisung supposes it's better that way.

Plus, so long as Jisung is home before eleven, which is when his parentsshouldbe back from a PR dinner, they won't ever know he left.

Right now, it's just his little secret. He likes it that way.

Jisung wonders if other moviegoers will look at him and Minho and wonder if they're together; if they're dating; if they'rean item, exclusive. Just the thought makes his heart sputter and his breathing hitch.

Would they bedisgusted?

Jisung clamps on his lower lip, picking off a battered shoebox from his shelf. It's covered in a cheap array of sparkly stickers from the dollar store and a sad attempt at covering the shoebox's original design in construction paper. It reads: 'PROPERTY OF JISUNG HAN' in permanent marker, not that anyone would search through it anyway.

He pops off the lid, fishing his hand between index-card love letters, CDs, and sh*tty polaroids. It's a flower garden, full of blossoming springblooms, and Jisung's a mastered florist.

Whenever he feels anxious, it's soothing to cast his line out into a box of "Minho trinkets" he'll never throw away.

Carefully, Jisung picks a worn photograph from the bunch, the edges fraying and the colors fading at the edges. It's a picture of Minho, lips pressed into Jisung's jaw with the summer sun painting his skin the hue of a halo.

Flipping the polaroid over, it reads: "내 곁에 있어줘," in fluid Korean characters.

And since Minho knows that Jisung's Korean comprehension is nonexistent, a suitable English translation is provided: "Stay by my side...<3"

Something warm blooms in Jisung's chest. It's love. It's always been love.

"Minho Lee, I love you," Jisung whispers to himself, thumbing over the smooth texture of the photo.

If he says it enough to himself, maybe he'll have the courage to say it to Minho one day.

DING DONG!

He squeals like a teenage girl when the front doorbell rings, and he rushes to the front door, heart thumping in his chest and threatening to explode into an amalgamation of fuchsia flames.

Imagine the state of his heart when he opens the door and Minho Lee is standing on the other side.

I'll tell you: cardiac arrest.

"H–Hi." Jisung's speech sounds slightly slurred, as if he's forgotten how to speak and forgotten how tomoveas he stands stiff in the doorway.

Albeit, he's also drunk off of Minho's new cologne that reminds Jisung of rosy carnations in a flower field. Drizzled in honey. A caramelized carnation.

f*ck...

"Hey, you~," Minho beams, a pretty smile playing on his lips. "Ricky's a lil' early, I'm sorry about that but...wow. You look...wow."

Minho scans him up and down, and Jisung's sweating like a Saharan adventurer who hasn't had a sip of water in days.

"I'm impressed," Minho adds cutely. "You look like a sexy block of obsidian."

Jisung scoffs, completely caught off guard.

"You're embarrassing me," Jisung whines, covering his face with his fingers that are decorated with his mother's rings. "Obsidian?"

"If you saw yourself, you'd get it," Minho insists. He points over to the janky indigo Subaru, jam-packed with Minho's friends. "Ready to hit the road?"

"Always."

Minho leads the way to Ricky Campbell's bug-eyed car: blasting obscene rap music over the radio. Jisung slides into the backseat, feeling the soft leather beneath him, andtriesto act casual when thrown to the lions.

Keyword, "tries," because Jisung can hardly comprehend how to act once within Ricky's car, scented of liquor and cigarettes.

"Hey, hey,hey! Jisung Han!" Ricky greets with a toothy smile, his messy, blond hair falling over his eyes. "What's up, man?"

"I–um, hi," Jisung chokes up a laugh. He accepts an aggressive handshake that dizzies him a little.

"Minho's told ussomuch about you," Mitchell jumps in, almost teasingly. "You're like a celebrity 'round these parts."

"That's enough, Mitch'," Minho groans. The entire car, Jisung included, explodes into laughter.

Ricky revs the engine, and the car purrs to life with a low rumble. Jisung thinks heshouldsay something, maybe introduce himself, but his mouth has been robbed of words ages ago. It's the inability to talk that plagues him again, and there's nothing he can do about it.

All he can do is sit there and play his part as Minho's "friend", and mumble monosyllabic responses to attempts conversation.

"Does he smoke?" Mitchell asks in the midst of lighting himself a cigarette. Then, he turns to Jisung with a catty grin. "If you want, Jisung, I can light you sum'n."

"No, it's alright." Jisung mumbles, but his words are eaten alive by the low hum of the car engine. He eyes Mitchell's pack of Camels suspiciously. "I–I don't smoke..."

"You don't smoke?!" Mitchell's eyes blow wide, incredulous. A few seconds pass before he's barking out disbelieving laughs. "Jisung,everyonesmokes. It's like 'the thing' y'know?"

Then, with a couple of clicks, his lighter is producing a flame that binds to the rear end of the stick instantaneously.

The cigarette stench is nauseating and dirty—a blend of toxicity, grime, and sleaze. It's gross, and it's not a smell that Jisung is particularly fond of. The odor is something strong and bitter, something filthy and grungy. Something that causes his nose to scrunch up and twist in distaste as murky, gray smoke creeps up in front of his face.

Mitchell hums in satisfaction as he draws his next drag, fluttering his eyes shut as he inhales. He appears to be at peace—as if a drag or two could be responsible for total tranquility. Nicotine on a midweek afternoon somehow serves as a placebo of sorts.

Once he's done blowing the cigarette smoke from his chapped mouth, he pulls it from his lips and holds it out in front of Jisung as if he's saying: "Your turn," with actions alone.

The cancer stick is slightly bent due to the pressure it underwent between Mitchell's fingers. Warm, dusty-white smoke wafts slowly through the air...taunting, like it's alluring Jisung in like a siren's call.

Your turn.

"Jisung, you don't have to do it if you don't wanna'," Minho reassures, a soft pinkybarelyhooking around Jisung's.

(It'd be a little more meaningful if Minho's lungs weren't coated in ash.)

Your turn.

The words sway him in a way he's never been swayed before...they hold an influence that says "If you don't do this, Minho's friends will hate you". If he doesn't do this, he'll make a fool of himself, even if the rational side of his brain knows better than to smoke any kind of substances.

Everyone's doing it, so what's the real harm?

Jisung's never smoked before, but he's seen Felix do it before (and sh*t, he remembers Minho smoking as well). He figures that he ought not to ask Mitchell how to smoke to save himself from any further embarrassment.

Mitchell's gaze watches attentively as the cigarette transfers from his fingers to Jisung's, and in no time, he's got the cancer stick enclosed between his lips the same way he had.

Okay...inhale.

Jisung sucks the nicotine in the way he would if he were drinking juice out of a straw—a 'technique' that has his throat burning accompanied by an aching, dry series of coughs.

"Woah, you okay, Ji?" Minho asks, feigning concern. He pats Jisung's back to an inconsistent tempo, unable to forestall the laughs that fall past his lips. "There-there, the first smoke is usually like that."

"Painful? Not satisfying...at all?" Jisung says in a half-joking manner, trying to spin his embarrassing predicament into a humorous one.

"Pretty much," Mitchell says in-between obnoxious giggles. "But it gets better, trust me. Nic' is like...life."

"Yeah, well I'm never doing that again," Jisung scoffs, the burning, sandpaper-like feeling in his throat not subsiding after the smoke.

"Suit yourself." Mitchell shrugs.

Thankfully—which saves Jisung any further embarrassment—it's not long before they arrive at the drive-in event, suitably called: "Marino High's Annual Movie Night".

The school lot is jam-packed with students and tents, taking Ricky an excruciating amount of time to find a spot for his car among the other moviegoers. Once they do, Ricky and Mitchell take the time to unload blankets, tents, and lawn chairs.

"You ready?" Minho asks once they're alone in the car. "We should go grab some snacks first."

"Ye–Yeah, 'course." Jisung smiles. "Let's go!"

The snack bar is everything Jisung thought it'd be—simply because he's seen the same one, three years in a row. They're reusing a stand from several decades ago, drowned in sixties vintage, adorned with neon lights, and crafted in weathered wood. Its prime was a few decades ago, but somehow, the school refuses to invest in a new one.

Nostalgia factor, Jisung guesses.

Up close, the air is hot and perfumed with the delicious aroma of buttered popcorn, hot dogs, and freshly cooked nachos. Cotton candy and baked pretzels are also on display, making Jisung's mouth water.

"So, what do you want?" Minho asks, pointing to the colorful menu that boldly advertises its snacks.

"What doIwant?" Jisung parrots, an eyebrow raised. "Why does it matter to you?"

"'CauseI'mthe one who asked you out, soI'mthe one who's paying, rich or not," Minho declares. Jisung opens his mouth to protest, but Minho quickly shushes him. "Quiet. Just tell me what you want, hm?"

Jisung slams his mouth shut so quickly his teeth begin to ache.

"U–Um," he stammers, his face flushing furiously. Once again, he's forgetting what words are. "Give me a second to decide? I'm not sure..."

"Well, ifIwere Jisung Han," Minho starts, turning his focus to the array of snacks. "I'd want something unnecessarily sweet. Like those cinnamon pretzel bites over there."

"You think that I like sweet things?" Jisung co*cks a brow, amused.

While Minho'sright, Jisung won't allow him to have that satisfaction. Not yet.

"Jisung, you like rainbow sprinkles and gummy bears on your ice cream," Minho says matter-of-factly. "And pineapple on f*ckin' pizza—which is a cardinalsin, by the way."

Jisung can't help but laugh at Minho's observation. "Okay, okay,fine, you got me there. Cinnamon pretzel bites it is, then."

Minho goes the extra mile to buy Jisung a pack of overpriced KitKats, and a shared bowl of buttered popcorn. Shared. Jisung tries to shovel down his pretzel bites so he's too full to eat the popcorn, but Minho insists on also snagging a few pretzel bites for himself. Also shared. Although light, when their fingers brush against each other throughout the film, Jisung almostgasps. Several times. Not good.

It's as if an electric bolt crackles between their hands as they knock into each other. Jisung isn't sure if he minds being electrocuted.

"Are you cold?" Minho asks, mid-film. By now, his head is laid in Jisung's lap, and it'd be comfortable if Jisung weren't socold. "You've got goosebumps on your arms."

"A little bit." Jisung answers simply. "I didn't know it'd bethiscold."

"Aw, poor baby," Minho coos in a hushed whisper. "We could chill in Ricky's car.OrI could get really romantic and offer my jacket...but then, I'd freeze."

"Can I have both?" Jisung asks.

(What? Jisung can't turn down the opportunity to steal another one of Minho's clothing items!)

Felix Lee told him once that everyone loses their virginity at Marino High's Annual Movie night. The loud movie audio drowns out any other noise, and everyone has the privacy of their cars or a cheap tent to f*ck each other's brains out until the movie ends.

Back then, Jisung cringed in response, because (1) he was sixteen, (2) officiallybitchless,and (3) his parents would skin him alive if he ever lost his virginity in someone's cramped backseat.

(Point number three is still true.)

It's humid in Ricky's backseat, so it'sunderstandablewhen Minho throws off his leather jacket and t-shirt, leaving Jisung to observe the tiny pink slits on his stomach. The sight is uncomfortable at first, especially with the new ones that grace his chest, but Jisung just slathers them in Vaseline (that he always carries nowadays) and kisses them better.

Minho apologizes profusely. But, while the scars are ugly, Minho couldn't be any more beautiful.

And it's the first time, in seventeen years, that Jisung decides hereallywants to have sex with someone.

Minho's hand is slotted between Jisung's thighs, the other cupping Jisung's jaw. It might be the humidity in Ricky's car, the hit of nicotine, or Minho Lee being so damnhotthat makes Jisung feel a little dazed. It could be none of the above. It could be all of the above. Jisung's not sure.

"Baby," Minho mewls, a little drunkenly by the way Jisung can taste liquor on his tongue. "You look...sogood. Seriously."

"Mm," Jisung hums. He feelssodrunk without a sip of alcohol. "Say that in Korean. 'S always so hot when you talk in Korean."

Minho laughs, a low rumble that vibrates through Jisung's stomach and into his chest, bursting there. He then reaches up to cup Jisung's face with forever-warm hands.

"넌 정말 아름다워," Minho whispers, voice dripping with honey. It's sweet, warm, and Jisung's biggest weakness. "너와 함께할 수 있다는 게 믿기지 않아."[You're so beautiful. I can't believe I get to be with you.]

Jisung's breath hitches. He finds the golden specks in Minho's irises and memorizes them.

"Minho," he calls, nicking the sweet spot beneath Minho's ear. "I really,reallywant you."

Minho giggles cutely. "Jisungie, you sound like the main lead in a f*ckin' p*rn movie."

"Stop, it's not funny," Jisung whines, covering his cherry-red cheeks with his hands. "I'm really serious...I–I, um...I think we should doit."

"Oh." Minho recoils slightly. "You're serious."

"I mean, yeah," Jisung says, carding his fingers through Minho's hair. "I–I think I'm ready now."

"Oh, Jisungie," Minho laughs nervously, tucking the inky fringes out of Jisung's face. "The problem was only partially 'cause you weren't ready. It's mainly 'cause we'reteenagers, baby."

"I...I don't get it," Jisung pouts. The mood fizzles out like a firework sparkler.

"Okay," Minho sighs, forcing Jisung's head to lay on his chest. "Did y'know I lost my virginity during the movie night? It was sophom*ore year, I was fifteen, and I thought I really, really wanted it."

"Uh, huh."

"Now, it's the biggest regret of my whole life," Minho adds. "But IthoughtI wanted it 'cause everyone my age was f*ckin' around. Giving your body to someone else...it's some serious sh*t."

"Oh," Jisung frowns. "Minho...I didn't know, I'm sorry."

"Hush." Minho smiles, pressing a soft kiss to Jisung's scalp. "Now you know. Plus, who needs sex? I could never get tired of making out with you."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Jisung'll never admit it, but it would take millions of years of straightkissingfor him to become bored of Minho's mouth.

Soft hands trace the outline of Jisung's jaw, holding him steady as their lips stumble together in a messy waltz. It's a little awkward, and a lot clumsy to be making out—or attempting to—in Ricky Campbell's backseat, especially with a boyfriend sporting a walking boot and needing extra space because of it.

(Luckily, Minho and Jisung have never been tall.)

"Jisung, holy sh*t," Minho murmurs, burying his head in the crook of Jisung's neck. "I love you so f*ckin' much."

(Cue the record-scratching sequence.)

What?!!!

If Jisung doesn't explode right there, he's not sure what the sensation is of his heart bursting into a gooey, pink mess. Jisung's breath dies in his throat at Minho's words, eyes popped out like a squeeze toy as the confession sinks in.

Jisung, I love you,echoes in his brain, torturous, as if it's awaiting Jisung's response. As if it's waiting to be reciprocated.

But the words find themselves getting lost on his lips, only able to let out a stuttered, "I–I–I–," mess of incoherencies. His heart hammers up into his throat, robbing him of speech.

"I'm sorry, what?!"

Minho tilts his head, visibly puzzled. "I said I love you? Is that not obvious?"

"Um," Jisung gasps for breath. He isn't sure why he can't breathe. "Yeah, um, no, Minho I feel really f*ckin' high and I—!"

Minho pinches him. Hard.

"Ow! Minho, what the f*ck?" Jisung whines, rubbing the spot on his forearm that begins to turn pink. "Totally uncalled for."

"Had to bring you back to reality, princess," Minho says with a simple shrug. "You gotsuperpale. It was a lil' hilarious."

In rom-com flics, "I love you" is always a really grandiose thing. It's fireworks popping in the background, exploding into an array of colors that just screamhappiness. It's a whispered "I love you" that compliments an equally hushed "I love you too"—and for some reason, both love interests are always teary eyed. Always.

Usually, an "I love you" comes after a near death experience, or any other circ*mstance where stakes are unrealistically high.

Jisung never really thought that his first "I love you" would follow that format, but he atleastexpected to be able to say it back.

"Jisung, I've told you that 'I love you'...multiple times," Minho says matter-of-factly.

"Liar," Jisung huffs petulantly. "I can't think ofonetime."

"나는 너를 너무 사랑해...?" Minho speaks in fluent Korean as if Jisung could understand. "I love you so much?"

"Okay, now that's unfair," Jisung scoffs. "How the f*ck was I supposed to know that?"

"Itoldyou to learn Korean," Minho shrugs, a teasing smile playing on his lips. "In all seriousness, I told you I loved you like...a week or two ago when you came over to my house."

"You were half asleep—"

"It's still an 'I love you', Jisung." Minho rolls his eyes. "God, baby, you'resodense."

"Well, excuse me for not being fluent in 'half asleep Minho' language," Jisung huffs, folding his arms.

Minho chuckles as he tucks a strand of hair behind Jisung's ear. "You're so cute when you're flustered."

(Naturally, a comment like that only makes Jisung evenmoreflustered.)

"S–Stop making fun of me!" he complains. "I'm trying to process the fact that you just dropped an 'I love you' bomb on me out of nowhere!"

Minho's teasing smile only grows. "Would you like me to drop another?"

"Absolutely not!" Jisung yells in a voice far too loud and far too high-pitched for his liking. He clears his throat. "J–Just give me time to say it back."

The tips of Minho's ears glow bright red. "You really don't have to say it back—"

"Shut up! Shut up." Jisung grabs Minho's jaw a lot more aggressively than he would've liked. "Now listen, shh," he places a finger to Minho's lips.

Jisung's heart sits at the edge of the cliff.Here goes nothing.He jumps off.

"Minho Lee, I love you too."

"Ew, we're becomin' such sappy romantics," Minho whines, but the blossoming pink on his cheeks shows anything but complaints.

"Yeah, kind of like Romeo and Juliet," Jisung starts, and it's a little like déjà vu, "but we get the happy ending."

And that's all Minho needs to hear to surge forward Jisung into a kiss like no other—abruisingkiss—one that has Jisung tasting every colour of the rainbow on Minho's soft lips. They've kissed what has to be millions of times by now, but not like this. Their lips slot together perfectly, languidly falling in place, like puzzle pieces that had been waiting to be fit together for ages now.

"Say it again," Minho whispers, his breath fanning against Jisung's lips. "Tell me you love me."

"I love you," Jisung breathes out, screwing his eyes shut. "I love you so muchand—sh*t, am I crying?"

Minho's laughing when he says, "Yeah, baby, you're crying."

"f*ck," Jisung laughs along with him, wiping his tears away. "I'm becoming exactly the type of boyfriend I hate. Ew!"

"You're exactly the type of boyfriend I love~," Minho singsongs. Jisung cringes. "Oh c'mon, don't look at me like that."

"Just," Jisung sighs, "stop talking."

And they're kissing again.

Jisung's been kissed passionately with an artificial filler for love that was left unspoken. Jisung's been kissed ferociously and hard, as if Minho wanted to drain him and use him up. But Jisung has never been kissed like this—like he's precious, like he's more special than anyone else had ever been to Minho.

Jisung tastes a passionate red when their lips connect once more, mashing together sloppily in a desperate attempt to pour their intense feelings into each other. Orange when Minho licks joyfully and playfully into his mouth and yellow when they part to smile at each other. Jisung feels green when Minho pulls him in tighter, safer, and feeling every inch of his waist.

Jisung feels blue when he embraces Minho fully, paying little mind to the fact that they could very well get caught in Ricky Campbell's indigo Subaru. He feels purple when Minho moans softly into his mouth, and black when—

Wait,Black?

"fa*g' Lee?!"

The rainbow dies in his mouth when they break away from each other to an incessant banging on the car window. Jisung's heart is pounding so fast, he's not sure if it's truly beating at all.

"sh*t," Minho swears, quickly throwing his shirt over his head. "Stay here, 'kay?"

"O–Okay," Jisung nods, mildly stunned.

In Jisung's logical mind, he knows that no one cares that much about himorMinho, but despite that, his imagination is going haywire, almost hearing the mocking laughs of his peers. Sure, they're not really laughing, but in the moment it sure does feel like it. The car walls feel as though they're closing in on Jisung—he's being cornered and trapped, with nowhere to go.Help. Please help me.

It takes a honeyed voice gone rotten to pull Jisung out of his daze.

"Thef*ckdid you just call me?" Minho grits his teeth, fists balled as he looks up at Leon Smith, who looks down at Minho with a mocking, toothy grin.

It takes Jisung a while to register that Leon had been the one to insult them both, blinking in confusion at the sight of Minho visibly angry.

"Not just you," Leon guffaws, a devilish glint in his eyes as he glances at Jisung. "I was talking to Twinkle Toes over there too."

Leon points towards Jisung, and they lock eyes for a split second. He knowsofLeon—he's the most popular guy in school, being the football team's heartthrob captain—but he's never expected Leon to speak to him...ever.

He reminds Jisung of a movie star or a model, with his chiseled chin and taper-cut brunet hair accompanied by deep brown eyes. The brunet wears a dark, leather jacket over a tattered band tee with tight, accompanied by dark jeans that hug his long legs (Jisung swears that Leon has to be six feet tall).

Leon is...perfect.

Wait. Leon just called him afa*g.

"Don't evenlookat him, Smith," Minho spits, yanking Leon back. He's never seen Minho like this...so angry, so possessive, so domineering. He's visibly tense, his face mean, ugly, and crooked—communicating that he's pissed off. "And leave us the f*ck alone."

"No need to get so feisty," the tall brunet says. "No one's taking your fa*ggot boyfriend away from you—though I have to admit—he's cuter than your usual picks."

"Um, thank you?" Jisung hesitantly accepts the compliment, not entirely sure whether thanking Leon is appropriate given the hostile atmosphere they're all trapped in.

Minho visibly tenses, balling his fists and crinkling his brows further. Jisung briefly glances at Minho, unable to decide if he's doing this right and whether or not he's angering Minho further.

God, he hopes Leon will just leave them alone afterwards.

"Wasn't a compliment," Leon counters with an insufferable wink that makes Jisung cringe inwardly.

Leon advances towards Jisung to the point where he's climbing into the car, and to his surprise, Minho doesn't stop Leon this time. "But, F–Y–I, you candefinitelydo better than Minho."

"That's enough Smith," Minho says angrily through clenched teeth. The bleak yellows of the street lights dance all over Minho's angered expression as he tongues the inside of his cheek, brows knit tightly together. "And I thought I told you to get away from him."

"Minho—"

"No, shut up Jisung," Minho snaps, looking as though he's ready to pounce on Leon.

Jisung can't quite comprehend why Minho's so angry, so, he sits back and lets Minho's angered-induced aggression cover his heart in lacerations.

Hehatesseeing Minho like this.

Minho grabs Leon by the collar of his shirt, pulling him down to head-level and, looking into his eyes with an almost murderous glare.

"You maythinkyou're better than us, but you and I both know that we're not any more of a f*ckin' fa*g than you are."

It's Leon's turn to blow up in anger, pushing Minho back. Minho stumbles back a bit, nearly tripping over himself before he straightening out.

"You better watch what you say, f*ckin' cripple," Leon spits.

Jisung considers reaching a hand out in an attempt to help Minho, but freezes when he hears loud chants, ones that demand a fight after witnessing the encounter. Minho's angered expression calms and falters, forming a displeased frown. Leon wears a devilish smirk, violence dancing around in his eyes.

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

"You called me a fa*g, huh?" Leon asks although he knows the answer, lightly cracking his knuckles in the process, "afa*g? Like you? You compared me to you?"

That's all it takes for Leon to swing, though it never hits Minho's face, as the blond grabs the Leon's wrist with a tight hold. Minho grits his teeth, furrowing his eyebrows. Jisung stands there, wide eyed and not knowing he's been holding his breath until he needs to gasp for air. He's never seen this side of Minho before—one that's so violent it's borderline scary.

There's something about this side of Minho that's intimidating, yes, but Leon is far stronger than the dancer—Jisung can tell when the football player knees Minho in the stomach, one that causes a domino-effect of 'oou's to ring throughout the gymnasium.

Then, Leon swings at Minho's face.

One. Two. Three. Four.Fivetimes until blood is leaking from Minho's nose.

And Jisung is just sitting there, paralyzed with fear and unable to step in.

"Everyone, look at this dumb fa*g," Leon says, presenting Minho's bloodied face as if he's on display. He tilts his head to give Minho a closer look, cupping Minho's face with his hand, "Although he's pretty unrecognizable now—all bloody n' sh*t."

"Leon, c'mon man, cut it out," Mitchell steps in, attached to the hip of some random chick. "He didn't mean no harm."

The crowd murmurs, seemingly horrified at Leon's violence towards someone who'svisiblyinjured—foot encased in a walking boot, and all.

Leon scoffs. "The twink had it coming." He hacks up some saliva andspits. Ew. "Tell your lil' friend here not to mess with me, yeah?"

When Leon leaves, the crowd seems to follow him, dispersing into their cliques to gossip about the events that transpired.

"Minho, sh*t man, what happened?" Mitchell swears, kneeling beside the boy, who grumbles in response.

Jisung's heart cracks further just looking at Minho—auburn hair-ends dipped in blood, his features masked away by the drying blood and swelling all over his face.

"H–He sort of...came out of nowhere," Jisung whispers after a few moments of having to tune into Minho's pained groans. "Sorry, I'm not much help."

Mitchell offers a pained smile, one that says, "you tried" behind a half-assed grin. "'S okay. Leon's just like that, man. Always startin' sh*t, that f*cker."

"I'm sorry guys," Minho laughs, but it's one that sounds bitter and dry, one that has the blood from his lip pouring into his mouth. "You shouldn't have had to see that."

"It's okay, it's okay," Jisung hushes, trying his best to ignore the stares as he swings Minho's free arm over his shoulder. "It's not your fault, he's just an asshole."

Minho smiles a little at that, blood pouring in the gaps in his teeth.

"Yeah, he really is."

Sudden weight crashes into Jisung's shoulder, like a ton of bricks falling from the sky. Minho's eyes flutter shut, bloodied eyelashes falling like curtains over bloodshot sclera. There's one last gasp for air, as if Minho's trying to hold onto consciousness but can't. Mitchell rushes over, propping up Minho's body without a consciousness, and can't.

Minho Lee falls to the rugged asphalt.

Screaming ensues.

Chapter 12: Boy's Worst Nightmare

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ ❥

THE FALL OF 2006
The Aftermath

There is nothing quite like young love.

The words were stolen off Jisung's tongue so quickly, he's certain that if he could go back in time to reevaluate his confession, he'd have held the words tightly. While his love for Minho is nosecret, voicing it aloud ripped off any armor his heart once had, torn every fiber of protection that his heart once knew. Now, it can no longer protect itself.

Looking at Minho—or rather—a f*cked-up, bloody faced version of Minho, sends a million bullets into the crevices of his heart.

It's painful to look at him.

He hasn't reachedthatkind of love where his eyes go all red-tinted and loveblind, and anything (even a marred, bloodied face) looks good on Minho. It doesn't.

Even with the blood scrubbed from his cheeks, Minho's face is still colored dangerously crimson. Garnet swings red streaks into ghastly pale skin. An unhappy gash sits in the middle of purple swelling around his eye. If Jisung hadn't known any better, Minho'd be unrecognizable.

Minho is horror-movie looking (and it's not even Halloween yet!). It's heartbreaking—it's the perfect environment for a heart-crushing burst.

All of this...Jisung runs his fingers along Minho's bloodied face...for being gay? Is it worth it?

Needless to say, Jisung Han, slightly inebriated, did not expect his Friday evening to go like this.

Ricky Campbell's clothes are strewn all over the floor; plaid, denim, boxer briefs; crushed up soda cans adding a touch of decor. The air reeks of cigarette ash and a flimsy cedarwood candle left to sit on the nightstand. Minho's head rests on Jisung's lap as the brunet pretends to sleep and horribly fails.

It's eleven-thirty on a Friday and Jisung's watching Minho fight against the swelling and aches in his body.

It all feels like...a twisted manifestation of a nightmare Jisung hasn't had.

"What'cha thinkin' about?" Minho grumbles. He cracks open his tired eyelids. "You keep bouncing your leg 'n sh*t. 'S hard to sleep."

There's an unmoving grimace on Minho's face when he speaks, and a bitter cracking in his voice. It's painful to listen to, like there's needles puncturing Jisung's eardrums. Ouch.

"Have you been beaten up before?"

"Excuse me?" Minho asks, stunned. "Where'd you getthatidea from?"

"You're just...awfully calm for someone with a walking boot, scars all over your chest, and...did I mention you just got your ass kicked?"

That wakes Minho up. Shuts him up, too.

Minho makes a sound that's barely there, not quite a gasp, but tainted with the same surprise. Jisung has just thrown him a curveball too precise to dodge. It leaves Jisung's heart thundering; brain running thousands of miles per hour; wondering if he's done something wrong.

Has Jisung said the wrong thing? Thestupidthing?

With the impregnated silence that sits between them, Jisung could backpedal, but it feels too late. He's always been clumsy with words, anyway. He might just backpedal into a deeper hole.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Minho mumbles. He takes the easy way out, plays dumb, changes the subject. "How about you though, how're you holding up?"

Jisung raises a brow. "Huh?I'mnot the one who got beat up by Leon...youare—"

"Jisung," Minho interrupts, urging the question that was never meant for Jisung: "How are you?"

It doesn't take a genius to realize that Minho isn't outright ignoring Jisung—he's avoiding the question altogether.

Jisung takes a deep breath and swallows back the words that'll probably never leave his mouth. His words fizzle out on his tongue, bury themselves alive in the crevices of his voice box. He's not here to pry Minho open until his organs have spilled out and he's bloodier than ever. He's not here to pull the words left unspoken from Minho's mouth. He's not here to make Minho uncomfortable.

"Oh." Jisung's gaze drops to his fidgeting fingers. "I–I'm,uh, I'm alright. Just worried about my boyfriend, is all."

"Hm," Minho hums. "Are you bein' honest with me, Jisungie?"

"Of course," Jisung begins, avoiding eye contact. His fingers stab into each other, tearing skin from skin. "I–I never lie to you Minho, you know that."

"That's true, you don't," Minho says. "But you're probably not tellin' me the full truth."

"What makes you say that?"

"Your leg." Minho lazily motions to Jisung's leg, which he's been nervously tapping against the floor. "You've clearly got somethin' on your mind."

Jisung clamps down on his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. He feels the words lurking just at thetipof his tongue, ready to be voiced aloud—remnants of what was presumably buried into the grave.

Is it normal to be so afraid? To look at Minho's bruised lips and want toscreamin horror? Is it rational to be so damn terrified of the person you love?

Jisung's eyes fall to Minho's leg, to the boot, to the bruises and scratches that peek out from underneath the fabric of his shirt. He's scared—no—he's f*cking terrified. Minho Lee is a self-destructive, ticking time bomb that's on the verge of explosion. And if he were to explode into a mass of flickering flames, what would that mean for their relationship? How is Jisung supposed to cope?

"So...?" Minho harps on, his expectant eyes meeting Jisung's gaze. "You gonna' tell me what's up?"

Jisung lips form a thin line. He nods.

"I...I think you're hurting yourself," Jisung whispers. His throat clicks.Please don't cry, please don't cry— "I'm scared, Minho. I'm scared for you. And...in a way, I'm scaredofyou. Of what you do to yourself."

Minho takes a deep breath, his eyes fluttering shut. He takes Jisung's clammy palm in his own, and with trembling fingers, interlaces their fingers as if they were never meant to unwind.

"I know." Minho sucks in a shuddering breath. He doesn't dodge the bullet this time, doesn't run away. "I–I'm sorry, you know? I dunno' why I do it...why I'mlike this."

Jisung knits his brows. "B–But do you think you can stop? I don't get it."

"I wish I knew," Minho whispers, his voice cracking. "Dancing means everything to me—I think—but when I broke my leg at Chris', I wasn't even mad atyouover it."

"Okay..." Jisung says, a little dazed. He doesn't know where Minho is going with this.

The bedroom falls uncomfortably silent. It leaves Jisung to listen to a barrage of incessant thoughts about what Minhocouldbe alluding to and what Jisung should be doing to make things better. Maybe he should've told Minho that he loved him sooner, instead of uselessly wallowing in his own selfish feelings of self-doubt. Maybe then, Minho would be happier. Perhaps, he wouldn't be so broken.

Finally, after a grueling two minutes of quiet (not that Jisung was counting), Minho speaks.

"When I–I was in the hospital," he begins, rubbing premature tears from his eyes, "I realized...I was more upset that I survived it all. I–I just really,reallywanted to die."

Oh.Oh.

Jisung claps a hand over his mouth, muffling a tearless sob that threatens to break through.

"Do you want me to stop?" Minho asks. He gently squeezes Jisung's hand that's interlocked with his own. "Just say the word and I will."

"No." Jisung releases a breath he'd been holding for far too long. "Tell me. Tell meeverything."

Jisung didn't expect it to be this easy: simply poking the piñata of Minho's emotions once and watching sour candy flow out. Since Jisung has gotten to know Minho, he's always seen the brunet as mysterious, closed off, reserved, and unwilling to shareanythingabout himself.

But now, here Minho is, spilling out his heart for Jisung to see. And for Jisung, it's all just too hard to stomach.

"First off...Leon's my ex, Jisung," Minho opens with, avoiding Jisung's gaze like the plague. "He told me he loved me, treated me like it too. And 'cause of that, I was certain I loved him the same."

Jisung's heart sinks at the sudden revelation of Minho and Leon's bright, bubbly, and love-tastic past. The way Minho lulls over his words, speaking slowly and almost hesitantly, tells Jisung that Minho's opened a recent wound—one that's still bleeding out all over his heart.

How could two people who were once 'in love' end up hating each other so profusely?Jisung wonders.

Then, he thinks of the family portrait hanging in the living room—the one his mother gushes over whenever her friends stop by—wearing copy-pasted smiles that masquerade as love. He thinks of the arguments between his parents, the sounds of glass shattering and a perfect façade slipping.

His parents were in love once. Now, they hate each other.

Leon Smith and Minho Lee were in love once, in secret and behind closed doors. Now, Minho bears the scars of Leon's hatred.

Minho explains that Leon saved him from another ex-"boyfriend" (who was six years older than Minhoandhis employer). He admits that at fifteen, he'd just figured out his sexuality and jumped into a relationship with any guy who wanted him, even if it ended up in heartbreak. There's another crack in his voice when he tells Jisung that Leon was his first friend at Marino Hills High School, and the only person who seemed to give a sh*t about him.

According to Minho, it didn't take long for Leon's clique to start picking on him when no one was around to report it. But, since he was naïve, in love, and unwilling to ruin Leon's friendships, he kept his mouth shut.

"His friends were f*ckin' insane," Minho says in-between sniffles. "I don't know why I never told anyone. I think it's 'cause Ireallywanted Leon to like me. I guess I did it to myself."

Jisung can't even squeeze out the right words: that it'snotMinho's fault for what Leon did to him. But he can't. His tongue forgets how words work.

In the midst of all the bad, Minho describes his relationship with Leon as generally good for what it was. Minho didn't have a problem with its secretive nature because he wasn't ready to come out to his parents, and Leon wanted to keep them a secret because of his reputation. In private, they did typical relationship things—but Minho hesitates to elaborate on what those 'things' were. Jisung doesn't pry.

"It was good until he wanted to have sex with me," Minho mumbles. The brunet screws his eyes shut, and if Jisung listens closely, he can hear Minho's heart pounding hard and fast with his shaky breathing pattern. "I said no–I–I'd already lost my virginity, so it wasn't that but—"

"Take your time, Minho," Jisung says softly, moving brunet hair strands out of Minho's face. "We...we don't have to talk about this if you don't want to."

"No." Minho shakes his head. "You deserve to know. I'm tired of hiding sh*t from you Jisung—and—and then you get put in these awkward ass situations like what just happened."

"I don't 'deserve' to know anything about you," Jisung counters, folding his arms. "You tell me when you're ready, okay? I'dliketo know, but don't force yourself if you're not comfortable."

Minho offers a weak smile in response. They take a five minute break from talking so Jisung can grab Minho a glass of water.

When Jisung sees that the time is twelve-ten in the morning, he doesn't think twice about it.

Minho begins to cry when he explains how he only slept with Leon because he felt like he had to. The bullying at school rendered his self-esteem nonexistent, he believed that his relationship with Leon was hisonlysource of happiness, and he would do anything to keep what they had. Anything.

Until Minho eventually found out that Leon had been "in" on the bullying scheme.

It sickens Jisung, spikes bile in his throat to think that Leonknewthe whole time about the terrible things that Minho was enduring at school, and allowed it anyway. It's nauseating. Vomit-inducing.

"I broke up with him immediately," Minho says, followed by a mumbled: "it was theonesmart thing I did back then," and then continues. "You can imagine what happened after that."

"What happened?" Jisung frowns. He doesn't know if he can handle any more blows.

"H–He basically o–outed me," Minho sniffles, and Jisung's heart breaks a million times over. "Sent my mom an email of some very incriminating sh*t he recorded with his dad's camera. L–Like there were s–some of me sucking him off, smoking, basically everythin' heknewwould get me in trouble."

Jisung falls silent again. He wants to throw up.

How could anyone hurt Minho like this?

How?!

"My parents are f*ckin' leagues different than Lix's," Minho explains after he's collected his breath. "Even though my dad is Uncle Joon's brother, he'srealhom*ophobic. They absolutely hated me after they found out...and I think they always will hate me."

After his parents inevitably kicked Minho out of the house, he lived with Felix until his grandmother offered to take him in. Minho describes feeling immensely depressed and using cutting as a means to feel "better"; to escape from a reality that haunted him; to keep him from killing himself.

By the end of it all, Jisung is unsure what to say. How is one supposed to respond to such deep feelings of self-hatred? How is Jisung supposed to explain to Minho why it's worth it?

"So, do you still want to...uh...die?" Jisung asks, voice tentative. He's not sure if what he's asking is inappropriate. He's not surehowto ask.

"Not as much." Minho does his best to offer a smile, but it's weak at the ends. "It's hard to cope with my parents literally disowningme 'n only showin' up when 할머니[Grandma]calls, but there's sh*t in life worth living for."

"You think that?"

Minho lets out a half-hearted laugh. "No, silly. Iknowthat. It's just hard to break old habits, y'know? Sometimes the sh*t in my head gets the best of me."

To Jisung, it is painfully clear that Minho has a long way to go before he heals from the scars of his past.

Luckily, Jisung is certain that he'll be there for Minho every step of the way.

Jisung shifts positions to hold Minho better, hold him tighter to his heartbeat. His chin rests atop Minho's shoulder, one hand resting behind Minho's neck and the other rubbing up and down his back. Something blooms between them—something warm, tasting of golden yellow—something a little like hope.

"I love you, Minho," Jisung whispers into the calm silence between them. Minho shudders in Jisung's hold, choking on a suppressed sob. "Let me know if there's anything I can do to help you, please."

"Mhm," Minho hums. "I love you too. Love yousomuch, Jisungie...you don't even know."

It's nearly half past one in the morning when Ricky Campbell drops Jisung off at his house. The street is cloaked in a serene stillness—an empty quiet that signals a neighborhood-wide slumber. If you exclude the blaring streetlights, the entire street is asleep at this hour.

Ricky yawns, thrusting the shift stick into 'park' mode. "'Ey, before you go, I wanna' say something."

Jisung blinks dumbly, dazed with exhaustion. Ricky had talked his ears off the entire ride home and now he hasmoreto say?

"Um, okay? I'm all ears," Jisung yawns back, catching the contagion.

"Just wanted to thank you, 'S all," Ricky starts, twirling a cigarette between his fingers. "I dunno' what's going on between you 'n Minho, but he's the happiest me 'n Mitch have ever seen him."

"Oh," Jisung, slightly surprised, responds. "Really?"

"Really," Ricky insists, nudging Jisung with his elbow. "If you swingthat way, I think y'all would look good together."

Jisung tilts his head, a little strained for words. How does Rickynotknow? Hasn't Minho told his friends anything? Jisung tells Felixeverything.

"Oh, wow," Jisung awkwardly laughs, scratching the back of his neck. "I'm flattered. Um, Minho...he's a good looking guy."

And much more, but I'll leave it at that—

"But do you like him?" Ricky asks, shooting Jisung a questioning glare. "I feel like y'all have some crazy chemistry, just sayin'. I got an A in Chem last year. I know my stuff."

A small, surprised sound falls past Jisung's lips. It's all a bit humorous, really.

Ricky, however, takes Jisung's genuine surprise as discomfort.

"Only if you swing that way though, man," Ricky adds. "Minho told us he thinks you're straight 'n all. But he totally wants you, like,bad."

"He does?" Jisung breathes, almost to himself.

"He does," Ricky confirms.

"Uh, well it's a good thing we're already dating then?" Jisung states matter-of-factly. "He's my boyfriend."

The words roll off Jisung's tongue surprisingly naturally. As if it's the most obvious thing ever. Like he's never beenmoresure of something. Something flutters in his chest; something a little like butterflies.

Jisung is in love with Minho Lee. If he could, he'd scream it from all the rooftops in Marino Hills.

Ricky's eyes nearly bulge from their sockets, and Jisung has to stifle a laugh.

"You—you're kidding, right?"

"Nope," Jisung shrugs. "We were uh...making out in your car."

"Oh, I'm going tokillthat f*cker," Ricky scoffs. "Get the hell outta' my car."

Jisung chuckles, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Thanks for the ride, Ricky. And, you know, fornotkilling me."

Ricky grins, lighting his cigarette. "Just keep taking care of Minho, okay? He's like a brother to me."

As Jisung steps out of the car, he waves goodbye. "Will do. Goodnight, Ricky."

As soon as Ricky Campbell drives off,Jisung realizes the grave mistake he's made.

His parents are home. He was supposed to be back from the movie nightbeforeeleven.

Now, it's late. Too late.

The giddy smile is slapped off his lips by the bitter October cold. There's hardly any light, no oxygen, no sound. Jisung rolls up his sleeves to wipe the tears from his eyes, but it's no use. They know. Theyhaveto know. He can't breathe. They know. He's f*cked. He's so, utterly f*cked. And his heart knows it too, with how hard it hammers in his chest, threatening to explode, threatening to stop completely.

Death has Jisung's soul firmly in its grasp. He can't f*cking breathe. They know. They know. They know. Death offers his sinning soul to the Devil. Jisung panics, grabs his crimson fingers, tries to break free, but the Devil's grip is of iron and Jisung sees the smile in his eyes. He's well andtrulyf*cked.

Jisung fumbles with his pockets, flipping open his phone and frantically dialing the one number he knows best. His lifeline.

He half expects Minhonotto answer. Ricky dropped him home first, and if anything, Minho should be asleep.

The dull rings of his cellphone mock him, drives him insane.PleasePleasePlease, he begs.Please pick up.

And Minho always does."Hello?"

Jisung sinks to the concrete, cradling the phone close to his ear.

"M–Minho, my parents, they know—oh god—they f*ckingknow," Jisung dry-sobs into the phone. "They're going to kill me, I'msof*ckingscrewed."

"What?"Minho's voice crackles through the phone line, groggy with sleep. "Jisung, slow down. What happened?"

"I–I was supposed to be ho–home hours ago, and—and they're going to f–flip out," Jisung stammers, his panic echoing in the darkness around him. "They know Minho, they have to f–f*cking know."

"Know about us? How would they know?"Minho asks. His voice is slow, oh-so patient, and Jisung just wants to drown in it. "Breathe, Jisung. There's no possible way they could find out."

Jisung hiccups. "You're—You're right. 'M sorry."

"Don't you dare apologize,"Minho scolds gently."Just breathe for me, alright? I'm right here."

"Can't," Jisung chokes on pure saliva. God, he's so pathetic.

"'Course you can,"Minho says, and Jisung can feel the warm smile through the phone. "Just listen to me, yeah?"

Jisung nods, but realizes Minho can't see him on the other end. "'Kay."

"Okay, inhale,"Minho instructs, and Jisung follows obediently."Hold it, one–two–three, and exhale."

"Did it."

"Good. Again,"Minho guides Jisung through his breathing. Death begins to surrender. "You're okay, Jisungie. Promise. Y'know I wouldn't let anythin' happen to you."

"I know," Jisung mumbles, surprisingly stable. "I'm sorry...you should be asleep."

"What did I just say about apologizing?"Minho asks sternly. "Jisung, you helped me a lot tonight. 'S only fair that I return the favor."

"I guess." Jisung begins fidgeting with his shoelaces: stabbing into them, unlacing them, tucking them.

"Now tell me exactly what happened."

Jisung recounts the events: how his parents were at a PR meeting and supposed to come back by eleven, how he snuck out of the house to go to the movie night and returned hours late, how his parents will absolutely skin him alive. Especially his mother.

"Minho, I'm scared," Jisung admits. "C–Can you just stay on the phone with me while I open the door?"

"Of course, love,"Minho promises."Just know you're paying the phone bill."

Jisung chuckles at that, tucking his phone back into his pocket.

Beneath his front porch light, he reaches for his keys and listens to the jangle as he pushes them into the keyhole. With a deep breath, he turns the key, wincing at the faint click that seems louder in the silence of the house. Jisung holds his breath as he pushes the front door open, snakelike tendrils anxiously pumping through his veins.

It's okay. You're okay. They don't know.

Breathe.

The main hallway is bathed in the pale streetlights filtering through the slits in the curtains. If Jisung's lucky, he can just kick off his shoes and slip into his bedroom without a problem—

"Han Jisung," Narae calls, presumably from the living room. Jisung's blood runs cold. "Do you haveanyidea how late it is?"

"S–Sorry mom, it won't happen again—"

"Come here, now," Narae interrupts. "Your father and I want to talk to you."

Jisung swallows hard. A fifty-ton weight takes residence where his heart should be. It plummets.

"Minho," he whispers into the phone, his voice almost a plead.

"Call me after, 'kay? I'm right here."Minho reassures."Remember your breathing. You'll be okay."

"Okay, love you," Jisung says, his voice hardly audible over the chatter in the living room. He hangs up the phone.

Jisung takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself as he walks towards the living room. The sound of his own footsteps echoes in his ears, each one sounding heavier than the last. With every step, the weight in his chest grows, like a growing cyst, threatening to suffocate him.

The Grim Reaper taps on his shoulder. Death slithers up his spine. Suddenly, he can't breathe again.

When he enters the living room, he notices his parents sitting on the couch, their expressions stern.

"Sit down, Jisung," John orders. Jisung obediently takes a seat on the armchair across from them, unable to shake off his unease.

Jisung's eyes lock onto the coffee table before them. His heart stops.No.

"I found this book hidden in your father's study," Narae begins, holding up Jenna Benson'sHow to Support Your LGBTQ+ Child. "I need the both of you to explain this, now. Because there's only one child in this mother-f*cking house and it'syou, Jisung."

"I–I don't know what that is," Jisung stammers.

His heart feels as though it's ready to tear through his chest like a silver bullet, thudding painfully hard underneath his ribcage.This cannot be happening.

"Han Jisung, don't play dumb with me," Narae snaps, holding her head in her hands. "Who were you with just now, huh? Your boyfriend?"

"I d–don't have a—"

"Don't lie to me!" Narae shouts, slamming the book on the table. "I–I can't believe you would stoop this low after everything we taught you. You were not raised this way!"

"Mom, I'm not...I'mnotlying to you," Jisung insists. "Dad, tell her!"

John takes a slow swig of his nightly beer. "Jisung, I think you are confused," he turns to Narae. "Over the summer, he told me he was...'bisexual'."

Narae's face contorts with anger. "Bisexual? How could you do this to us, Jisung? We raised you better than that! It's unnatural!"

"M–Mom, I–I didn't choose this, I can't control it." Tears begin to well in Jisung's eyes, stinging as they roll down his cheeks.

This is his worst nightmare.

John's expression hardens, his voice as bitter as his alcohol. "This isnotwhat we wanted for you, Jisung. We had dreams and expectations for your future, and this...this is a betrayal."

The pain of disapproval cuts deep—a switchblade in his abdomen—leaving him feeling lost.

"Then why would you buy the book?" Jisung asks, wiping at his eyes. "Dad...you wanted to support me, you wanted to help me! You wanted to accept me!"

Narae's eyes narrow. "Acceptance? 너 미쳤니?[Are you crazy?]How can we accept something that goes against our beliefs, Jisung? This is not the life we envisioned for you!"

Jisung's voice trembles as he fights back tears. "But Mom, Dad, I'm your son. I'm not perfect but—"

John is quick to interrupt. "You're right, aren't ya' Jisung? You are our son. And right now, you're betraying our family with your...unnatural desires."

"Disgusting," "sinful," "immoral."Jisung can't take it anymore.

"I'm not betraying anything!" Jisung yells, standing up from the armchair. "You both can sleep well tonight knowing I'm not f*cking some random guy in my grade!"

The second time Jisung is slapped by his father, it echoes throughout the living room, yet it takes a second to register the pain. Something becomes alive on his cheek—something throbbing and pulsating with searing pain that feels like a fire. For a moment, his senses are delayed; soapy vision, beer up his nose; as he fights the constant ringing sensation in his ears.

For a moment, he doesn't know what happened and the event feels fuzzy. For a single moment, the only thing he feels is pain.

Pain is a virus, entering his bloodstream through the impact on his cheek and infesting his heart. It hurts. It hurts that after every apology, John turns back into the same man Jisung has always known him to be.

A heartless drunk.

"You listen to me boy," John booms, his dirty saliva hitting Jisung's face. "You do not scream at your parents. And you donotcry like a little girl—what is it? You wanna be a girl now?"

Jisung knows better than to speak, although his father's question seems like one he ought to answer.

He's not sure why this time around, his mother allows for John to hit him.

"Go to your room, now," Narae cuts in, her voice like an ironclad decree. "You don't use that language in this house,ever."

Jisung doesn't put up a fight, it's no use. With a small nod, he retreats into his bedroom.

It takes Jisung a moment or two for his body to fully process the sting of his parents' words laced in pure acid and venom—decimating all the hope that was once had. Less time though, is how long it takes for him to process the burn of John's slap. Ouch. Narae's words plant seeds into every corner of Jisung's brain, waiting to grow into thorny weeds that remind him of everything that wentwrong.

And when he eventually curls up into his bed, unwilling to call Minho, he doesn't cry.

He thinks he's forgotten how to.

Chapter 13: A Beginning to Blackmail

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ ❥

THE FALL OF 2006
Holier Than Thou

October 25th, 2006.

It's Minho Lee's eighteenth birthday. Jisung marked it on his calendar ages ago. Circled in bright red, with miniature hearts dancing all over the cardstock, is the 25th. It's not like Jisung could've forgotten, but he still marked it up as October's most important date, anyway. In a thinner, blue ink, It's also written as the day Minho finally gets his walking boot off after months of healing.

Jisung hadsomany plans: 1—catching "The Devil Wears Prada" at the theater, 2—blowing his savings on an unnecessarily fancy restaurant; and on the weekend; 3—spending the entire Saturday at Six Flags' Fright Fest, and 4—spending therestof the weekend making out.

It would've been perfect.

October 25th is by far the most important day of Jisung's life, and he's grounded. Great. The only thing he'll be doing after school is meeting with the local pastor.

"So, tell me Jisung, what made you want to meet with me today?"

It's ironic. They don't even go to church.

Pastor Keyes sits across from Jisung in his father's study, seated comfortably in John's chestnut leather armchair. Jisung hyper focuses on the salt-and-pepper of Pastor Keyes' hair more than the question he's been asked, fidgeting nervously with his fingers.

"Jisung," Pastor Keyes calls, but pronounces it like 'ji*zzung'in his gravelly voice. Jisung could correct him. He doesn't. "In order for this to work, you have to talk to me."

"I–I'm, uh, I'm not sure what t–to talk about," Jisung gulps. The saliva gets stuck, he chokes. He scolds himself for how pathetic he sounds.

"Well, we could start with what your mother told me," Pastor Keyes says, still surprisingly calm. It's a little unsettling. "She says you're...bisexual?"

Jisung falls silent again, picking his fingers raw. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, acutely aware that anything he says to anyonegoing forward can be used against him. Like a boomerang, any truth he spills will come back to him—any lie he tells will return when he least expects it. Silence is the safest option.

"Opening up is the first step toward healing, you know," Pastor Keyes adds, folding his hands atop John's desk table. "Remember that God is accepting and non-judging, so long as you're committed to growth."

"I wish I could b–believe that," Jisung responds laconically. He also wishes he could slap the stutter out of his mouth.

Ugh.The tick-ticking of the clock couldn't go by any slower.Tick...tick...tick...

"Why do you say that?" Pastor Keyes asks. "God loves all of his children, even ones who have been led astray."

"It's just...i–it's a bit hard to believe," Jisung pauses to catch his breath. The collar of his shirt strangles him. "When you feel like y–you're being judged for who you are."

Pastor Keyes nods slowly, scribbling something down in his notepad. Without looking up, he asks, "And why do you feel that way?"

Tick...tick...tick...

"Um." Jisung scratches behind his neck. "M–My dad."

Pastor Keyes looks up after a minute, narrowing his eyes so his wrinkles form. "What about your dad?"

Something bruises inside Jisung's brain—something that swells and sends signals to his heart to beat faster.He hits me sometimes,Jisung could say.He gets drunk and he hits me.But should he? An onslaught of thoughts flood his mind.Dad judges me. Mom judges me.Jisung is an imperfect embryo sheltered by a perfect shell. There's still time to become something pure, something too pure to be beaten.

Jisung's fingers graze the remnants of his father's handprint on his cheek.He hits me for being who I am.He hits me in the name of God.

Pastor Keyes waits a bit more for Jisung to reply, but when he doesn't, breaks the silence: "Jisung, you do realize that I'm here withyourbest interest in mind, right? You can trust me with anything."

Jisung offers a weak smile. "I–I'm sorry...I wish I could trust that."

Pastor Keyes reciprocates the smile, reaching out to steady Jisung's trembling fingers. "It's alright. Trust comes with time. I hope that during our sessions, I can earn your trust and restore your faith."

Jisung can only nod. It'll take more than a few sessions to fix him. He thinks...maybe he is irreparable.

"So," Pastor Keyes clears his throat, fishing in his bag for a notebook. "I want to give you this. We call it the Desire Journal."

"Uh huh." Jisung accepts the notebook. It has some Bible verse etched into its cover that Jisung doesn't recognize.

"Yes, and its purpose is for you to jot down any thoughts you have that don't align with the teachings of God," Pastor Keyes explains. "Think of it as a diary. We will discuss what you've written during our sessions."

Jisung nods, flipping through the empty pages.

He thinks, briefly, of how this journal will remain empty until the end of time. There'snoway he'll ever be willing to reveal his deepest desires to one of the closest things to the Lord himself.

"I want you to know that I was you once," Pastor Keyes adds, mouth broken into a warm smile, "I, too, once thought I was a queer. The things that society allows today, it's a poison."

Thatpiques Jisung's interest. "You were?"

Pastor Keyes nods, solemnly.

Jisung wonders, for a second, what happened to the man that took up residency in Pastor Keyes' heart. Where did the boy go? Is he still around, or did the wrath of the world eventually consume them both?

Pastor Keyes lays down a picture frame. He's a lot younger there, with golden, blond hair, dressed in a black suit, with the same cross necklace dangling from his neck. A dark-haired woman stands beside him, wearing a green summer dress and cradling a baby in her arms. Another child stands at their feet, smiling wide and holding up a superhero figurine.

It's so beautiful...it's soraw.

"But eventually, I rejected the Devil," Pastor Keyes continues. "Jisung...when you look at this photo, isn't this something you want?"

Jisung traps his lower lip between his teeth, imagining a life like that one. He'd live in the lush greens and mountainous hills of the countryside, where he could run free through dandelion fields and pick fresh apples straight from the trees. Where the sun would shine every day and he could do anything he wanted without the scrutiny of contemporary society. He'd own a beautiful flower garden that would bloom into every color of the rainbow during the spring.

It would be perfect. But...not without Minho.

Jisung doesn't even want to begin to imagine a future without him. And, while it could be naïve to expect a future with someone he fell for at seventeen—even unrealistic—Jisung has no problem with being a loveblind fool. For now.

"I–It's beautiful," Jisung breathes, astonished. He knows he's not properly answering the question, but it's the best response he can offer.

I want it, I want it all...but with him.

"I know," Pastor Keyes says with a smile. "But, the queers cannot have this...because this is a lifestyle handcrafted by God, and their ideology blatantly disrespects him."

Jisung is reminded once more that his feelings toward men will never be accepted. That the love in his heart, the pretty, pink, flesh tucked at the center of his organ is wrong, somehow.

He knows this. It hurts.

"I have compassion for you, Jisung." Pastor Keyes folds his hands atop the desk, indirectly showing off a silver wedding ring. It's beautiful. It's perfect. "But, you know that...hom*osexuals...they can't marry—at least, not here in California—nor can they have children."

"I–I know," Jisung mumbles, his voice cracking. Ithurts.

"So, you understand that if you continue down this path." Pastor Keyes points to the picture. "You willneverbe able to have this."

And he burns the photo to a crisp.

Jisung watches, tears stinging his eyes, as the photo erupts into flames. The smile of the child becomes distorted, pained, as it disappears into chunks of ash. The woman clutching the baby is next, engulfed by orange flames that decimates the picture in seconds. It burns wildly, destroying the promise of a fruitful future, of a beautiful future, of a perfect future.

"Hold it," Pastor Keyes commands, placing what's left of the photo in between Jisung's fingers. "Watch it burn."

A single tear rolls down Jisung's cheek, watching as the fire continues to burn what's left of the photo: a black suit and the smiling face of a lonely man. As the wildfire nears his fingertips, he's hesitant to hold it, scared to get burned, and—

Pastor Keyes puts the fire out. Jisung shudders in shock, gaze falling to the specks of ash that litters his brand new khaki pants. It's all...gone. A part of Jisung burned in that fire, the hopeful part.

Pastor Keyes wipes the stray tear from Jisung's face. "Your tears are why it's so important that we solve this.Together."

The words Jisung wants to say can't find their way up his esophagus. At some point, they get stuck, right at his Adam's Apple where a huge lump begins to grow. He has no words. His voice has been stolen.

Jisung sucks in a breath on stilts. He nods slowly.

"I'm sorry I missed your birthday."

The following day, Jisung finds Minho sitting alone in the school's courtyard. It's a desolate corner, tucked in between overgrown bushes: a secret spot, a hidden alcove where the sounds of chatter from their peers is distant. With his tray of lunch in hand, he stands before Minho, whose face is dotted with cherry red splotches from the cold. Jisung wants to kiss those spots until they're warm again.

He's still young, so maybe he can get away with being a sinner for a little while longer.

Jesus, Jisung. Control yourself.

"Huh?" Minho tilts his head quizzically. "It's alright, Ji. 'S not like you missed anythin'."

"Still," Jisung says, making space beside Minho. "I...I really wanted to be there. Especially because you got your boot off."

"Didn't we see each other at lunch?" Minho queries (and, well, they did, but it's not the same. Mitchell, Ricky and Felix sat with them). "You wished me a happy birthday."

"It was hardly special, though." Jisung frowns, picking at his cafeteria lunch he likely won't eat. "I wanted it to be special."

Minho reaches for Jisung's hand, taking his index finger between his. "Trust me, the only thing I wanted for my birthday was to spend time with you. And that's exactly what I got."

Jisung looks up from his less-than-appetizing meal and meets Minho's gaze. The bruising on his face is muted with the help of drugstore concealer, making his almond eyes appear soft, rather than broken. His eyelashes are so long and beautiful—he'sso beautiful. Jisung's heart transforms into a butterfly swarm, fluttering about in his system.

"You're really cheesy, you know?" Jisung giggles, interlacing their fingers.

"You're really lovely, you know?" Minho parrots, rubbing his pink-tipped nose on Jisung's. "Baby, you're all that I need~."

Jisung freezes, completely stunned. He thinks of the evergreen fields, of the woman cradling the baby, of the young child with an infectious smile.

"But, I mean, do you ever think about the future?" Jisung asks. His voice is so quiet, it could get swallowed up by the autumn winds' howls.

Minho is clearly confused. "The future?"

"Y–Yeah, I mean," Jisung starts, "...gay people can't...like...they can't get married."

"Wow," Minho giggles sweetly. "Don't you think it's a little too early to be thinking aboutmarryingme, Jisung?" he jokes. "Also, they technically can. In Massachusetts."

"That's like, a million miles away," Jisung mumbles. He feels ungrateful. Here he is, with this beautiful boyfriend, yet, he's unsatisfied.

"That isn't the point," Minho explains. "In the future, more states will pro'lly legalize gay marriage. 'S why I don't think about the future that much. You never know what'll happen."

"But...they also can't have kids."

"Nottogether, no," Minho agrees in-between small bites. "But, there's options now to have a kid. Obviously, there's restrictions, but even straight couples have restrictions."

"Oh." Minhoisright. Still, Jisung can't rub off the unease that ebbs away at his heart.

"Where is this comin' from, though?" Minho asks, taking a slow sip of his strawberry milk. "Your psycho parents?"

Jisung chuckles, it comes out dry. "No, worse. They're making me meet with a pastor three times a week. He put all this bullsh*t in my head and—"

"Ji," Minho interrupts. "Wanting a family...isn't 'bullsh*t'. Neither is wanting a traditional marriage. It'syourlife, your future. 'S not dumb."

Jisung blinks slowly.

"Plus, you don't have to havethatfuture, copy-paste," Minho continues, tucking a dark hair strand behind Jisung's ear. "Hypothetically, if you still wanted to be with me, some things would haf'ta be different. That doesn't mean...what we could have isn't beautiful too."

"But—"

"Shh, no buts," Minho shushes, placing a finger to Jisung's lips. "Just eat your food while I foresee our future together~."

Jisung co*cks a brow, amused. "Oh? You're a fortune teller now?"

"Only the best there is~," Minho responds with a grin. "But I can't predict our future if you don't eat your food. So..."

Jisung shoves a mouthful of school pasta into his mouth. It's a little bitter. "Fine," he grumbles.

Minho laughs. Jisung wishes he could preserve the sound in a jar.

"So, what I'm predicting...is," Minho starts, narrowing his eyes in faux concentration, "we'll live in a secluded area, 'cause you hate people—"

Jisung, with his mouth stuffed full of food, makes a sound of protest. It only causes Minho to keep giggling hysterically.

"—Ji, stop, youknowyou hate people," Minho insists. "Anyway, our house will be huge, 'cause I said so. 'Nd we'll have three cats—my cats—and one dog, just in case you like dogs. We'll have, like, a million kids...until you don't want kids anymore. They'll all be 'M's, or 'J's, because Americans love to do that alliteration sh*t and 'S kinda' cute."

Jisung swallows his pasta, momentarily setting aside his skepticism. He watches Minho tell a fable of their future, letting the images of their supposed future play out in his mind. It's so perfect. It's sothem.

"Go on, tell me more about our fabulous future," Jisung encourages, playing along with Minho's predictions.

"Well, of course,I'llbe the breadwinner," Minho continues with a dramatic flourish. "You can be the stay-at-home dad, or mom, or whatever. 'Cause you're clearly the girlfriend of this relationship."

"I amnotthe girlfriend!" Jisung protests, folding his arms and pouting.

Minho rolls his eyes. "Yeah, whatever you say, princess." Jisung chokes mid-chew. "Anyway, I'll come home from my sh*tty 9–5, you'll greet me with a sweet kiss 'n be like 'welcome home, my love~!'—"

"I amnotdoing that—"

Minho is quick to interrupt. "So, I'll come home to your loving arms, and we'll have dinner together as a family. Our kids will be geniuses,obviously, and we'll talk sh*t about you in Korean, 'cause you're stubborn and refuse to learn it. We'll be the perfect, happy family."

"You forgot the part where we travel the world. Since, in this universe, we're somehow loaded," Jisung suggests, joining in on the fantasy. "We'll have a sh*t-ton family pictures."

Minho claps, eyes forming crescents. He looks so pretty, it physically hurts.

(Maybe Jisung reallyisloveblind to the bruises that, although faded, still paint purplish shapes on Minho's face.)

Minho sighs dreamily. "I think the hardest part would be...getting married. If the rest of the U.S. doesn't get their sh*t together, we'll just run away to Massachusetts and come back."

"But, seriously, you'd be okaywith all that?" Jisung asks. "This sounds like the plot of an action, rom-com blend."

Minho shrugs, his gaze never leaving Jisung's. "Why not? As long as I'm with you, every bit of it sounds like a dream~."

Jisung clears his throat, praying to God that he hasn't just burned up in freezing weather.

"Damn, Minho, I didn't know you could be such a cheesy romantic."

"Mm." Minho hums. "You don't seem like you're complaining, though."

"Oh, no, I'm not," Jisung assures him. A shy smile plays on his lips. "I–I'd really like a future with you."

The surprised sound that bursts from Minho's lips is precious. He'll never be able to forget the way his eyes soften, twinkling prettily, or the way Minho's ears bloom bright pink, flustered. It's precious.

"I just vomited in my f*ckin' mouth at how sweet that was," Minho spits with an eyeroll, feigning annoyance. "But...I'd like a future with you too, or whatever.f*ck."

It's unfair how Minho's lips pucker in a small pout, how his eyes twinkle like stars, how his lips look so soft andkissable. It's unfair how Jisung wants to hold him tight—no—hold what theyhaveso tightly, it could never be broken. He wants to yank the wings from Minho's body, then yank his own, to keep them from flying away from each other.

The future that Minho speaks of, though idealistic, and cheesy, is something that Jisung craves with his whole being.

Jisung's craving warps into a deep longing, a want that's suppressed by the scrutiny of Narae, of John, of Pastor Keyes, and of every person who spits on their love for each other.

He'll do anythingto keep what they have.

"Do you really mean that?" Jisung asks after a brief silence.

"Yeah, 'course," Minho smiles, pressing their foreheads together. "We'll have the best future ever: the happy ending."

And Jisung just can't take it anymore.

Jisung leans in and draws Minho into a kiss, their lips pressed together as every fibre in his body begins to catch fire. His eyes flutter shut instinctively, soft breaths escaping into Minho's mouth. It tastes a lot like "I love you."

"Finally," Minho sighs prettily against Jisung's lips, voice whirring into a cute giggle. The brunet tips his head to kiss along Jisung's jaw sweetly, stopping short of his earlobe. Then, Minho whispers, "I missed you so f*ckin' much."

"We see each other every day," Jisung snorts.

"Not likethis," Minho points out, his honeyed voice dripping into Jisung's ear. "Hasn't been like this since Leon f*cked me up 'n you got grounded—," and he's lowering his head to kiss right below his ear, "—haven't had any time to ourselves."

It's not like Minho's wrong. With his parents and Pastor Keyes hovering over his back, there's little he can do but stay indoors. He's like Rapunzel in the witch's tower, only able to communicate with Minho through email.

"Mm, complain later," a soft moan bobbles out of Jisung's mouth. "Just kiss me."

If there's one thing Jisung can be certain of, it's the future unfolding before him.

"A hickey?! Damn, Jisung, you've outdone yourself with this one."

Jisung's current reflection—one that's encased within a murky bathroom mirror—may not do his appearance justice, but luckily, he doesn't need to see anything in great detail to recognize the horror that lies on his skin.

A small, but very-muchtherepatch of skin glows red, angry, right below his ear.

"Felix, if you're not going to say anything useful, you shouldn't say it at all," Jisung half-grumbles, half-hisses, pressing at the red swell. It stings.

Felix scoffs, bemused. "Well,excuse mefor being intrigued by my bestie's gay awakening—"

"Would youstopcalling it a gay awakening?" Jisung pleads.

Heat rises in his cheeks, like a volcano bubbling up before an explosion, matching the color of the hickey. It's humiliating how he went through the remaining periods after lunch, wearing the hickey as if it were a badge of honour. It's idealistic, but he desperately hopes that no one else noticed it.

Felix rolls his eyes, smirking. "Fine, fine. But you have to admit, it's quite the...uh...statement. I mean, who knew you had it in you?"

"It's not like I planned this," Jisung is quick to point out, still poking at the ruby red splotch. "I wasn't like 'oh, Minho,pleasemark me up, right where my parents can see~'."

"That would'be been hot, though," Felix comments, albeit unhelpfully. "Really hot."

"Felix!" Jisung whines. "Not helping."

"Okay, don't worry," Felix pauses to search his baggy pockets, retrieving a tube of...makeup? "I have the perfect solution~!"

Felix grins mischievously, animatedly waving the tube in the air. "Behold, the magical concealer~! Works wonders, my friend. 'Specially 'cause of your little...predicament."

Jisung eyes the tube skeptically. "Concealer?Really?"

"Trust me, it's like magic for hiding...y'know, hickeys," Felix assures, handing it over. "Just dab a bit, blend, and voilà—it disappears~!"

Jisung hesitates before accepting the concealer. "You better not be enjoying this too much."

"'S too late for that one, my friend," Felix says, a toothy smile stretched across his face.

Jisung rolls his eyes, pulling the concealer wand from the tube with apop!that echoes in the desolate bathroom. He raises it to his neck, hesitant to press the skin-colored fluid to his skin. It's still makeup. If his parents found out he went from being bisexual to wearing makeup, he'd be screwed.

Felix leans in, like some godfairy, offering dubious advice.

"Remember, gentle strokes, Sung. We're covering up a mark, not painting a damn wall," he instructs.

Jisung shoots him a deadpan look. "I can't believe I'm taking makeup tips from you right now."

Felix chuckles. "Desperate times call for desperate measures, my dear Jisung. My oh-somanlyJisung."

Jisung takes a deep breath and cautiously begins to apply the concealer to the hickey, opting to ignore Felix's annoying antics. He follows Felix's advice and uses gentle strokes, blending the makeup into his skin. Surprisingly, the concealer starts to work its magic, gradually hiding the redness of the hickey. Concealer is a lie—a mask that covers up the truth—but for today, Jisung's just going to have to deal with being a liar. His parents absolutely cannot find out.

Felix watches with a satisfied grin, clearly enjoying the process way too much. Annoying.

"See? Itold youit would work," he says triumphantly.

Jisung can't help but crack a smile. "Thanks, Lix. I don't know what I would've done without you."

Felix shrugs, mirroring Jisung's smile. "Just doing my duty as your bestie~," he chimes. "But a general rule of thumb for next time...don't get a hickey where everyone can see it."

"Noted."

Jisung is strangely not feeling all too nervous when his feet drag him out to the field after school.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the ground, stretching the silhouettes of the bleachers into elongated rectangles. Dust particles twinkle in the sunlight, autumn leaves collect at the pillars of the bleachers, and various pieces of litter speckle the concrete. A gentle breeze rustles through the leaves of nearby trees, their branches reaching out towards the bleachers as if eager to join in the secrets whispered beneath their shade. The distant sounds of students laughing, sports cleats scuffing against pavement, and the harrowing smacks of sports balls audio Marino High's field.

Leaves crackle and crunch underfoot as Jisung finds a spot beneath the bleachers. He's alone beneath the shadows of the bleachers, no one else in sight, despite the clock inching toward 3:15.

The image is hardly anything to gawk at: a pixelated display of Minho and Jisung seated beside each other over lunch. It's nowhere near recent, judging by the oversized yellow jumper Minho is wearing—one that he gave to Jisung ages ago.

Based on the photo, it's impossible to tell whether or not they're dating.

Jisung doesn't care. He doesn't. The image is nowhere nearincriminating.

But...

How did this anonymous sender get a hold of it? Do they have more photos? Should he tell Minho?

Noticing the telltale signs of an impending fear he can't describe, Jisung takes a deep breath, grounding himself. If he pretends hard enough, Minho is there, right beside him, counting to three and guiding him to exhale. It's stupid, but it works.

Suddenly, A twig snaps and the sound reverberates through the air. Jisung freezes. His eyes dart from his phone to see a person standing no more than a few feet from him.

"Aye, Twinkle Toes, sorry I'm late."

Jisung can't help the way his eyes narrow, or the way "You," comes out of his mouth, borderline murderous. "How the f*ck did you get my number?"

Leon Smith is all casual confidence. His hands are in his pockets and there's a half-smile on his face. "Don't worry your pretty little head about that," he says.

Bile spikes in Jisung's throat. He wants to throw up. His brain reels back to the secondhand memories of Minho, how he was bullied relentlessly.

Jisung wonders if he's next.

"What is wrong with you?" Jisung asks, stepping away as Leon steps closer. "D–Do you think this is funny?!"

"A little, thanks for asking," Leon smirks. "It ain't my fault that you decided to be fa*ggots out in the open, is it?"

"Don't," Jisung spits. He clenches his fists until his knuckles go white. "Don't f*cking call me that."

Leon tsks, like he's genuinely deluded himself into believing he's a supervillain in a children's show. He runs a single hand through his stiff, brunet locks and inches closer toward Jisung, who backs completely into the bleachers.

Once he's cornered, Leon grabs ahold of Jisung's wrist. "I'll call you whatever the f*ck I want, fa*g'."

"I'm not intimidated by you," Jisung snaps, but struggles to wriggle free. Even if Leon poses no real threat, he's still leagues stronger than Jisung will ever be. "You're just insecure...and bitter that Minho won't f*ck your sorry ass anymore."

He's not sure where the words are coming from when he says them. Hell, they don't evensoundlike him, but they do a good job at slamming Leon's mouth shut.

For a moment.

"You're really still with him?" Leon co*cks a brow. "You're dumber than I thought, Jisung Han."

"You jealous?" Jisung fires back with somewhat of a tease on his tongue. The words spill out of his mouth like rapidfire. "Damn, I've never seen a manthisdesperate for dick before."

Jisungisa little 'all talk, no action'. He's never been in a fight before nor has he said such crude words to anyone before. So, you can imagine his surprise when Leon grabs him by the collar of his perfectly ironed polo tee with an iron fist, suffocating Jisung with his grip.

He could easily toss Jisung aside like a ragdoll, and maybe, in this situation, he'd deserve it.

Instead, Leon chooses to push Jisung roughly against the pillar. The metal frame of the bleachers rattle, and dust particles fall like rain, coating both of them in a thin layer of dirt. Ew.

"Trust me, twink," Leon growls (actuallygrowls). "I don't want that cheap, alley whor*. He ain't good for nothing but sucking dick."

Jisung grimaces when his back slams against the post. He tries to ignore that it hurts.

Leon must have noticed, though, because he pushes harder, making the metal creak in protest. Jisung can feel the pressure of it against his ribs, his heart beating out of his chest and pounding into his ribcage.

"The fact that you want to use another man to get your dick wet says a lot about you, doesn't it?" Jisung says through a wince.

Leon sneers and leans in. Jisung can smell the mint gum on his breath and the cologne clinging to his skin. It reeks, like a mix of Axe and cigarettes.

His grip on Jisung's collar tightens, and the fabric pulls against the base of his throat, threatening to tear.

"Watch it, fa*ggot," Leon warns. "I'll f*ck you up,andsend that photo to the whole school. You ain't got no one to protect you."

"You're delusional if you think that blurry ass photo will convinceanyonethat we're together," Jisung argues, hardly able to breathe. "Go ahead, if you want the whole school to know you're a stalker."

By the look on Leon's face, he clearly wasn't expecting such a response. Leon likely expected Jisung to drop down on two knees and pathetically beg him to keep that photo to himself, as well as agree to fulfill Leon's every wish. Jisung watches, in real time, as Leon grasps for any straw that can make his blackmail stick.

Unfortunately for Jisung, he finds one.

"I'm sure I can convince his parentsandyours," Leon snarls, maniacally snickering. "The Lees already know their son's a slu*t...but, do yours?"

The air is sucked out of the atmosphere, leaving the world momentarily silent. The birds no longer chirp, the insects no longer buzz. All Jisung can hear is his own heartbeat in his ears, and the way the blood pumps through his veins.

f*ck.

Minho's parents will likelyneverforgive him if they find out about his new relationship with Jisung. They'll find a new way to crush Minho into crumbled, porcelain pieces; they'll find new ways to make him hurt; they'll find new ways to make him absolutely loathe himself. Jisung never wants Minho to look in the mirror, face battered to a pulp with makeup concealer, and still be unable to hide the "ugly".

He never wants Minho to feel ugly, or worthless again.

Minho's parents have a knack for making Minho feel that way. They absolutely cannot find out.

Jisungmightbe able to skate by if his parents find out. He could make up some lie about how he tutors Minho in Calculus, and how the photo isn't compromising enough to prove their relationship.

His mind reels back to the first time Minho revealed the scars on his chest and stomach—each scar a reminder of the things Minho's been led to believe about himself.

Jisunghasto make sure that Minho never feels that way again.

"Ah, I've struck a nerve, huh?" Leon asks, mocking in tone. "It's okay, Twinkle Toes. Just give me what I want, and you never have to worry about your parents finding out you're a fa*g'."

The words feel like poison in his ears, and he can hardly stand to listen to Leon talk. It makes himsick. Nausea swirls at the pit of his belly and bile threatens to lick up his throat. He wants to scream and shove Leon away, but Jisung isn't strong enough. He never has been.

Jisung swallows thickly, but his mouth feels dry.

His voice sounds distant when he finally asks, "W–What do you want from me?"

"Listen, 'S not you I need anything from," Leon explains dubiously. "It's just been a while since I've gotten off...and, well, Minho always knew what I liked best."

Jisung gags. "You're...disgusting. I'm not letting Minho anywhere near you."

Leon chuckles lowly, leaning closer to Jisung. Their lips are centimeters apart, cold breaths mingling in the space between them.

"You'll let him," Leon says, and Jisung's blood has never run colder. "Trust me, twink. There's more photos where that one came from, and you don't want that sh*t gettin' out."

Leon, likely growing tired of clutching Jisung's shirt so tightly, begins to loosen his grip. The sudden loss of support causes Jisung to fall to his knees, dirtying his khakis. He stares up at Leon, the bleachers casting dark shadows over the older teen, like an ominous warning.

"I'm sure that I can convince you," Leon says, his lips pulling into a wicked smile. "Don't make a decision you'll regret."

Chapter 14: Kiss and Break Up

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ ❥

THE FALL OF 2006
Finding God

"I noticed that you haven't been writing in your Desire Journal. It's been quite some time now."

Pastor Keyes is always so professional, poised, sitting in John Han's study with perfect posture, hands folded over each other. His wedding ring is always upright, showing a cross insignia embedded into sterling silver. Jisung looks at it and thinks of the woman in the sundress cradling her newborn.

They must be happy. It seems like Pastor Keyes has everything in control.

By the time they've had their fifth meeting, it's already the beginning of November, and they've hardly made progress. Pastor Keyes climbs the slope easily, preaching Bible verses and concepts offutureinto Jisung's mind. When Jisung attempts to climb, the slope becomes frictionless, sticking him to the bottom.

Still, Pastor Keyes is always so professional, so patient. Jisung begins to feel bad.

"I–I've just had a lot on my mind," Jisung responds, unsure of himself. The Desire Journal sits in his lap, taunting him almost. "I haven't had time for...um...desires."

It's ironic. Since Minho's birthday, the hickey has darkened to a deep crimson. It refuses to budge behind the concealer on his neck.

"I see," Pastor Keyes hums, jotting something down in his notepad. "Are you lying to me Jisung? Remember, openness is key to healing."

Jisung stifles a scoff. Every time he enters his father's study, Desire Journal in hand and Leviticus 20:13 half memorized, he feelssoopen. Like an orange without its protective skin, left to sit several days in the summer sun, oozing stale juices and being snacked on by the insects. Left to sour. Left to become filthy. Left to explain its sourness without a mouth; left to clean itself without a washing.

"W–What makes you a–ask that?" Jisung stammers. He places a finger to his neck, instinctively, and feels that Felix's concealer is still there. Thank God.

"Your leg is bouncing rather suspiciously," Pastor Keyes comments, narrow eyes darting to Jisung's thighs. "It appears to be a nervous habit...as if you have something to hide."

Hide? Jisung doesn't have anything to hide. Other than the hickey that rests behind drugstore makeup, just beneath the pad of his index finger. Other than theboyfriendthat fills his brain up with pink cotton candy swirl and caramelized honey. Other than the time ticking away until Leon exposes a platonic picture (and many morenon-platonic ones in the vault).

If exceptions are made, Jisung has nothing to hide.

"Jisung, you've gone silent," Pastor Keyes says. As if Jisung doesn't know. "This is a safe space to share what's on your mind, judgment free."

'Safe space. Judgment free.'If Jisung weren't so terrified to disrespect an iteration of God to his face, he'd laugh. There's a fatherly frown etched into his cheeks, which freaks Jisung out, because Pastor Keyes isnothis father, no matter how hard he tries to act like he is.

"Okay, well, open up your journal," Pastor Keyes instructs, but opens the black-covered notebook for Jisung anyway. "How about we start by jotting some things down. Brainstorming, if you will."

"Okay," Jisung responds, a little clipped.

The thin, black lines taunt him, and he wants to writeeverything. He'd never, though. He couldn't. Once the words are out in the open, there's no taking them back. There's no covering up his sins with pounds of white lies and cakey concealer.

Pastor Keyes' expression softens a fraction. "So, I want you to know that any response to what I'm about to show you is completely normal...and natural."

Jisung gulps, but fails to swallow the lump that rests there. He croaks, fixing up a half-assed smile: "Um, okay?"

With all that ominous setup, Jisung half-expects a jumpscare, "Scream" style. Or, maybe a wondrous gift for all his hard work at these grueling sessions: a cheesecake, perhaps, since it's Jisung's favorite type of cake ever since Minho baked him one.

Anyway,

What hedoesn'texpect is the black and white photo of a veiny penis that Pastor Keyes lays on the table.

But, there it is, staring back at him in stark black and white. A f*cking penis.

A chain reaction follows: wide eyes staring into each vein outlined in black ink, mouth dropping into a wide 'O', and paralysis plaguing his body whole.What thef*ck? If not for God's doppelgänger staring at him through Pastor Keyes' cross necklace, he might've let a swear word slip.

"E–Ew?" the reaction tumbles out of Jisung's mouth almost instinctively. This is the only penis he'severseen besides Felix's and his own.

"I don't mean to frighten you," Pastor Keyes explains, like this is all normal (which it'snot). "Bisexuality is deeply rooted in the sexual desires for the opposite sex, as well as the same. Today, I'd like to test those desires."

Jisung forces a tight smile, eyes blown wide with discomfort. "S–So you printed out photos of nudemen?"

"Yes, I hope it's alright," Pastor Keyes says in that same monotone drawl that puts Jisung to sleep. "When you look at this photo, what do you feel?"

Jisung squirms uncomfortably in his chair, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with the image on the table. It's a penis.Holy sh*t,it's a f*cking penis. He contemplates the question, tries to tap into his emotions, struggling to find words that won't betray the chaos in his mind.

How is he supposed to feel? Is it normal for his insides to feel like they want toclawthemselves out of his system? There isn't a word to describe the roiling disgust that thunders boisterously through him—with explosive lips kissing right on his abdomen—and causes vomit to pool at his belly.

He feels a bit...lightheaded.

Jisung gaze flits erratically between the photo and Pastor Keyes, who remains eerily composed. Broken stutters struggle to string together sentences in his throat. Is there a right answer to this question? What if he says the wrong one?

'When you look at this photo, what do you feel?' Pastor Keyes' question echoes in his mind, torturous.

"It's...it's really gross," Jisung mumbles, avoiding eye contact with Pastor Keyes.

A thick silence blankets the room, and the only sound that can be heard is incessant tick-ticking of the clock on the wall. Pastor Keyes doesn't seem to be judging Jisung, but his gaze remains trained on him, scrutinizing. Jisung's fingers begin to bleed at the corners from how hard he digs them into each other, fidgeting nervously.

Did he say the wrong thing?

Finally, once the silence thins, Pastor Keyes takes the photo off the table and slides it back into the folder. Jisung releases a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"It's alright to feel this way, Jisung," Pastor Keyes pauses for a moment, before continuing. "However, I am puzzled by your parents' claims of bisexuality if you aren't attracted to men. I fear that these sessions have been...ineffective on you."

Jisung can feel the lump in his throat rising. Thelastthing he needs is for Pastor Keyes to tell his parents that he's not improving. They'll only make him go more. John might even raise that ironed palm of his, slapping him across the face until his cheeks bloomed crimson. And his mother will sit there and watch, do nothing, because a broken child is better than a hom*osexual one.

"I'm s–sorry," Jisung's voice wobbles a bit. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Don't apologize to me," Pastor Keyes interrupts. "You really should be apologizing to God and to your family. The only thing you've done to me is waste my time."

The way Pastor Keyes speaks is uncanny. He doesn't soundangrywith Jisung, but the language he uses communicates that he is. The disappointment stitched into his features communicates that there's at leastfrustrationthere. His fingers twitch when he picks up his signature black pen to jot notes in his notepad. There's an eternal droop at the corners of his thin lips.

Still, he speaks in that patient tone that Jisung has grown to fear.

"You need to be using your journal," Pastor Keyes lectures, each syllable like a whip to Jisung's heart. "We cannot move forward if I am not aware of your desires. We cannot correct what we do not know."

The air grows dense, thin, and Jisung struggles to capture oxygen. His breathing skips a rope, rabbits, reaches for the oxygen it cannot have. The ticking clock suddenly becomes unbearable—and, well, it always had been, but not to this extent.

Tick...tick...tick...Jisung wishes he could slam a fist into the clock. Shut it up for good.

Pastor Keyes has yet to stop writing in his notepad. Is he jotting down everything? The thoughts in Jisung's head, the way he fidgets, the way his heart beats erratically against his ribcage, threatening to leap free?

Has Pastor Keyes finally been pushed to the line and is ready to lay the bad news on his parents? That he's irreparable? That he'sunfixable?

"I–I–I, um, I've been seeing this guy." The words tumble out of his mouth before Jisung can truly process them. "That's why...they,um, they think I'm bisexual."

Pastor Keyes clicks his tongue, drops his ballpoint pen. It's so silent, that each sound performs its own beat, creating a f*cked-up tune that Jisung can only call "anxiety".

When Pastor Keyes meets Jisung's eyes, there's a certain coldness to his irises. A coldness Jisung hadn't known him to have. It makes his skin prickle uncomfortably. He wishes that God had stolen his voice eons ago, so that he'd never have to voice his sins aloud.

It's ironic. He's never been to church.

"Okay," Pastor Keyes says, voice hollow. He pushes his black pen and notepad away from him. "Let's explore this together."

There's a pregnant pause. Jisung doesn't respond. He can't. The lump in his throat threatens to rise again. Jisung swallows it down.

"I want you to take a look at your life, and explain this to me," Pastor Keyes begins. "You are an intelligent young man with a bright future ahead of you. And you've given that all up for a boy? For a sinful relationship, Jisung? Is it really worth it?"

The air thins again, thinsfurther, and breathing becomes a chore.

"I–It's just...he's," Jisung struggles to explain himself, struggles to breathe, but the words refuse to leave him. "He's—"

"It doesn't matter, Jisung. He's not worth it. Do you understand? Your reputation is on the line here. You could ruin yourfuturewith this silly relationship."

"He'smy future," Jisung argues, voice small, but the conviction there.

Pastor Keyes sighs. "Do you see how far down the path of hom*osexuality has led you, Jisung? I can't help you if you're going to insist on being so stubborn."

"Iwantto get better," Jisung insists. The words sound foreign coming out of his mouth. He's unsure if he can believe himself.

Pastor Keyes shakes his head, collecting his things. "It is clear that I have not made progress with you. I think the best course of action here is to cut our ties."

"W–What?"

"I've had enough of these meetings, and I can see that they've had no effect on you," Pastor Keyes continues his rant. "Your parents can pay me for all the sessions we've had, but I am done with you. Good day, Jisung. Find God."

With that, the door shuts, and Pastor Keyes is gone.

He's gone, and Jisung doesn't know if he's coming back.

During the upwards of fifteen minutes Jisung spends motionless in John's study, Pastor Keyes' words play like a broken record in his mind:

'This silly relationship.'

'He's not worth it.'

'Find God.'

It's not a silly relationship. It's not.

Dear God,

My name is Jisung Han. I have not had the best relationship with you for most of my life. In fact, I've probably only prayed to you once, but, I suppose, if there was ever a time to do it, now is better than never.

I have a question for you. Am I a hom*osexual? I have a boyfriend, and I like him a lot. Actually, I like him so much that the thought of losing him makes me want to curl up and die. It's a little embarrassing. I have kissed him. I have touched him. I have loved him. This is sinful, and if I am a hom*osexual, then I will most definitely be going to Hell.

My mother told me once that I am the spitting image of you. I have no idea if she's right. I have no idea if she's telling the truth or just lying to make me feel better about myself. She said I was made in your image, but if I am a hom*osexual, I think we have both made mistakes.

I don't want to go to Hell. But, I can't give him up.

I don't understand why you, if you truly exist, would create me so flawed.

It's November, and the rain pours in a torrential downpour, slamming against the windowpanes and creating a thunderous ruckus. It's late, but Jisung's eyes are wide open. They're trained on the ceiling, watching the fan spin and spin and spin until he can't see the blades anymore. Minho always leaves the fan on, since his grandmother has a respiratory condition. It'sfreezing.

At the same time, the cuts of cool air dry the tears on his cheeks. That's a positive, at least.

Minho's arm is wrapped around his waist and his legs are tangled with Jisung's. Their bodies are warm and Minho's nose is pressed into the side of his neck. His body is curved around Jisung's.So safe.

His soft breath tickles Jisung's skin, and it's comforting, the way Minho's fingers graze the soft skin above his waistband.

Jisung wonders if all this is okay. If it's okay to hold onto the things he can't have. He wonders if God has already sentenced him to a lifetime of torment. If his soul has already begun rotting, and he just hasn't realized it yet.

Now, he's tacked on another sin: lying to his parents—and another—sneaking out of the house when he's supposed to be grounded. He justcouldn'tface them after Pastor Keyes walked out on their session. He would rather die. Is God punishing him, or is Jisung doing a good enough job of that for himself?

"You're so tense," Minho murmurs, breaking the silence. His lips graze Jisung's collarbone, lazy. "'S hard to sleep."

Jisung hums in response, unable to formulate words. Unwilling to. Minho's hands move from his waist to his back, massaging out the tension coiled into the knots there. It feels nice. Safe.

"What's up? You okay?" Minho asks, and his lips brush the shell of Jisung's ear.

Jisung shrugs, not wanting to talk.

"f*ck, baby, don't do this. Talk to me," Minho urges. "Please."

The word 'baby' does something to Jisung, twists the knife a little deeper. His trembling fingers find purchase in Minho's pajama shirt (notoriously kitten-themed), holding on, because he has no idea what to do. No idea what to say. His heart pounds at a million miles per hour. It's hard to breathe.

He hates how easily he comes undone. Once Minho's seen the telltale signs of his tears, there's no hiding them.

"You can't just ignore me," Minho continues, cupping Jisung's face with a surprisingly warm hand. "You know that."

"Sorry," Jisung mumbles, laconic.

"Tell me," Minho prods again, and Jisung knows that if he doesn't say something, Minho will just continue poking and prodding until he cracks. "Tell me. I know you're hiding somethin'."

"I, um, had a bad session today," Jisung finally gives in, sucking in an unsteady breath. "Really bad."

"With the pastor dude?"

"Yeah," Jisung croaks, and the tears threaten to fall. It's so,sopathetic.

(He doesn't know why, but mentally, he reminds himself thatHans don't cry, even if it's useless.)

Minho's gaze is piercing, burning holes into his skin, and Jisung can hardly look him in the eye.

"Talk," Minho says, a hint of an order. "Tell me what's wrong. Tell me everything."

"I," Jisung hesitates, clamps on his lip. There's so much he wants to say. He doesn't know where to start. "I think...I'm really f*cked up."

"Hey, no," Minho whispers, and he's closer now, planting a fleeting kiss to Jisung's forehead. "No, you're not."

"Iam. I'm f*cked up, and I'm going to Hell," Jisung argues, frantically wiping at his eyes.

Don't cry, please don't cry.

You'll only look stupid if you cry.

"Baby," Minho murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. "You're not going to Hell. Stop sayin' that."

But, Minho's voice has become white noise with how easily Jisung ignores him.

"It's going to be the death of me," Jisung's voice snaps, and the dam is officially broken. Tears drip from the corners of his eyes. "I can't...I can't keep up with this...this...lie. I can't keep it up, Minho. It'skillingme."

Minho presses their lips together.

It's a brief, chaste kiss.

"Stop sayin' sh*t like that. It's scaring me," Minho whispers with a small, choked laugh. "Do you...wanna'...break up?"

"I–I don't know."

"If that's what you need, we can—"

"No, no," Jisung cuts in, sniffling. "D–Don't even finish that sentence."

Minho doesn't argue. He just pulls Jisung into his arms, and holds him as he cries. Most of their evenings are spent like this, with either of them crying in the other's arms—an endless cycle of melancholic pain and bottled-up depression.

"I love you, Jisung," Minho whispers, and Jisung hates him for saying it because it f*cking hurts. "And if us...breaking up will make you happier, then we should. 'S not unheard of, even if we love each other."

"I don't want to. Don't leave me," Jisung mumbles, words muffled by the fabric of Minho's pajama shirt.So embarrassing."I–I'm sorry."

"Shh, shh," Minho shushes as he strokes Jisung's hair. "Ji, sometimes life is sh*tty. Right now, your parents are crazy—so are mine—'nd we can't do anythin' about it. And I know your parents mean everything to you."

"They don't. Not anymore."

"Stop. They do, you know they do," Minho says. "Mine...even after everything, still do. I–I mean, I'm eighteen.I'mgrownand they still do."

Jisung lets out a bitter laugh, tinged with emptiness. "It feels like the world is winning, Minho. I'm losing myself, and I'm dragging you down with me."

Minho lifts Jisung's chin gently, forcing eye contact. The world thunders outside, yet somehow, Jisung feels placid right where he is: existing in Minho's little bubble.

If he could, Jisung would pause the world and they'd stay here forever.

"You're not dragging me anywhere, dumdum," Minho says reassuringly. "I choose to be with you, and I'll choose it every day if I have to. And...if we don't break up, we'll figure this out together, Ipromise."

A fragile smile tugs at the corners of Jisung's lips. "You make it sound so easy."

"It's not easy, Ji," Minho admits, brushing away a stray tear from Jisung's cheek. "But it's worth it.You'reworth it. And we'll find a way to figure this sh*t out. We always do."

"I love you, Minho," Jisung confesses, and the tears flow harder. And by some miracle, Minho's grandmother remains sound asleep by their side.

Minho kisses the corner of his lips, feather-light. "I know, youknowI know. I love you too."

"B–But." Jisung's lip quivers. "How can you be so sure about us?"

"'Cause," Minho murmurs, holding Jisung tight. "You're my entire world."

"Don't," Jisung mutters.

"What?"

"Don't say stuff like that. It's f*cking cheesy," Jisung laughs, snorts a little, too.

"Mm, you should be used to it by now," Minho argues, cracking a smile.

It's so beautiful, how Minho's eyes form mini crescent moons, how his smile is a little crooked, and how his nose scrunched cutely.

When Jisung wakes, it's not to the sound of rain or Minho's breathing, but to the sun shining through the window, Minho's fingers threading through his hair, and the steady beating of his heart. He's sitting upright against the headboard.

Jisung's cheek is smushed into Minho's chest, and there's a kitten-patterned blanket covering the two of them. It's cozy, and Minho smells nice, like fresh apples in the middle of autumn.

It'shome.

"G'mornin'," Minho says softly, his voice deep with sleep. Jisung hums lazily in acknowledgement.

"Time 'sit?"

"Almost six," Minho replies. "Gotta' get up soon for school, sleepyhead."

Jisung grumbles and presses his face deeper into the crook of Minho's neck, latching his arms around his boyfriend. "Just a little longer. Five minutes..."

Minho chuckles—his chest rumbling with it—the sound vibrating against Jisung's cheek.

"Okay, love, just a few more minutes."

They spend those few minutes in silence. Jisung's eyelids fall heavy once again, and his limbs are sluggish. He wants to go back to sleep, but Minho's alarm, as if on cue begins blaring.Loud.

"C'mon, Sleeping Beauty, let's go," Minho says, shaking Jisung awake. "할머니's[Grandma's]making breakfast."

When Jisung opens his eyes again, Minho's already out of bed with brunet hair strands sticking in all sorts of directions. Jisung yawns, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and doing his best to fight the fatigue in his body. Minho smiles at him, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Minho leans in, his lips just short of Jisung's ear. "If you don't get up, right now, I'm gonna' useallthe hot water in this place."

Jisung groans, finally motivated by the threat of a cold shower.

"Alright, alright. I'm up," he concedes, stretching his arms above his head.

Minho laughs, a sweet melody that fills the room. Jisung wants to capture it and shove it into his iPod, just so he can listen to the sound all day.

Unfortunately, the world is a cruel place, and he can't.

"That's what I thought," Minho says matter-of-factly. He heads towards the bathroom, calling over his shoulder, "Hurry up, or I won't save you any breakfast either!"

Jisung rolls his eyes, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Asshole!" he calls back, grumpily gathering his things and following Minho down the narrow hallway.
　　
Jisung can't help but smile, despite his faux display of annoyance. The small apartment is alive with the sounds of morning—the distant sizzle of breakfast, the familiar creaks of the wooden floor beneath his feet, and the faint chirp of the birds who haven't flown south yet.

In the bathroom, Jisung catches Minho humming a tune—a generic, 90s pop song that he can't remember the name of. Jisung lines Minho's toothpaste on a spare toothbrush and starts brushing the filthy taste out of his mouth, watching as Minho goes about his morning routine.

He wonders, if this is how their morningscouldbe, perhaps two years from now. If they go to the same college and are subsequently roommates.

Minho glances up, toothbrush in hand, and raises an eyebrow at Jisung's amused expression. "Enjoying the view, huh?"

Jisung chuckles. "Can you blame me?"

"Fair point." Minho spits out the toothpaste, grinning from ear to ear. "Care to join me in the shower?"

Oh.Oh.

Jisung stalls a bit by gargling some mouthwash, avoiding Minho's gaze. But as he finishes up, Minho is still looking at him with that patient look that only flusters Jisung further.What the f*ck?

Jisung blinks. One. Twice. Many times. "Are you serious? Won't that be a little...weird?"

Minho snorts. "Uh, you've seen me half-naked before, dumdum. We're saving water and money this way. But, if you're not comfortable—"

"I–I never said that," Jisung interjects. He knows his cheeks are bright red, won't even try to fight it.

Minho's smirk widens. Jisung wants tostranglehim.

"'Kay, then. I'll turn on the water."

Jisung is a nervous wreck, standing idly while Minho throws off his pajamas with ease. His brain tells him:Don't look, don't look,but his eyes dart everywhere, completely uncontrolled. Thingsworsenwhen Minho actually steps into the shower, water sluicing down the smooth curves of his back and shoulders, brunet hair flattened and dripping wet.

Jisung cannot breathe.

"What're you waiting for?" Minho calls, looking at Jisung with a raised brow. As if he doesn't know.

Little sh*t,Jisung thinks to himself. He fights an eye roll.

"Just wait," Jisung spits, feigning annoyance. "And donotlook."

"Uh, okay...," Minho says with his eyes narrowed. "But you do realize that—"

"Shut up!" Jisung snaps, turning his back to Minho.

Jisung inhales a deep breath. f*ck it.

It'sjusta shower.

His pajamas land in a pile on the tile floor.

"Okay," Jisung says, slowly turning back around. "I'm—I–I'm coming in now."

He doesn'tdarelook at Minho's face (avoiding the sh*t-eating grin he's probably wearing) just his toned torso, and his—oh God, Jisung is going to Hell.

Minho stares at him, and the corners of his mouth are upturned, amused.

"You're not funny," Jisung tells him.

Minho bursts into a fit of giggles.

"I'm not laughing 'cause I think it's funny, Jisung," Minho explains, reaching out a hand to pull him in. "I'm laughing 'cause you're acting like you've never seen a naked guy before."

Jisung grumbles a response.Stupid, stupid.Minho Lee is the stupidest guy on the planet.

"So...what do we do?" Jisung asks weakly, reaching for the soap.

"We shower."

"W–Well, obviously, I mean—uh..."

"Just shut up," Minho snorts, giggling cutely into a high-pitched whir. "If it makes you feel better, you can imagine me with clothes on."

"Oh, f*ck off, asshole."

Minho laughs harder.

"Put some soap on me, will you, sweetheart?" Minho asks, his hair drenched in water and shampoo (that happens to smell like lavender). "Judging that you're hogging it. f*ckin' soap hog."

"Shut up," Jisung grumbles, but complies with Minho's request anyway.

He could never say no to Minho.

As Jisung lathers the soap onto Minho's chest, his fingers tracing patterns absentmindedly, he notices something that catches him off guard. His eyes focus on Minho's bare skin, and he realizes that there are no recent, angry, red scars—no fresh wounds marring Minho's body.

His movements slow as the realization sinks in, and several emotions drive through like a freight train. Jisung swallows hard, almost bursting into tears.

Minho glances back at him, sensing the shift in Jisung's demeanor.

"Hey, everything okay?" Minho asks, fastening his fingers around Jisung's wrists.

Jisung nods.

"Y–Yeah, yeah," Jisung replies, pressing a palm to Minho's chest. "It's just...I noticed your, um, cuts...there aren't any new ones."

"Mhm, been clean since the movie night," Minho admits. "'S not all that long, but...y'know."

"Shut up, I–I'm proud of you," Jisung speaks softly. His breath is warm against Minho's neck, in fact,everythingis warm with Minho, warmth that spreads across his body and pools in the pit of his stomach. "So f*cking proud of you," he echoes. This time, there's an evident crack in Jisung's voice.

"Jisung I—," Minho says, caution lacing each syllable. Then, he whispers, "I know."

Soft. The kiss Jisung places on Minho's neck is soft, lips pressed against warm, slightly soapy skin. "Is that okay?" Jisung asks.

"Yeah," a smile stretches across Minho's face, "do whatever you want...I'm okay with it."

And Jisung feels warm again, humming softly as he peppers kisses all over Minho's neck. Minho's breath hitches in his throat, Jisung's teeth nipping at the skin just below his ear (a trick he learned from Minho himself).f*ck, and there's that warm feeling in his stomach again—and the itchy desperation of his body, internally begging for more.

Jisung pauses, looking up at Minho once more, as though he's physically asking for permission to continue.

"Are you okay? Do you want to stop?" Jisung asks.

Minho laughs, "I'm okay, really. You know I trust you...alot."

"I know but—"

"Hush," Minho interrupts. "Doyouwant to stop? This is about you as much as it's about me."

"Well, of course I don't want to stop," Jisung admits, a coy smile playing on his lips and pink blossoming on his cheeks. "I just really don't want to hurt you."

I don't want to leave you broken the way Leon did, he doesn't say.

"I'd tell you, okay? I always do." Minho throws in a smile for extra reassurance. "So, what do you wanna' do?"

Jisung gulps, eyes darting all over the place when he asks, "Can I kiss you?"

"Yeah—," Minho grins, brushing their noses against each other, "yeah, you can kiss me. You don't even have to ask."

Jisung lowers his mouth to Minho's, their lips slotting together perfectly. He's kissed Minho a million times, but still doesn't expect the warmth or softness of Minho's lips to be so exhilarating—pumping his body full of sunlight. As though they had a mind of their own, Jisung's hands grip Minho's shoulders—their lips molded together until his lungs start begging for air.

The gasp for air he makes once their lips disconnect causes red to flood his cheeks, embarrassed.

"Cute," Minho remarks. "But, that's enough before I pop a f*ckin' boner in the shower."

Clearly, Minho's grandmother seems to agree when she begins banging on the bathroom door, startling them both.

"이 남자들, 내 뜨거운 물을 다 쓰면 안 돼!"[Boys, You better not be using up all my hot water!]she scolds.

"할머니!"[Grandma!]Minho shouts, exasperated. "우리는 아니에요!"[We're not!]

"Hmph," his grandmother huffs. "요즘 어린이들...!"[Children these days...]

"나 어른이에요!"[I'm an adult!]Minho argues back. No response.

"What'd she say?" Jisung asks.

"Nothing important."

Jisung rolls his eyes, "I don't believe you."

Minho just winks.

"So let me get this straight. You snuck out to go see him, showered with him, and expect me to believe thatnothinghappened?!"

When the final bell rings, Jisung heads towards the school parking lot, his backpack slung over one shoulder and Felix Lee right beside him. The rain from the night before has dried, but there are puddles in the cracks of the pavement.

"Yep," Jisung replies, popping the 'P'. "And not so loud!"

"Jisung, you're wearingMinho'sclothes from head to toe," Felix stated the obvious. It's a rare occurrence to see Jisung in a band tee and ripped jeans instead of his usual polo-khaki combo. "And I know Minho! He's like, low-key, awhor*."

Jisung shoves Felix with his shoulder. Hard. Harder than expected.

"Ow! What the hell, Jisung?" Felix yelps and stumbles backwards, a scowl on his face.

"I–I'm sorry," Jisung stammers, embarrassed. "Just don't...don't call him that."

Felix rubs the spot where Jisung had hit him, eyes narrowed. "Uh...okay, noted."

"Jisung Han!"

The duo, awkwardly exchanging glances with each other, is greeted enthusiastically once they've entered the school's parking lot. Jisung's grown to recognize that annoying, eardrum-scraping voice from a mile away. Now, it's become a trauma response. Leon Smith.

Leon approaches them with a bouncy gait, cigarette in between his fingers. By his side is Eli Anderson, Felix's on-and-off boyfriend who he'sjustmade up with for the hundredth time.

"Hey, you two," Leon smiles, pearly whites on display. He instantly latches onto Jisung's forearm. "Lix, do you mind if I steal Jisung for a sec'?"

Felix shrugs. "I'on see a problem with it. Eli'll keep me company~."

"Felix," Jisung squeaks, looking at his friend with pleading eyes, "...and I actually have to get home soon, right?"

"Ah, 'S okay, Jisung," Leon reassures, his smile failing to dissipate. "It'll take five minutes, promise."

Felix knits his brows, visibly confused. "Yeah, uh...Sung and I don't have to be home early...? Not that I remember. He's grounded—"

"Oh, perfect!" Leon makes a happy sound, clapping his hands together.

With a sharp tug, he drags Jisung along behind him with a force that Jisung can't break free from. They weave through the student parking lot until Leon has managed to maneuver him around a corner, where there are no students or teachers in sight.

"What?" Jisung scoffs, yanking his arm out of Leon's grasp. He shudders at the phantom of Leon's cold fingers dancing along his forearm. "W–What the hell do you want?"

Leon's friendly demeanor morphs into a menacing smirk, and before Jisung can react, Leon forcefully shoves him against the cold brick wall. The impact rattles through Jisung's body, making him wince, especially because the sores from their first rodeo have yet to dissipate.

"What's going on, Jisung?" Leon's voice sharpens around the edges, fingers tightening around Jisung's collar. "You think you can just play games and keep secrets? Not with me."

"Letgoof me, Leon. This isn't your business."

"Everything becomes my business when you owe me, remember?" Leon snickers, unwilling to release his iron grip. "It's been a f*ckin' week and then some, Jisung. Do you not take my threats seriously?"

"I told you already, I'm not letting him anywhere near you. You can't blackmail me into giving upmyboyfriend toyou."

"I don't do well with waiting, twink," Leon spits. "You owe me, and I'm collecting. Time's running out, 'nd youbettermake it happen."

Leon leans in closer, the cigarette smoke invading Jisung's senses. Jisung's nose shrivels up, almost allergic, nearly dying. He can't breathe.

"Don't worry, though. I'm a nice guy, right?" Leon coos. "I'll give you until Sunday."

"Sunday? That's four days from now. And I told you, I'mnotdoing it."

"If you don't do it, I'll simply take him from you. It'll be arealshame. Such a pretty boy," Leon sighs, feigning upset. "I'll even give you the honor of watching me break him. Wouldn't that be fun? You'd be a good sport and watch, right?"

"You're f*cking sick," Jisung spits, struggling against Leon's firm grip. "f*ckingcrazy."

Leon co*cks an eyebrow, unimpressed. "That's not very nice, Jisung."

"f*ck off, Smith. Get the f*ck away from me."

"Mmm, fine, if that's how you're gonna' be," Leon says, leaning back. "Guess I'll have to go to Minho myself. We'll see how long it takes for that little slu*t to come crawling back to me."

Jisung can't help the way his fist flies in the direction of Leon's face, knuckles colliding with the bridge of his nose. But, he does, however, feel the way Leon's bones crack and skin breaks. Blood spills from Leon's nostrils, his hands flying up to cup his face.

f*ck. f*ckf*ckf*ck—

"f*ck, f*ck!" Leon screeches. "You motherf*cker! My nose!"

Jisung's eyes widen, panic and regret rising in his chest, an eternal ache present in his fist. If he wasn't screwed before, he's most definitely screwed now. He's never been this violent, this careless, this erratic, thisimpulsive.

He's never been so much like his father.

"H–Holy sh*t, Leon. I'm so sorry!"

"You little piece of sh*t, I'm gonna' get you back for this!" Leon yells.

"I–I'm so sorry, I swear, I didn't mean to!"

Jisung looks at his hands, horrified by his behavior, wondering what demon possessed him and swung his fist against Leon's ever-perfect face. He can't look at his hands right now, not when they've been used to cause so much harm...even if Leon was asking for it. His fingers twitch, tremble, like an earthquake is pulsing through them and Jisung can't do anything to quell the storm.

You're a monster Jisung. A f*cking monster.

His hands are soaked, coated with blood, but it isn't his own. Leon's blood stains his hands red.

And now, Leon is going to do worse than make his life a living Hell.

Chapter 15: We Go Down Together

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ ❥

THE FALL OF 2006
Nothing Lasts Forever

'Forever' is a fallacy.

Like a fleeting breeze that dances through the autumn leaves, the concept of 'forever' is a delicate illusion. It's akin to chasing the elusive horizon where the sky meets the Earth, a pursuit that leaves us with outstretched arms grasping at intangible promises. During childhood, we delude ourselves that innocence is an everlasting possession—that we can forever sprint away from the accumulating responsibilities that tack on with age. We look at our mother and father and let naïveté lead our waltz, believing that they'll be togetherforever, because that's how true love works.

There's a common conception that humans become more foolproof with age. As we grow, we no longer believe in the same fantasies that once ruled our childlike minds.

Jisung Han is seventeen and still utterly naïve. At one point in time, he believed that so long as he and Minho were together, he'd always be happy.

Turns out, there reallyisa price to pay for your sins in the overworld. It's not quite karma, but dances on the toes of it.

"Jisung-ah, you're home!" Narae greets, awfully chipper. The door clicks faintly behind Jisung, the scent of pepper flakes perfuming the air. "How was school? Your father and I missed you this morning. Early meeting today."

"Good," Jisung responds instinctively. He's half-relieved that his parents' negligence allowed them to overlook him sneaking out of the house, but isn't surprised.

It's only a matter of time before Jisung's entire existence goes unnoticed by his parents. 'Forever' is such a boldfaced lie. Your parents are supposed to love youforever.

Jisung glances over at the dinner table and spots Narae setting out the tableware, Miss Celine tinkering in the kitchen. "I didn't know we were having jajangmyeon."

"Your favorite~," his mother coos.

Jisung hesitates, making a meal of his bottom lip. "W–What's the occasion?"

"Do I need a reason to treat my own son to his favorite dish?" Narae co*cks a brow. "But if you must know, it's to celebrate your progress with Pastor Keyes. He's hadnothingbut kind words to say about you."

Jisung bites down harder on his lip, the copper taste of blood invading his mouth.

"You've come a long way, Jisung-ah. And insucha short amount of time," Narae continues, squeezing her son's shoulder. "We couldn't be prouder of you. Your father's staying late at the office tonight, but he'sjustas proud as I am."

No, please, stop saying things like that. Please.

Jisung briefly relieves his hands from the confines of his pockets, staring at them. Those same hands are stained with the Devil's essence, reaching deep into the flesh of temptation and ripping out its core. They're laced in lacerations, miniature slits from colliding his fist into Leon's nose bridge.Violent.The same hands that wrap around Minho Lee's neck whenever he goes in for a kiss—the same palms that press against his chest, absorbing Minho's heartbeat—the same fingers that interlace with Minho'sjust 'cause.

These hands are impure, and while Narae may know that, she has no idea of the magnitude of his filth.

"Disgusting," "sinful," "immoral."

"Find God."

"Is it...," Jisung asks, slowly, "is it really that impressive? I–It doesn't seem like a big deal."

Narae looks at her son with a perplexed expression.

"Of course it is! Jisung, this ishuge! Your father and I never thought we'd see you improve this quickly," she exclaims. "You've changed so much, and for the better. Now, all I have to worry about is your wardrobe."

Jisung stifles a bitter, awkward chuckle. He's burning under Narae's gaze as her eyes rake overMinho'sband tee and ripped jeans.

"But I guess we can allow that," she laughs. "Just this once."

Jisung offers a strained smile, mimicking the one in the family portrait that hangs in the hallway. If his parents have taught himonething, it's to force up that smile whenever he's beginning to crack under pressure. Though, in this case, he can hardly act like he'sonlystarting to crack, since he's already broken into multiple fractured pieces, left to crack further on the floor.

"I'll tell you what: Miss Celine and I are going to be making ahugedinner tonight," Narae beams, poking Jisung's cheeks. "How about you invite some of your friends over? We can all celebrate together!"

I...I don't deserve this.

Still, Jisung takes what he's given anyway.

"Even Felix?" Jisung asks, a little stunned. He doesn't deserve all this, but if it gives him a second chance at happiness, he'll take it. "Y'know, he's been my best friend for like...forever now."

'Forever.' It's funny. Maybe, in two years, they won't even be on speaking terms anymore.Nothinglasts forever.

Narae furrows her brows as if she wants to protest, but eventually concedes, "it would be better for you to invite your Korean friends. So, yes,evenFelix."

Jisung wishes he didn't internalize the clear distaste his parents have for Felix and his family. If he were to tell the truth about him and Minho, would his parents be as disgusted with him as they are with Felix? Would it be worse? Would they confirm the roiling storm of thoughts that thunder and quake within his brain?

Jisung sharply inhales. He doesn't want to think about this,especiallywith Leon's threats hanging heavy in the air.

"Thanks Mom." Jisung smiles, the corners of his lips faltered. It feels like glass on his mouth. "You're the...best."

"Oh, sweetie, you're welcome," she says, kissing his cheek. "Now go. I have a lot of cooking to do."

Jisung doesn't need any more convincing.

Once he's in his bedroom, Jisung slams the door shut and leans against it. His heart is beating frantically—threatening to explode in his chest—and he begins to tremble, from the tips of his fingers to the muscle in his thighs.

"Calm down, calm down,calm down," he mumbles to himself. Maybe if he beats the order into his head enough, his body will finally listen.

It doesn't.

Clutching the collar of his shirt so that he nearly strangles himself, Jisung slides down his bedroom door, the friction causing white, paint specks to collect on the floor. He hasn't feltthispanicked in a while—not ever since he came home past curfew during the movie night. Labored breaths beat themselves out of Jisung's punctured lungs—holed into by every inhale and exhale.

"Breathe," Jisung whispers to himself—or, rather,begshimself.

In hindsight, it's hard to retain a steady breath when the world crumbles before him: mini fractures in the oxygen that hinders his breathing. One way or another, he's going to lose Minho. Nothing lasts forever. He's going to lose his parents' approval. He's going to lose the respect of his peers, not that they had much respect for him to begin with.

Everything he's worked so hard to maintain is destined to slip between his fingertips.

Leon Smith is going to ruin his life.

DING!

Jisung's breath hitches in his throat, attention yanked from his impending doom and hyper-focused on the chime of his computer: a new inbox message. He half-expects an email from Minho, asking him if he'd gotten home safely. For some reason, that possibility makes Jisung want to sobharder. The other half doesn't quite know what to expect.

He hesitates, considering checking his inbox, but wanting to cower in fear. He can't handle any more surprises. It's easier this way; to seek solace in the darkness and remain naïve forever.

DING! DING!

Ignoring his inbox would be irresponsible. Especially ifMinhois the one sending a barrage of emails his way.

Jisung inhales shakily, his breath rattling in his ribcage. He pushes himself off the floor, takes the first step towards the guillotine, head hanging low. Once at his desk, he pulls out his desk chair, wheels grinding against the floor like nails on a chalkboard.

There, sitting in the inbox, is an email from an unfamiliar sender, subject: "The Truth".

Don't open it, the voice in his head whispers—for once, being rational.Please. Don't do it.

　　[emailprotected]
　　[Subject: The Truth.]
　　Twinkle Toes!
　　If U don't get me what I want.
　　This gets out on Sunday:

　　[4x Video Attachments]
　　[3x Image Attachments]

Jisung's world comes to a halt, his heart dropping to the pit of his stomach.No.

When he clicks on the first video, he knows he shouldn't—he shouldn'thave to—but with trembling fingers over his mouse, he clicks on it.

CLICK!It's so loud in the bitter quiet of his bedroom.

REC
MAR. 12. 2004

The encapsulated scene depicts an angsty bedroom that screams 'teenage years'. There are band posters from rock bands messily plastered over pastel-aquamarine walls, accompanied by vinyl discs from the sixties. Empty soda cans lay on the carpet and on any flat surface that clothes or coursework haven't overpopulated, that's likelydaysoverdue.

"Is it on?" a voice asks gently. It's slightly high-pitched, and lilted—sounding like a smooth co*cktail blend of pure vanilla and melted honey.

"Yeah," a new voice chimes in. Shuffling and excited giggling can be heard from behind the camera, but there's still not a single soul in view. "sh*t, we're going to get in so much trouble."

"Uh, your crotch is," the other commentates, continuing with something even more vulgar, "hello world~ today, I present you with Minho Lee's dick—"

"Hey!" Minho half-hisses, half-whines, all the while the other person (likely Leon) breaks out into obnoxious laughter. "Y'know what? You grab the camera, and we'll take turns recordin'."

There's a hum in agreement, and suddenly, the camera pans up to the bright, smiling face of Minho Lee who waves at the camera cutely.

Jisung's body is on fire. It's Hellfire, perhaps.

Minho hardly looked the same in the two clips. In the second, his eyes were all bloodshot and lazy, like he looks when he's drunk, or high—and oh God, Minho wasfifteen.

With shaking hands, Jisung hovers the mouse over the send button.

He thinks about the possibility of the images getting leaked. The first photo, where his fingers are intertwined with Minho's as they're walking home together—the second one, where they're hugging outside of Blossom Delights—and the third, where they're out in their "secluded" courtyard spot, Minho's mouth to Jisung's neck, kissing there.

All of them areleaguesmore incriminating than the first photo Leon sent.

Jisung's hand trembles over his mouse, the cursor moving wildly over the 'SEND' button.

He thinks of the broken, brunet boy who attempted to claw his heart out of his chest with a razor blade. Of the garnet slits, torn into pale skin, marring it. Of the solemn tears that came along with recounting a past that should've never been experienced. He wondered what would bedoneto that boy—a mess of porcelain fractures—if he were thrown to the wolves, unarmored.

Jisung thinks of the broken, brunet boy whose parents don't love him anymore.

He sends the email.

In order to cage the anxious beast that threatens to consume him whole, Jisung steps away from the computer. He pops the lid of off a shoebox—the one that reads 'PROPERTY OF JISUNG HAN'—and picks a photo from his pocket.

It's a fairly recent one: a Polaroid photo snapped by Minho's grandmother at the breakfast table. Minho's head rests comfortably on Jisung's shoulder, smiling softly with a forkful of pancake bits.

He flips it over.

"나는 영원히 너를 사랑할 거야.
I will love you forever ^-^."

The words are scrawled messily with a pink gel pen, but the message is clear.

　　[emailprotected]
　　[Subject: Dinner...?]
　　Hi Minho!
　　Mom's making dinner tonight!
　　You should come over...as my "friend."

　　Love – Your Jisung <3

　　[emailprotected]
　　[Subject: Dinner...?]
　　dinner with my fav person ever??
　　i'll be there ^-^

Fifteen minutes into dinner and it's already very,very, awkward.

Jisung steals a few glances at Minho, their eyes locking briefly before nervously looking away. This is the first time that Minho's formally seen Jisung's mother, and vice versa. He presumes, that if he looks at Minhoonewrong way, that his secrets will be laid bare for Narae to scrutinize.

Thankfully, Narae is blissfully unaware, chattering away about mundane topics, while Miss Celine hums along, setting plates and pouring drinks.

Eventually Narae runs out of topics to present to the table, so the room falls silent.

Jisung shifts uncomfortably in his seat as everyone eats in silence, the tension in the room thicker than a knife. There's a tap-tapping of his mother's foot that sounds irritated—almost as annoyed as it is annoyingto listen to.Tap, tap, tap,and then some quicker taps that don't seem to end, as if Narae's foot is some dumb wind-up toy.

The silence grows agonizing, torturous, and Jisung can't maintain eye contact for long with anyone at the table before feeling himself start to disintegrate into the air. When he tries to say something to Felix—since he's not dating to look at Minho—he stuffs a mouthful of food into his cheeks as if he's avoiding speaking up.

Felixneveravoids speaking up.

The atmosphere is so brittle it could snap into twos, and if it doesn't, Jisung might. He feels too big for his skin, yet, too small for this room.

This was a bad idea.

I should've just told everyone to stay home.

Mom is annoyed and I can't tell whether she's annoyed with me for inviting Felix and Felix looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here and—

"So, Felix," Narae starts, clearing her throat. Felix looks up from his food immediately as Narae scans him to up and down. "How has school been going? Are you excited for the SATs coming up?"

Felix furrows a brow; head titled quizzically; as if he's confused by Narae's question—rather, her Korean accentslathered all over her syllables. The freckled blond blinks dumbly, shooting a pleading glare Jisung's way, expression screaming out:What did she just say?

"She asked about school," Jisung explains, curling in on himself. He's being strangled by the neck with each strained syllable that bursts past the lodge in his throat. "A–And about SATs."

Tap, tap, tap,taptaptap, tap.

"Oh? Yeah, SATs and stuff are goin' great," Felix beams, sticking up a thumb for emphasis. "And school...uh...school is fine."

Narae grins, a forced stretch of her lips. Her eyes remain blank.

"You did a wonderful job with the food," Minho cuts into the conversation, smiling politely. "감사합니다 어머니*."[Thank you, "mother."]

As if they're linked together through a psychic bond, Jisung and Felix meet glances, both jaws completely slacked. Not only is Jisung caught off guard by Minho finally speaking after nearly twenty minutes, but speaking in fluent Korean to Narae at the dinner table. Sure, Jisung's heard Minho speak Korean before, but only in front ofhisfamily.

f*cking show off, he silently grumbles, stuffing his face with a mouthful of noodles. Using a fork.

"You speak Korean," Narae acknowledges, visibly impressed, "...verywell too! Where did you learn it, Minho-yah?"

Minho chuckles lightly, covering his face with his hands (which doesn'treallywork because Minho has miniature hands).

"Ah, 아니야, 저 한국어 잘 못해요," [No, I can't speak Korean well.]he says bashfully—stringing together a sh*t-ton of incomprehensible syllables. "그러나 당신의 질문에 답하기 위해, 내 부모 양쪽 모두가 대한민국에서의 이민자입니다. 그들과 소통하기 위해 어릴 적부터 한국어를 말해 왔습니다."[But, to answer your question, both of my parents are immigrants from South Korea. I have been speaking Korean since childhood to communicate with them.]

Narae nods attentively, wearing a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. It's been a while since Jisung has seen his motherthispleased.

"와[Wow]...Jisung, your friend here," she starts, motioning to Minho, "very knowledgeable. You need more friends that can talk to me in Korean!"

Jisung curls in on himself, unwilling to unravel as he sinks in his seat, wanting nothing more but for the floor to open up and swallow him alive. Maybe, it could swallow up the swelling sac of jealousy that resides rent-feee in Jisung's stomach. He doesn't remember if his mother has ever been this pleased with her son the way she is with Minho.

Minho Lee wears a modest, burgundy knit sweater and a humble smile to the dinner table. His hair is combed neatly, and he's wearing the prescription glasses he needs but often choosesnotto wear in the name of societal beauty standards. There's no chipping nail polish on his fingers, no glitter on his eyelids, and no rips in his jeans. Minho Lee speaks fluent Korean and skillfully picks up noodles with f*ckingchopsticksas he dines.

On the surface, he's the model Asian son that Narae wishes she had.

Narae doesn't know that Minho, most of the time, wears band tees and ripped jeans—or, that he has a mouth of ash with an unregulated cigarette habit—or, that he's almost as hom*osexual as Felix, if not worse. She doesn't know of the sinful things that Minho does to her son behind closed doors; she doesn't know how Minho makes her sonfeel.

But maybe since Minho is so "perfect", none of that matters.

"So, Minho...," Narae begins her small talk escapade once more, digging into the pork. "How did you and Jisung meet?"

At a party, and he offered me alcohol and—

"Through Felix, actually," Minho responds, not an ounce of slang in his tone. "We're cousins, so it was only a matter of time until we were introduced."

A lie, Jisung thinks. It was a little bit cute at first—how effortlessly Minho can play a role—but now, Jisung's beginning to loathe how easily the lies roll off his tongue.

Narae makes a shocked noise. "YouandFelixare related? 와...you couldn't be more different!"

Felix chokes a little on his diced pork and vegetables; perked up at the mention of his name; slightly offended by the vivid implications behind Narae's words, too.

He coughs a few times into his fist, his freckled face flushing a pretty shade of scarlet.

"Uh, yeah, I think that's 'cause we're first cousins, right?" he tries. "Different fathers and stuff, and uh, my mom's American, so...."

"So, she lets you be a hom*osexual?" Narae launches the question into the air, rapid-fire.

There's a soft thud of Felix's chopsticks (because Jisung is theonlyAsian in the room who can't use them) on his plate, dropped in sheer surprise. He peers at Narae with his mouth parted into a small 'O', both brows raised, and his eyes widened.

"E–Excuse me?" Felix sputters, offense littered in his tone.

Narae shrugs nonchalantly—taking a leisurely bite of her food—unfazed by her own question, despite its location in left field.

"It's just a question, Felix," Narae says matter-of-factly. "There's no need to be hurt by it."

Jisung wants to say something, to tell his mother off for being soinsensitive,but can't.His jaw is locked tight—a vice grip around his tongue.

Felix inhales sharply, nostrils flaring.

"Why do you hate me, Mrs. Han?" he asks, voice shaky. "I–I've done nothing but be kind to youandJisung."

Tap, tap,taptaptap, tap.

Narae scoffs, looking down at her food with a semi-sad*stic smirk. "Do you really want me to answer that question, young man?"

Felix swallows hard, his Adam's Apple bobbing in his throat.

"Yeah, I do."

"It's simple," Narae begins, starting to collect the empty glasses of various juice drinks. "You're a terrible influence for my son, and I don't like that. You and your parents both."

"And why's that?" Felix fires back.

"Because, Felix, you and your family are astainon society. This hom*osexuality epidemic began with people like you and your negligent mother."

The room is silent, save for the occasional clinks of silverware and the distant sounds of Miss Celine cleaning in the kitchen.

Jisung looks down, picking at the food on his plate, suddenly having lost his appetite.

He hates it when his mother is rude to his friends. Hates how she's chased all of them away. It's a recurring thing, but he's always been too afraid to stand up to her. He doesn't want her to see him as a "stain", adisgracetoo.

Narae tsks when she doesn't get a response, grinning towards Minho. "So, do you boys want anything else to drink?"

"I–I'm okay," Minho says with a strained expression on his face. It's the first time this entire night that Minho has looked remotely uncomfortable. "Thank you, 어머니," he continues, slightly lowering his head in a small bow.

Narae doesn't even bother to ask Jisung or Felix if they want more drinks, just slips out of the dining room and into the kitchen with their empty glasses.

(Who knows, Narae might spike their sodas with a cup of Holy Water, or two.)

When Narae leaves the three alone to eat amongst themselves, it's back to being fairly tense and quiet. Felix and Minho don't exchange words, not even a glance, as they focus intently on their food. Minho's shoulders are stiff as his chopsticks dance along his plate, gathering bits and pieces of pork, veggies, and noodles. The nagging voice in Jisung's head is torturing him, berating him for being too much of a coward to defend hisbest friend.

"H–How could you guys?" Felix is the first to speak. He doesn't look up from his plate, and he doesn't sound angry, just...disappointed.

Minho's head whips up. "I–I didn't even say anythin'—"

"Exactly," Felix cuts him off.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Minho demands, brows furrowing.

"It means, that you should've f*ckin' said something, Minho," Felix hisses, his expression twisted into an ugly frown. "H–How the f*ck could you let her talk to me like that?"

Minho bites the inside of his cheek, looking down.

"My mom has done the most for the both of you," Felix says, sounding bitter. He glances between the two, eyes a little glassy, lower lip trembling. "'Specially you, Minho. I–I mean, what the f*ck? I would never let anyone talk about y'all like that. Ever!"

"Felix," Jisung pleads, voice quivering.

"Don't youdaresay my name," the blond hisses.

"Lix, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"You're just a f*ckin' coward, save it," Felix snaps, slamming his fists on the mahogany table.

Jisung flinches back, shrinking in his chair. "Lix, come on...you know that I–I can't."

"That's what you always say," Felix huffs, rising from his seat. "One day, arealdickhe*d is going to expose you two for what you are: hom*os. 'Nd then, you're gonna' be sorry you didn't try to talk some sense into Momma Han when you still could."

The silence that falls over the trio is deafening.

Felix doesn't wait for a response, stomping his way to the front door. He yanks his coat and scuffed-up shoes on, and storms out of the house, slamming the door shut.

It's the loudest, most violent noise of the night, and it echoes through the walls, ringing in Jisung's ears.

Jisung feels an urge to run after Felix—to chase after his best friend and make everything better, but can't. After all, there isn't a healing remedy that can repair the wounds of deep betrayal.

Jisung wants to scream and cry—wants to break into a fit of sobs right then and there. There's a threat to expose everything sitting in his inboxright now. Felix is right, and Jisung going to regret everything once the exposé is out.

Still, he doesn't cry. He can't cry. He's forgotten how to.

Instead, he just stares blankly ahead.

By now, dinner's been over for a little over an hour. Since Narae insisted on Jisung waiting outside with Minho, the two stand awkwardly out on Jisung's porch, taking in the eight-pm, night air.

It's freezing outside, but Jisung doesn't mind, not one bit.

The chilling cold bites at his nose and cheeks, the tip of his nose reddened like a cherry. A soft wind blows through the neighborhood, making the tree branches sway, and the grass dance.

It's silent between the two boys, and it isn't because they don'twantto talk, rather, because the words just won't come out.

There's too much to say, and not enough words to say it.

Jisung shivers. It's a full-bodied, violent shiver. He hugs himself tighter, burying his hands in his armpits, in an attempt to warm up, even a little bit.

"You're thinking about something," Minho breaks the bitter silence, eyes darting to Jisung's trembling leg. "What's up?"

Jisung shrugs. There's an anxious beast gnawing at his intestines, a storm brewing in his chest.

"A lot, I guess," Jisung answers with a sigh. "I'm just glad that my mom doesn't hate you."

"Yeah," Minho smiles, though it's tainted with sadness and his eyes are a little glassy. "A part of me feels like it wasn't worth pissing off Felix, though. We've never...fought like this."

Jisung sighs softly, reaching over to rub Minho's arm comfortingly. "I–I'm really sorry about what happened during dinner."

"'S not your fault." Minho shakes his head. "I should've stuck up for Felix, no matter what. I–I mean he's my f*ckin'family, and so is Aunt Pepper."

Minho sniffs. It's a quiet, pathetic sniff.

"She was the one that helped me out when things got really,reallybad," Minho adds, voice soft and vulnerable. "I...I was so lost and scared. My parents wanted nothin' to do with me and Aunt Pepper took me in. Lix became my best f*ckin' friend, 'cause I had no one. TheleastI can do...is defend them."

Jisung wraps an arm around Minho, pulling him closer.

"I'll never forgive myself if Lix decides to cut me out, too," Minho whispers. "I...I don't even know why I care so much about your parents, who I f*ckin'hatewith my whole being. I hate what they do to Lix and I hate what they do toyou."

There's an ache in Jisung's chest; a stinging pain that pierces his heart.

"I can't pretend forever, either," Minho continues. "Even if theyneverfind out about us, I can't hide who I am. Damn near the whole town knows about me 'n Lix."

Jisung looks down.

"You don't have to pretend," he says softly, pressing their foreheads together. He brings a hand up to caress Minho's face, thumb stroking over his cheekbone. "Please, stop trying to be someone you're not. I–It doesn't matter what my parents think of you."

Even if you try, they're going to find out anyway.

Jisung thinks of the raunchy video clips from 2004, casually sitting in his inbox. He gags a little.

There's no escaping your past.

When Minho seems unconvinced, Jisung continues: "All that matters is thatIlove you, because once I'm eighteen, we'll run away to Massachusetts where our parents can't hurt us anymore."

Minho sniffles, rubbing at his eyes.

"God, I love you," he breathes, turning his head to meet Jisung's lips in a soft, chaste kiss.

Alarm bells sound in Jisung's brain. Healmosthears the faint click of a camera in the distance.

Jisung pulls away immediately, startling Minho. "W–We can't. What if someone sees?"

"Uh..." Minho narrows his eyes, puzzled. "There's no one out here, Ji." He motions around the dark, desolate street for emphasis. "Who's gonna' see us, huh? God?"

Jisung sighs, glancing down at his boots, his leg quivering in the bitter cold.

If only Minho knew.

"Ji...?" Minho calls, sliding a finger under Jisung's chin so their eyes meet. "What's going on? Is there somethin' you're not tellin' me?"

Jisung nods. He inhales sharply, a shaky breath rattling his ribcage.

"I–I'm sorry."

Minho knits his eyebrows, his lips twitching down into a frown. He pulls away from Jisung, arms folding over his chest.

"Tell me," Minho commands, voice cutting through the cold like an ironclad decree.

Jisung doesn't say a word.

"Jisung Han," Minho presses, growing increasingly concerned. "Tell me."

"L–Leon Smith emailed me," Jisung admits quietly, unable to look Minho in the eye. "He sent me videos of you. And, uh, photos of us."

"Videos and photos," Minho repeats, his jaw tight. His voice sound so dangerous, like a fresh-tipped obsidian blade ready to strike. "Continue."

Jisung fiddles with his fingers, still avoiding Minho's burning gaze. "They're...bad. Really bad."

Minho scoffs, a humorless laugh. "Badhow, exactly?"

"He said that the pictures will be leaked, and that he'll put the videos...the ones from '04...on the Internet, too," Jisung whispers, sounding pathetic as ever. "H–He threatened me, Minho, I didn't—"

"Threatenedyou?" Minho echoes. "What did he threaten you with, Jisung?"

"He wanted me to, uh, convince you to sleep with him...or else," Jisung explains, finally regaining some composure. "B–But I wasn't going to let that happen, so he's going to leak it. Leak everything."

Minho backs away, a small stagger in his gait. "Why didn't you tell me?! Y–You're just gonna' let him post my f*ckin' sex tape on theInternet?!"

"No! Of course not!" Jisung counters, reaching for Minho's wrist.

Minho's lip trembles. "You should've told me."

"I was going to," Jisung defends weakly.

"When? Huh? When it was already too goddamn late, and the wholeInternetcould see f*ckin' child p*rn?!" Minho yanks his arm free from Jisung's hold. He paces back and forth on the porch, growing erratic. "F–Forget the videos—Ji, he's gonna' f*ckin'outyou! Do you not realize how serious that is?!"

"Min—"

"And the pictures?!" Minho's voice raises in volume, a shrill tone of hysteria. "Jisung, your parents will kill you if they find out, you know that!"

"I know!" Jisung cries. "What was I supposed to do? You know what the other option was!"

"And I would've done it if it meant protecting you from this," Minho replies, voice cracking at every syllable. His face is twisted into an ugly grimace, tears running down his swollen cheeks. "I would've done it a million f*ckin' times if it meant that you'd be safe."

"Oh, and I'm supposed to justletyou do that?" Jisung spits, tone bitter.

"Weigh the f*ckin' options, Ji!" Minho exclaims, tears exploding from reddened eyelids. "He's going to ruin your life forever if he leaks those photos!"

"Don't you think I know that?! Why do you think I didn't agree to give you up to him?!" Jisung screams, eyes brimming with angry tears. "Iloveyou, Minho! I don't want him to hurt you the way he has already. Is that so hard to understand?"

Minho shakes his head, stepping off the porch. He starts to walk away, back turned towards Jisung, tugging on Jisung's heartstrings with him.

"Y–You don't have a choice anymore, Ji," Minho mumbles. "It's gonna' be okay. Let me handle it."

"How?!" Jisung shouts, following after Minho, the freezing cold now an afterthought. "This isn't your decision to make!"

"Yeah?! Well, it's not up for debate!" Minho hisses, not bothering to turn around.

Jisung balls his fists, knuckles turning white.

"Minho Lee, if you walk away from me...if youbetrayme...we're done!" Jisung spits, eyes burning with unshed tears.

Minho halts.

"You betrayed me the second you kept this all a secret," Minho spits. "If we're 'done', so be it."

With those final words, Minho continues to walk into the endless shadows, eventually disappearing down the street.

The desire to be invisible is never more apparent than when Jisung steps into school the following Thursday. He's plagued with melancholic fatigue, eyes colored red at the rims from bawling his eyes out into a pillow all night. His body doesn't quite feel like its own, legs wandering mindlessly, with a heart too numb to function inside his ribcage.

It's Jisung's first breakup. Television rom-coms don't tell you that it'sthispainful—heart ripped out, aorta wheezing on the floor, and all.

It's a new day, but his body is back on the porch, locking lips with Minho for a short moment. Drinking up the residues of ash and bitter caramel, sparking electricity between the thumb at Minho's cheek. It's dark out. The wind rustles its icy fingertips through the hair of every tree, kissing the skin of Jisung's exposed forearms.

The short moment ends, but his body can't escape. It stays there, replaying a brief peck over andoverand over again.

It's a new day, he and Minho have broken up, but his body hasn't forgotten.

Television rom-coms show the female lead, cuddled up in bed, with her best friend and a tub of ice cream by her side to swallow down the breakup blues until they've digested fully. For Jisung, California is on the fringes of winter weather, and his best friend currently wants nothing to do with him.

Watchful stares follow Jisung as he stumbles through the school hallways, gnawing at his skin until he's nothing but a mass of skeletal bones with no beating heart. 'What on Earth happened to Felix Lee's lapdog?'They chew, and chew, and chew, with mouths of sinew, taut in his bones until there's no marrow left.'He looks so...pathetic.'

Of course, Jisung doesn'tknowwhat the bystanders of his dejection are actually saying. He can only imagine it's nothing kind—and, well—the voices in his head do the rest for him. Hushed voices form cliques of gossips, confined within the walls of his mind.

Unshed tears bite at his scleras. His brain scolds himself.Remember, Hans don't cry.

So, instead, his throat tightens until it burns, and he tries to ignore the whispers.

He can hear them,feelthem. It all echoes through the halls, bouncing off the walls and into his skull, renting rooms inside the cavities of his brain.

The only thing Jisung wants is to find refuge somewhere—a place where he can truly disappear. He could curl up underneath his desk in his next class, or maybe the stairwell, or maybe the bathroom stall where vulgar messages are carved into the porcelain walls.

The latter seems like his only viable option, if not for the hand that grabs him by the shoulder, pulling him to a stop in the middle of the hallway.

He spins around, coming face to face with none other than...Ricky Campbell?

"Jisung!" Ricky calls, oddly relieved to see despondence all over Jisung's features. "H–Holy sh*t man, you good?"

Jisung squints his eyes, trying to discern whether this is actually happening, or if he's just dreaming. Nope. There truly is a boyish, blond boy, dressed in a black bomber, standing before him. Who also happens to be one of Minho's best friends—thesameMinho he just broke up with.

"Are you okay?" Ricky parrots, a brow co*cked in concern.

"I'm fine," Jisung answers curtly.

Ricky doesn't look too convinced, face twisted in disbelief. He gives a once-over to Jisung. Ricky must notice the pallor of his skin and the puffiness of his eyes. Jisung must look likedeath.

"Y'know," Ricky sighs, and then a sympathetic expression finds its way to his face, "Minho said the same thing...yet...both of y'all look like sh*t."

"I assume you know that Minho and I areoverthen, right?" Jisung asks, pushing past Ricky so he can fumble with his locker. "If you're here to beat the sh*t out of me for 'hurting him', then you might as well get it over with."

Ricky lets out a scoff, taking a step back from Jisung. The boy shakes his head, and he runs a hand through his blond hair, before letting his eyes fall back on the sad excuse of a boy in front of him. Jisung doesn't look up at him. His gaze is trained on the dial of his locker, turning the knob around and around.

Eighteen.

Five.

Twenty-One...

The lock clicks.

"I didn't come here for Minho, idiot," Ricky explains, lips twitched at the corners. "'Course I heard that y'all broke up 'n sh*t, butIthink Minho's being a dumbass, and that you need to talk to him."

Jisung finally glances up, looking at Ricky with a frown.

"I appreciate it but...he made his decision," Jisung mumbles, picking out the books he needs for his next few classes. "Hechose to walk out onme."

"He thinks he's protecting you," Ricky sighs, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot, eyes wandering off to the side. "He thinks the Leon sh*t is his fault, so he has to take care of it."

Jisung freezes, and whatever's left of his heart sinks, deep, deep, down into his stomach.

It's over now,his brain tries to convince.

Let it end. Let it die. It's no use picking up the scraps of something that's destined to be broken.

"This is why Minho should've listened to me," Jisung huffs, slamming his locker closed. "Ricky...you don't get it.Iwas trying to protect him. H–He knew that."

And he still left me..., is the part that goes unsaid.

Jisung's body is still there, standing in the bitter cold; watching fragments of his heart clatter on the floor; watching Minho disappear into the darkness.

He left.

Jisung isn't worth the fight, and that is the truth. Minho would rather surrender himself to the wolves, completely unarmored, than withstand the blows of an exposé by the hands of a bitter ex.

It's selfish, to an extent.

Minho doesn't want Jisung to go through the pain that eats away at his sanity every morning. He's protecting Jisung, but it feels like Minho's abandoned him—left Jisung to sit in the bitter cold and aggressively cough up what's left of a heart that still loves him.

"It's too late, Ricky." Jisung adds, offering a smile that pays homage to his mother. "Even if we fix things now, Leon is going to f*ck it up. That's just how he is."

Ricky's jaw clenches. He looks conflicted, almost as if hewantsto say something, but isn't quite sure of the words that should leave his lips—of what words would be appropriate. With an exasperated sigh, Ricky lets his arms fall to his sides.

"Listen, I have to go to class. Tell Minho I'm sorry," Jisung says, shrugging his backpack higher onto his shoulders. "And that I hope he's alright."

Jisung spins around on his scuffed heels and leaves.

It's easier to let the emptiness settle in: theloneliness. Like he's been hollowed out and his soul's been plucked from its vessel. Where the school air rolls in, thick, and Jisung can't quite breathe—unsure if hewantsto. Where the crisp collar around his neck runs several sizes too small, strangling him.

It's not easy, but it's far simpler than trying to go against Leon Smith and all his intricate plans.

Leon Smith, no more than a boy. A boy, not much older than Jisung, with a reputation too powerful for his own good. A boy who has the entire school wrapped around his finger. A boy who could bring Jisung and his family to their knees with a single sentence, spoken with a tongue sharp as a knife: 'Your son's a fa*ggot.'

It was inevitable, and the only thing Jisung regrets is letting himself believe it was possible to keep his sexuality a secret...forever. It never works that way. No matter how many lies he tells, or how many layers of lies are stacked on top of each other, they'll always see through him eventually.

If there's one thing thatnever lasts forever, it's a secret.

Chapter 16: An Ode to Loneliness

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ ❥

THE FALL OF 2006
The Closing Act

Jisung's pillow is still damp when he returns home—his soul completely hollowed out from loneliness, his body exhausted from lugging his backpack around all day. The world before him has lost its color, lost its honeyed sunlight.

Now, it's returned to everything he'd been running away from for the past few months. Monotonous. Melancholic. Murky. The world before him has never been so gray, so black, and every shade in between. It's like God and all his angels are attending the funeral of Jisung Han's heart, because a part of himdiedwhen Minho left him astray.

Jisung considers crying again when he plops into bed, but can't. He's spent all his tears, and now they all live in his pillow, holding the weight of a million sorrows. All that's left are his red-rimmed eyes as they stare blankly into his bedroom walls. All that's left is a swollen heart, longing for the impossible.

He bunches up one of Minho's jackets—the bright yellow one—into his hands, clinging it close to his chest. It's soft underneath the pads of his fingers, bright yellow like Minho's sunlight emissions, and still scented of cigarette ash and his signature cologne.

If only Minho, hisex-boyfriend, were here. He'd run his hands through Jisung's inky mess of hair, reassuring him that everything'll be alright, and that they only need each other. But Minho isn't here.

He left.

Jisung hates the person that's been born anew within him, hates the black cluster, themonsterthat claws at his heart, ripping it to shreds.

It hurts to breathe.

He squeezes the fabric tightly, and it crinkles under his fingertips. It smells just like Minho, and if Jisung deludes himself enough, it could very wellbeMinho. If only Minho were here to hold him tight; and whisper sweet nothings in his ear; and kiss him gently; and tell him that he loves him, loves him forever; and tell him that he'll never leave. Ever.

It's a strange thing, being alone. Not evenFelixis here to breathe a little light into Jisung's soul. Not even John, who was once a father Jisung was capable of loving, could help Jisung back onto his feet.

Jisung is truly alone.

Alone, alone, alone.

Minho Lee is a distant memory now. Just another person in the sea of faces that's left him. Jisung won't even bother reaching out for someone who'snevercoming back.

Jisung sighs, staring intently at the wall in front of him, his eyelids drooping, heavy with exhaustion. He thinks of the 'Jisung Han' in the polaroids encased within a shoebox on his shelf. He wonders:Where has all his happiness gone?

He laughs bitterly. At one point, he would've given Minho Lee the entire world.

Jisung's laugh turns into a muffled cry, a stray tear streaming down his cheek as he thinks about the not-so distant past.Is being happy really too much to ask for?

The answer isyes, his brain answers, and he shuts his eyes, trying to force the memories of a happy boy with a bright smile from his mind.

KNOCK, KNOCK!

Jisung jolts up in bed, startled by a knock to his window. He quickly wipes away the tears at his waterline and takes a few deep breaths, trying to compose himself.

"Jisung? Are you in there?"

Jisung's heart drops as he recognizes the voice. It's Minho.What the f*ck?Minho is out of his damn mind if he thinks that he can show up to Jisung's house and act like he never walked away from him.

"Ji, it's cold 'n wet out here," Minho pleads, tapping on the window again. "Please."

Jisung scrambles to his feet, quickly wiping away the remaining tears and straightening his clothes. He takes a few steps towards the window, and then stops, hesitant. Outside his window, looming like a stalker (and like a guy who wants another broken leg), is Minho Lee. He's got some nerve.

"What...what are youdoinghere?" he calls out, taking a cautious step toward his window. He hears shuffling outside, and then Minho's face appears in the window.

Oh.Oh.He looks...awful.

"I just...I wanted to talk. Can I come in?" Minho asks, pained, as if he'd been alone to succumb to his sadness as well. As if he'd been crying, beaten,brokenten times over.

"W–What if I don't want you to?" Jisung challenges.

Minho's lips are pressed in a thin line. "Then, I'll stay out here all night."

There's an illogical weakness within Jisung that forces him to halt. Tothink. He should talk to Minho, get some closure, or something along those lines. Jisung draws in a deep, unsteady breath and nods.

With an audible groan, he crosses his room fully, unlatching the lock on his window. He yanks the thing up, and it slams against the wall with a bang, startling them both. Luckily, it's not loud enough to provoke his parents, who are engrossed in work.

The second the window is opened, Minho hoists himself through it, like a bad boy in a rom-com cliché, and Jisung is left veryunimpressed. It's an odd feeling—Minho's presence—when they've already broken up. Jisung can't help the way his stomach clenches, can't help the way his hands are shaking, can't help the way he's staring at the other, mouth ajar.

Minho stands there awkwardly for a moment, and the silence between the two of them grows pregnant. He shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks at a stray leaf on the floor (one he brought in).

"Hey," he says softly, voice of honeyrot, not meeting Jisung's eyes.

"Hi," Jisung replies, not sounding much better. Nausea contorts in his stomach. "W–What do you want, Minho—?"

"I couldn't do it," Minho murmurs. His eyes remain trained to the ground, studying it. Then, in a whisper that's barely there, he says, "I–I'm sorry."

Jisung pauses, confused. "Couldn't do what?"

"I...," Minho chokes up, wiping a tear from his waterline before it can even form, "I couldn't go back. Not to him. N–Neverto him."

If there were a word to describe Minho Lee, it would be broken. Hollow. Irreparable. Even though Minho refuses his gaze, Jisung can see the patches of red that form on his face, pick up the whiff of ash that bounces off Minho's clothing, sense that the sunlight that once glowed brightly within him has been overruled by a sudden darkness.

Jisung doesn't know if he should reach out and comfort Minho, or let him rot.

"I never wanted you to go back to him," Jisung frowns, grazing Minho's forearm with a finger. Electricity sparks. "I told you I didn't want you toevergo back to him...but...you chose to. You chose to, overme."

Minho sniffs.

Jisung bites the inside of his cheek, making a meal of it. The silence is deafening.

"'M sorry," Minho apologizes again, voice almost a cry, curling in on himself. "I–I was tryin' to protect you, y'know? He's—Leon's gonna' f*ckin'ruinyou."

"Ruinus," Jisung corrects. Finally, Minho's eyes—bloodshot and half-lidded—meet Jisung's own. "I don't need you to protect me...and to be frank, I didn'twantyou to."

Minho looks away again.

"Look, I'm not mad at you, okay? It's just," Jisung sighs, a bit of a lie on his tongue, "ithurts, y'know? It's like you don't even trust me."

"That's not true, Jisung, 'n you know it," Minho retorts, eyes narrowing. "You're my boyfriend—"

"Ex-boyfriend," Jisung interrupts, a sour taste in his mouth. "I...I told you if you walked away, if you refused to listen, that we were done."

Minho's bottom lip quivers, and his face crumples. "W–Why would you say that?"

"You were the one who walked away, Minho. Not me."

"I was tryin' to do the right thing! I was tryin' to protectyou," Minho hisses, and there's a certain venom in his voice. His face is contorted in an ugly scowl, fists clenched.

"By giving yourself to Leon?! By choosing him over me?!" Jisung fires back, biting back tears. "I was willing to give up everything for you, and you chose him."

"That's not—" Minho cuts himself off with a choked sob, and it makes Jisung's heart hurt. "I didn't choose him. I choseyou, and I chose protectin' you from being outed toeveryone."

Jisung doesn't answer, instead letting Minho continue:

"And, I did it 'cause I'm f*ckin' selfish. 'Cause I couldn't handle seeing the pain on your face, knowin' I could've prevented it. 'Cause I'd do anythin' to keep you safe 'n happy."

A tear drips down Minho's chin, and it's so uncharacteristic of him to cry like this, and so, so unlike him to sound this broken, thisvulnerable, that Jisung's chest seizes up.

"A–And I couldn't do it," Minho concludes, feverishly wiping at his tears. "I only ended up f*ckin' things up even more. 'Nd now, Leon's even more angry than when you left him..."

Jisung places that new piece of evidence on the backburner, reaching out for Minho's shoulders, clasping onto them.

"But...what about you, Minho?" Jisung asks softly. "What about keeping yourself safe? Why is it always me first, andneveryou? W–Why don't you care about yourself?!"

Minho doesn't respond. Instead, he stares blankly into the space behind Jisung's head.

"Don't you get it?" Jisung continues, shaking Minho aggressively. "I don't care if theentire worldknows, as long as I'm not without you."

"Jisung," Minho mumbles, voice hoarse. "Stop."

"No. I won't," Jisung insists. He takes a step closer, placing a hand under Minho's chin so they can lock eyes. "People like Leon will never stop...and...and I was never going to ask you to fight a f*ckingwarby yourself."

Minho lets out a small, pathetic sob, and it breaks Jisung's heart.

"Then, how can I protect you?" Minho cries. "Ji, I love you. I don't want you to hurt, because of me, 'cause I'm damaged goods, 'cause I'm f*ckin' broken. 'Cause you're not."

Jisung can't help but pull Minho close, and press a kiss to the crown of his head. He remains silent, holding Minho to his chest and letting the boy sob into a tight embrace. Minho's not 'damaged goods', he's not 'broken', justfragilewith no one around to make sure he doesn't crack. Jisung can't expect a man of fragile glass to be his armor.

"I can protect myself," Jisung whispers, rubbing circles into Minho's back and shushing him. "Promise."

Minho sniffles. He buries his face deeper into the crook of Jisung's neck. "You sure?"

"Of course." Jisung smiles, pulling back from the hug. He presses a kiss to Minho's forehead, and then another, and then another. "Stop pretending to be someone you're not. I don't need you to fight this...I–I just need, well, neededyou to be there for me."

Minho's lower lip trembles, and he reaches up to wipe his nose with a sleeve. He's still hiccuping, trying his hardest to regain his composure. Jisung doesn't know how much longer Minho can keep himself together, and the thought makes him pull Minho in again, breathing in nothing but ash. It's heartbreaking.

"You can let go," Jisung soothes, stroking his hair. "It's alright. I'm here."

And that's all it takes.

Minho's walls fall. They tumble, brick by brick, until the only thing left is a quivering boy who's been too strong for too long. A boy wearing a whalebone corset, threadbare at the edges, holding his bloodied torso together. A boy who would rather destroy himself than see Jisung in pain. It's not about the corset. It'sneverbeen about the corset. It's the boy beneath the corset, the boy whose ribs have been shattered from years of abuse and neglect, and it's the boy who can't stop the tears.

"He's gonna' send the email today," Minho reveals, voice cracking at every syllable. "I–I went to him, only pissed him off more. 'M sorry. 'M so,sosorry."

Jisung shakes his head, swallowing down the fear that begins bubbling. "It's not your fault. This is all his doing."

"He's gonna' ruin your life, Ji," Minho croaks. "And your parents...they're gonna' take you away from me."

Jisung inhales sharply. It's a valid fear—a realistic fear. One that Jisung can't even imagine. His parentswillbe pissed, and they'll definitely try to get rid of Minho, one way or another. He can only pray that, if it comes down to that, his father won't try to beat him again.

"There's nothing we can do about it now," Jisung mumbles. He thumbs at Minho's tears. "It's sad, yeah. It's even...scary. But l–life is like that sometimes.Youhelped me be less afraid...now I need you to be less afraid."

Minho nods, still hiccuping. He reaches up, grabbing a hold of Jisung's face, and pulling him close. Their lips connect, and the world lights up in colors of orange and pink and blue, like the dawning sunrise. Minho's lips taste like ash and caramel and saltwater—bittersweet—and the combination satiates Jisung's craving. When they pull away, they're both grinning, and it's like the whole world has shifted, and the sun has begun to shine once more.

"I'mnotleaving you," Jisung promises. "Even if Leon does this."

Minho smiles dazedly. He lets out a breathless laugh. "Y–Yeah, m'kay."

"I'm serious, dummy," Jisung giggles. "The universe would literally have to rip us apart."

Jisung leans in for another kiss, and Minho complies, kissing him gently. Minho's lips are soft against his own, and, with a slight tilt of his head, Jisung deepens the kiss. He runs a hand through Minho's hair, tugging at the strands gently, and Minho groans, opening his mouth slightly.

Minho tastes like Heaven, and Jisung can't get enough. He doesn't ever want to let go.

He wants to spend the rest of his life kissing Minho Lee, the boy of sunshine, the boy he loves, the boy who makes his heart sing.

The boy who is hishome.

Minho takes him to an arcade, only one bus ride and some blocks away from Jisung's house.

It's not really an arcade—it's a retrobarcade, with classic games like Pac-Man and Space Invaders, and a few new ones like Mario Kart Arcade and Dance Dance Revolution. The room explodes into a neon frenzy of colors, walls adorned with neon signs that cast a soft glow over the rows and rows of arcade cabinets.

To fit in with the kind of crowd here, Jisung wears that crop top Felix lent him (the one that says "I'm sexier with it off"in hot pink glitter) and a pair of Minho's ripped jeans he has yet to return.

Jisung can't remember the last time he'd been to an arcade, or played an arcade game—probably when he was around ten, with Felix and his parents. They spent an unfathomable amount of cash playing claw machines only to win a stuffed animal or two that Felix owns to this day.

"I didn't know we had an arcade this close by," Jisung marvels, staring in awe. "This is...awesome."

"Well, it's a bit of a hidden gem," Minho explains, leading him further into the place. "Mitch's dad owns the place, so we're always gettin' discounts."

"Wow," Jisung gasps. "That's sick."

There aren't many people in the main area, save for the chick at the counter and a group of kids playing an air hockey table in the corner. They walk past the counter, and the worker, who looks like she's barely out of high school, smiles at them, greeting them both. She tells Minho that they've got some new games in the back, and he nods, thanking her.

The further back they go, the dimmer the light, and the louder the music gets. The neon lights seem to pulse along with the music, and it's all so surreal.

They finally settle in the back, where a large group of people are crowded around a Dance Dance Revolution machine. A guy and a girl are dancing, the crowd cheering them on. Minho's eyes light up, and he pulls Jisung closer.

"Dance with me," Minho whispers into his ear.

Jisung blushes, a shiver running down his spine. "Oh, God,no. You know I'm not that good."

"I know. It's just for fun," Minho reassures, grinning. He nudges him. "C'mon.Please~."

Jisung rolls his eyes. "Fine. But you're paying."

"Was already plannin' on it." Minho responds with a cheeky grin and a quick peck to Jisung's cheek. It leaves himburning.

The people surrounding the machine cheer, and then a new song begins. Another song, another duo, and soon enough, Minho is pulling him up onto the platform, andeveryoneis cheering for them. The screen flashes with a list of songs to choose from.

Minho stands beside him, and he's still got that grin on his face, one that's full of mischief and delight. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet, and his hair is tousled, and he's so damn gorgeous.

With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Minho scrolls through the song list, pausing at a familiar title.

He turns to Jisung, a grin playing on his lips. "How aboutButtonsby The puss*cat Dolls? Time to unleash your inner girl group."

"S–Sure." Jisung shrugs. "Just don't outshine me too much."

Minho rolls his eyes and laughs, selecting the song. "Not even the brightest star in the whole f*ckin' universe could outshine you."

Before Jisung can respond, red in the face, and all, the upbeat rhythm ofButtonsstarts. The duo, or rather, Minho, finds himself swept into the dance, his feet moving in sync with the flashing arrows on the platform. Minho dances like he has no restrictions, like he's the only one here, like he's not in a crowded room. The song is a lot more complicated than Jisung remembers, and he misses a few steps, his score dipping as a result.

At some point, Minho performs some unnecessarily extravagant move where he tears his leather jacket from his body and throws it into the crowd, still in sync. It'snotfair.

The crowd is roaring. Everyone's cheering them on, and Jisung is certain his cheeks are red from the unexpected attention. Minho grins, a twinkle in his eyes, and he's sweating, his fringe clinging to his forehead.

When the song is finished, the crowd erupts into a loud cheer.

"Who is this guy?!"

"Damn, he's sexy!"

"You gotta teach me those moves sometime, bro!"

Minho runs a hand through his hair, like he's one of those 90s heartthrobs, snaking the other hand around Jisung's waist. Without a care in the world, he presses a soft kiss to Jisung's cheek, this time, in front of everyone. And...no onecares. If anything, they only holler more enthusiastically.

"Let's go play somethin' else," Minho whispers, pointing back to the main area. "It's getting a lil' crowded in here, isn't it?"

Jisung can only nod dumbly and follow Minho as he weaves his way back into the main area. He feels lightheaded.

They kissed...andno onegave a sh*t.

"Why were they so nice?" Jisung asks once they're a decent distance away. He looks around warily.

"Well, this is a pretty open-minded place," Minho explains. "Mitch's dad is, like, super liberal, 'n the workers are always super friendly."

"Oh." Jisung is taken aback, a little relieved, a little shocked. "So...you're not scared?"

"Not right now, no," Minho admits with a smile. "I'm havin' the best time of my life~."

"Yeah, only because youkilled itat DDR," Jisung huffs, crossing his arms. "I actually sucked. Not all of us can be gifted dancers."

"Aw," Minho coos, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Cute. You know I only had eyes for you the whole time, right? Couldn't help it. I was justsoentranced by how you were dancin'."

Jisung whacks him in the shoulder. "f*cking asshole."

"Okay, okay, wait," Minho bursts into maniacal laughter. "You weren'tthatbad, Ji. C'mon, 'm sure there's something you can kick my ass in."

Jisung grins. He pulls Minho towards a Tekken cabinet and inserts a quarter into the slot. He hasn't played since he was a ten-year-old, fighting game fanatic, but heremembersbeing unbeatable at the game. He made Felix cry. Twice.

"How about I show you how to play the real men's game, Tekken?"

"Bring it on," Minho says with a challenging smirk, popping a hip and crossing his arms.

Turns out, Minho isn't all that great atanyof the other arcade games. Jisung destroys him in Tekken three consecutive times (which would make his ten-year-old self proud) and beats him in every other game that follows. He puts up a fight when they go head-to-head in basketball, but still loses by two points. Minho is embarrassingly terrible at the claw machines, losing atleastten dollars with no gain except for a ruined sanity. Jisung enjoys watching him play Whack-A-Mole (for obvious reasons), but Minho still isn't a prodigy at hammering, or anything.

"This is f*ckin' stupid," Minho spits, glaring at the claw machine and kicking at the side of it. It's a new game, with cute stuffed animals that are almost impossible to get. Almost.

"Hey, it's alright," Jisung consoles, patting him on the shoulder. "Noteveryonecan have the skill and talent it takes to win at these."

Minho turns his glare on Jisung.

"O–Or," Jisung backtracks, raising his hands in surrender, "or we can just keep trying."

Minho sighs. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another dollar bill, stuffing it into the slot.

"I wanna' win you a prize," Minho mutters. "Just one. Is that too much to ask for?"

"Maybe," Jisung ponders, observing the machine. "Here, move over, let me try."

Minho obliges. Jisung grabs the joystick, and then a light bulb flickers to life in his brain. Suddenly, he's ten-years-old again, and he's set his sights on a specific prize: a cat plushie—it's got a cute, grumpy face and is about the size of a small teddy bear. Plus, it's wearing a tuxedo and a top hat. Atuxedoand atop hat!

Jisung has to have it.

"What if I do this...?" Jisung moves the claw so it's hovering directly above the stuffed animal, and then drops it. It's a perfect hit, and the claw closes around the toy, lifting it into the air and dropping it into the prize hole.

Jisung cheers, grabbing the plush and presenting proudly it to Minho. "Look! Look what I won!"

Minho's jaw goes slack, his eyes widening. "Holy sh*t, Ji! How'd you do that?"

Jisung smirks, holding the stuffed animal to his chest. "Trade secret. It's the Jisung Han secret to claw machines."

Minho stares at the toy for a long moment, and then his eyes flicker to Jisung's. They're shining, and his lips are curled into a soft smile. Even though the tuxedo-cat in his palms is grumpy faced, Jisung finds Minho's resemblance to the toy to beso uncanny.

So, Minho has to have it.

"I don't really want it, though," Jisung says with a shrug. "I won it for you. Take it."

Minho takes the toy hesitantly, studying it closely. Then, without warning, he leans in and kisses Jisung square on the mouth. It's gentle and sweet, and Jisung melts into the kiss, smiling against Minho's lips.

When they pull away, Minho has a matching grin on his face.

"What was that for?" Jisung asks, breathless.

"It was my thanks," Minho answers, holding the toy up. "I'm naming him JiJi."

Jisung raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because he reminds me of you, 'n you won him for me," Minho says matter-of-factly. "Unless you want me to name him Drama Queen."

"B–But," Jisung protests, "he doesn't evenlooklike a 'JiJi'. And no one calls me that, for good reason!"

Minho grins. "'S not like you can change my mind."

"Whatever."

The claw machine ends up eating a few more of Minho's dollar bills before Jisung steps in and wins another tuxedo-cat. This one, Jisung names 'MiMi' to get back at Minho (which the brunet absolutelyhates) and ends up keeping the toy for himself. Eventually—but with petulant protesting—Jisung manages to peel Minho away from the claw machine and into the barcade's food corner.

Here, the air is filled with the aroma of grease galore: pizza pies, french fries, and the unmistakable scent of melting cheese. Jisung, who hasn't eaten anything since lunchtime, salivates at the mouth.

"What are you in the mood for?" Jisung asks, scanning the menu. "We can split a pizza. It's on me."

"No," Minho shakes his head, squinting at the tiny letters. "I'mtreatin' you. Get whatever you want."

"Well, in that case," Jisung drawls, smirking, "I'm getting everything on the menu."

"Jisung Han," Minho scoffs. "Don't make me have to beat your ass. I'm not f*ckin'loaded."

"Oh, don't be such a buzzkill."

"I'm not a buzzkill," Minho grumbles. "Just don't feel like goin' bankrupt."

"Fine," Jisung concedes, feigning disappointment.

He orders a pizza, half-pepperoni, half-pineapple, and orders two milkshakes: 1—plain with rainbow sprinkles and whipped cream, and 2—strawberry with whipped cream (because, yes, he remembers it's Minho's favorite). Before Minho can pay, he slaps twenty-five bucks on the counter and tells the guy at the counter to keep the change.

(Minho complains, but Jisung takes mental note of the crooked smile that plays on his lips.)

"You remembered," Minho notes when Jisung presents the pink milkshake to him, eyes narrowed in faux disgust. "You're such a nerd."

"Youloveme," Jisung retorts, winking.

"Unfortunately." Minho rolls his eyes.

They take their food to a booth near the back of the barcade. The music isn't as loud, and it's dimly lit, but there's enough light for Jisung to see the way Minho's eyes sparkle under the fluorescent lights. The lights are a sporadic dance of neon pink, purple, and blue, twirling all over Minho's face beautifully.

It's unfortunate that the world wants to crush them.

Minho's wearing a soft smile, and there's something else in his eyes—a certain fondness.

"What?" Jisung asks, suddenly self-conscious. Is there whipped cream stuck to his nose?

"You're beautiful," Minho murmurs, gaze fixed on him.

"I amnot," Jisung sputters, cheeks reddening.

"You are," Minho insists. "I mean, your top kinda' sucks, but you're beautiful. You've always been beautiful."

"S–Shut up," Jisung relents, smiling into his vanilla shake. "I did it for thenostalgia. This shirt has the remnants of my first gay awakening."

"Which was?"

"Realistically? Jared Leto. He was, like, so hot in 'Requiem for a Dream'. I cried," Jisung gushes. "But it was truly when asuperhot guy came up to me in the middle of one of Chris' parties."

Minho quirks a brow, his interest piqued. "Hotter than Leto?"

"Muchhotter." Jisung steals a quick kiss from Minho's lips. "Trust me, I tried to jump him in his f*cking Hello Kitty pajamas."

Minho breaks out into a sweet laughter. Jisung wants to take the sound, stuff it into the tuxedo-cat, and listen to it whenever.

To end their evening at the barcade, the two barrel into a vacant photo booth. It's a small, compact thing, and they have to squeeze their way into the seat. Jisung presses close, their sides pressed flush together. The photos will only cost a couple of quarters, so they can go all out.

Minho feeds the machine what's left of his allowance, and a countdown appears on the screen.

3...2...1.

Jisung is the one who initiates the first photo, pulling a face and sticking his tongue out. Minho follows suit with an equally grotesque facial expression—so hilariouslybadit leaves them laughing their way through the second snap.

The next photo is a bit more serious, as Minho is kissing Jisung on the cheek. Jisung doesn't know whether or not the heat of the kiss is because of the camera or the sudden lack of personal space.

The camera flashes. Jisung prays that he doesn't look as red as he feels on camera.

The last photo features Jisung's cheek pressed against Minho's, both of them smiling while Jisung holds up the peace sign. Minho's free hand slings around Jisung's shoulder, slightly squeezing his bicep.

"N–No fair!" Jisung whines once their first photoshoot ends. "I justknowI look crazy in that one where you decided to kiss me without warning!"

Minho blinks dumbly, shrugging without a care in the world. "Ji, you should honestly be used to it by now. f*ckin' Drama Queen."

Jisung scoffs, shoving his own set of quarters into the machine. The countdowns start up again.

Their next photoshoot cranks up the intimacy tenfold.

They're both facing the camera, smiling softly, and Minho has a hand snaked around Jisung's waist, his chin resting atop Jisung's head. Their legs are tangled, and their eyes are glued to each other's, and it's sickeningly sweet.

The camera flashes.

Jisung's heart races.

He's never felt like this, so light, so full of sunshine.

When the timer counts down to zero, Minho pulls him into another kiss, this one deeper, hungrier. He tastes like strawberry, and Jisung doesn't know if it's the milkshake or his chapstick, but either way, he doesn't mind. Minho is addictive.

"You're so hot," Minho mumbles against Jisung's mouth, voice low and husky.

"I–," Jisung can only blush (again, praying that he doesn't turn up as a tomato on film).

Then, the timer starts again, and Jisung panics. He doesn't know how to pose, so he just leans back and gives the camera the most seductive look he can muster.

The camera flashes.

It's a mistake.

Jisung ends up looking constipated.

"Oops," he murmurs, grimacing.

Minho bursts out laughing. As if on cue, the camera flashes, capturing Minho's infectious laughter.

When they collect the pictures, Jisung's grinning from ear-to-ear. The photos are all vividly different, and the colors are slightly distorted, but it's the memories captured in the frame that's the best part. Luckily, Jisung doesn't end up entirely red-faced on camera.

Minho ends up pocketing the first strip, and Jisung the second. On the backs of both photo strips, they agree to write some sort of half-message, where you'd need both strips to read the full message.

On Minho's, in an overpriced, janky blue glitter pen they bought at the trinkets counter, it reads:

'Hey, it's you and me,'

And Jisung's reads, in the pink, gel counterpart:

'against the world'

And again, on Minho's:

'Forever and'

To conclude, the message on Jisung's reads:

An acre of freshly-cut grass is sleeping before Jisung's house, much like the rest of the street at this hour.

Jisung and Minho lie with their legs tangled, fingers intertwined in the damp grass, staring up at the sky. There are no clouds to hide the stars, and the moon shines bright, illuminating the night. The crickets and cicadas hum a boisterous chorus in the distance.

This is the part where Jisung should be afraid, or anxious, or evensad, knowing that today may be the last time he sees Minho, or the last time they do something as carefree as this. Knowing that the second he steps through his front door, his parents will rip the sinning skin from his body and leave him to burn.

He should be terrified.

But he's not.

Instead, he's holding Minho's hand, Minho's smiling at him, and he feels warm, despite the chill in the air. Wet cuts of grass tickle his bare abdomen, poke at his neck, and dig into his forearm that reaches out for Minho's touch.

It's oddly comfortable.

"I want you to promise me something," Jisung says suddenly, breaking the silence.

Minho glances over at him, his eyes shining in the moonlight.

"What is it?"

"I want you to promise," Jisung murmurs, voice quiet. "Promise me that we'll always be okay."

Minho lets out a sigh, and his breath fans across Jisung's neck. It's cold.

"I...I can't promise you that, Ji," he replies. "sh*t's gonna' get bad.Realbad. And there's nothing I can do to prevent that."

Jisung bites his lip. His chest tightens, and the warmth from before dissolves into the cold, leaving him shivering. The grass stabs a little harder into his skin, grows a little more uncomfortable.

As soon as he walks through those front doors, the world will leave him battered and bruised and unwilling to sin anymore. Heknowsthat. Minho knows that.

"I–I know," Jisung croaks. "But...I still want you to promise."

"Why?"

"Because," Jisung mumbles, averting his gaze, shifting focus to the night stars. "Because then maybe things will work out. I–I just...I can't stand the thought of usnotbeing together. When you left yesterday, i–itbrokeme. You make me so happy, Minho...I don't want that to go away."

"I–It won't, Ji," Minho reassures. He brings their joined hands to his mouth, kissing the back of Jisung's softly. "Even if we have to be apart, I'm still yours. No matter what.Always."

Jisung exhales shakily. Even with Minho's reassurance, deep down, where his brain is logical, he knows that it will. The world will never allow them to be free.

As if on cue, the porch light clicks on. Panic settles in instantly.

"Minho, you need to go,now," Jisung orders. He sits up in the grass, legs wet with dew.

Without question, Minho nods and stands. He helps Jisung up as well, and wraps his arms around him. Jisung clings to him, digging his nose into his neck, trying to memorize his scent.

He wants to stay in his embrace forever, to keep holding on and never let go.

"I love you," Minho murmurs.

Jisung closes his eyes.

"I love you too," Jisung whispers. "Now go,please."

They pull away, and Minho gives him a smile, his eyes shining with tears. Jisung is certain he looks the same. It hurts, the way the world begins to tear them both, limb by limb.

Jisung doesn't look back as he walks away.

His parents are standing in the doorway when he turns the knob, waiting for him. Narae doesn't even look angry, just gives him a once-over with an eerie, blank expression, tears clinging to her face.

The moment Jisung steps through the door, it slams shut.

His father is a pudgy man with greasy, unkempt hair and stubble beard. The strong, acrid odor of alcohol emanates from him, a half-empty bottle of Hennessy loosely kept in his left hand. His clothes are disheveled and stained, painting him as an imposter in the generally well-kept mansion.

If there's one person on Earth that truly terrifies Jisung, it would be his alcoholic father.

John grabs him by the hair, and drags him through the house.

"You dirty,filthy, boy," John snarls, tossing his body to the hardwood flooring.

His heart feels as though it's ready to tear through his chest like a silver bullet, thudding painfully hard underneath his ribcage. Jisung loses control over his body as his knees start to give out, feeling tingly, numb, and unstable. He can't run even if he tried to. Jisung's feltnothinglike this before—nothing this intense and torturous.

The Grim Reaper taps twice on his shoulder. Maybe this time, the monster he calls "anxiety" will truly kill him.

He regrets letting Minho go. The floor is cold against his palms.

Jisung's parents stand before him, glaring holes into his skin. He's never felt so small, so ashamed. Like a puny insect left to be crushed by his father's boots.

"I let that boy into myhome," Narae speaks in a soft whisper as she slides into the passenger's seat. She repeats the sentence once more, hysterical. "How long has this been going on for? Huh?! Answer me!"

Jisung flinches, curling into himself. His head pounds—a sick game of Whack-A-Mole in his brain—and his throat tightens. His stomach is twisting and churning, and hecan'tspeak. Fear has stolen his voice and ran several miles away with it.

Narae is quick to grow impatient, chucking a series of Polaroid photos his way, all from the shoebox in Jisung's room. She screams. "Explain this Jisung,explain it! How long?! How f*cking long?!"

"Since...since summer," Jisung admits, feeling unable to lie through his quivering lips. Fear and shame is a dangerous duo—it makes it impossible to lie.

"너 미쳤니?!"[Are you crazy?]Narae hollers, and though Jisung can't understand what she's saying, he assumes it can't be anything good. "You are my only son.My only son!"

Jisung bites his lip, hard. His chest clenches, and his eyes sting, tears threatening to fall. He won't cry. He can't.

He won't cry.

"You're a disgrace, Jisung," his father speaks, his voice low, venomous. "My own son, a fa*ggot. Do you know how much trouble you've caused? What's going to happen to us?"

Jisung's head hangs low, and his body quakes, shaking uncontrollably.

"Oh we're going to fix you Jisung," Narae spits in his face. "We're going to fix you back to how you were before. How could Ieverthink you belonged here in America?"

He wants to run away. He wants to run to Minho, run into his arms and tell him that everything is going to be okay, even though they both know that it isn't.

He's crying. He can't help it.

"Don't you have anything to say for yourself?" his father snarls. "Do youknowwhat was sent to our emails? Do you have any f*ckin' idea?!"

"N–No." It's a lie.

John laughs. He's a drunk, a violent man, a cruel man, and acoward.

The third time Jisung is hit by his father, he feels the slap before the pain, and it echoes in his ears, stings in his cheek. Kerosine lights on his skin, forming burns like no other, volcanic. The following slap is harder, and the third leaves him reeling, tasting the iron of blood on his tongue. And his mother stands there, doing nothing but watching, her face twisted in a frown.

"Say something, goddamnit!" John roars.

"I...I," Jisung can't even hear his own voice, "I'm sorry, okay? I–I'msosorry."

"I don't understand," Narae begins sobbing. "You were seeing a pastor! And then out of nowhere, he cuts ties? Jisung...why?!"

Gut-wrenching, strangled sobs tear through Jisung's chest. His father kicks into his abdomen, demanding an answer. Pink glitter bleeds from his crop top and onto the floor:sissy, whorish, perverted.Garnet swings into raunchy flamingo pink as his shirt bloodies—as the violent blows don't stop.

"Not responding, huh?" John asks, voice threatening. "Guess the only thing that mouth is good for is suckin' co*ck."

Inside Jisung's brain is all black, ridden of hot, red anger or pink, giddy love. Within his head, his mind, he sees nothing but melancholy—feelsnothing but a numb vacancy or an agonizing emptiness. An emptiness that slightly terrifies him—one that makes him alright with whatever punishment his parents dish out to him.

An emptiness that makes him understand the crimson that paints his sinful, corrupted, Devil-coated skin as Amy Winehouse sings hauntingly in the living room. Without her body.

Hedeservesit.

This is all his fault. If he had just turned Minho down and stood by his morals at Chris' party—if he had never fallen so deeply in love with Minho, maybe his parents would still love him.

Maybe he would still be the perfect son.

Neither of his parents seem to care about him anymore. Because to them, he's nothing more than a disgusting hom*osexual.

A naïve, love-blind fool who wandered into the Devil's clutches.

An unashamed, whorish, forbidden-fruit addict, popping the Devil into his mouth for breakfast and dinner.

A disgrace who smears the Han name.

❥ ❥ ❥

THE WINTER OF 2006
The Curtain Call

Jisung doesn't return to school after Leon Smith publishes everything to his MySpace page.

(Of course, the posts are taken down within minutes because of Minho's compromising videos from 2004,andbecause of hateful language, but by then, it was already too late.)

Narae believes that the best course of action to deal with Jisung's behavior—that she likes to refer to as a mental disorder—is to send him to live with her family in Gwangju, South Korea. It'll only be temporary, as she's already enrolled him in some year-round school where they'll beat God's principles into his head until he can't take it anymore.

So, just like that, he's leaving everything behind in Marino Hills.

The least he can do is leave a decent goodbye.

It's three in the morning when Jisung musters up enough strength to call Minho—or, rather the Blossom Delights telephone line—from his own family house phone. Jisung's line for his camera phone had been cutweeksago and his computer had been confiscated, so contact with Minho has been borderline impossible.

A sob tears itself out of his throat when the phone line connects in the quiet of his living room.

"Hello? Who's calling at three in the f*ckin' morning?"

OhGod, it feels like it's been years since Jisung's heard Minho's voice, though it's only been a couple of weeks or so. It tugs at his aching heart and all its heartstrings, and he swallows, blinking away his forming tears—blinking away the sting at his eyes of tears left unshed. It's better if he doesn't allow himself to cry. He did this to himself.

Thisis the final goodbye.

"What are you doing awake at three in the morning?" Jisung asks in a groggy voice, followed by a dry laugh. "Go to bed, silly. You've got school tomorrow."

"Ji–Jisung?"

"Hi Minho—oh God...f*ck, please don't cry," Jisung begs in a whisper. "You're going to make me cry...and—and if I cry I'llneverbe able to say this."

The pause on the phone line threatens to swallow Jisung up. It's painful. Knowing that Minho isright thereand simultaneously out of reach.

"Right...what do you need to say?"

"I'm moving to—to Korea tomorrow. It's for a–a program," Jisung cries into the phone, unable to control the streams of tears and the coughed up cries that echo throughout the house. "I'm sorry. I promise I–I'll keep in touch with you!"

Jisung slams the phone off. He can't bear to hear Minho's reply.

He peers at his bruising hands, shaking from fear of Minho's reply. An earthquake begins in the tips of his fingers before ravaging his frail body. So many unspoken words were on his tongue, ready to be spoken aloud, yet forcefully swallowed down. Words that his parents would have only disagreed with.

Is it truly his fault for being this way?

Is it his fault for hoping that one day, Minho could be his—reallyhis? Is it his fault for ignoring the fact that hom*osexuality is wrong to enjoy the comfort of another man?

Moreover...

The airport buzzes with a frenetic energy as travelers hustle with their luggage to their respective gates. Overhead lights cast a sterile glow on the polished floors, far too bright to withstand so early in the morning. Boarding announcements echo through the terminal, competing with the low hum of luggage wheels and distant chatter.

Jisung looks at his boarding ticket, wants to rip it to shreds and crumble it into pieces.This isn't fair.

His parents don't love him. That fact settles in like acid forming a new burn, right in his heart. They won't even look him in the eyes as they pass by security, making their way to the gate. If Jisung tries to say anything without being spoken to first, he listens to his voice waver in the wind without a response.

It's as if he doesn't exist.

Narae stops before the check-in, and turns to him, yanking him by the jacket. "Listen. You are to not talk about what happened in Marino Hills, and you are not to mention Minho."

"I–Okay. Fine." It's easier to comply with his parents' every request. It's less painful that way.

"Do you understand me, Jisung? Not a word."

"Yes, Mom. I get it," Jisung mumbles, gaze trained to his shoes. "Not a word."

"Good." Narae sharply inhales, patting her son's back. "Now, your father and I are going to leave. Make sure you get on your flight, okay?"

Jisung nods, and his mother kisses his forehead, then walks away. His father follows suit, not uttering a single word before departure. There's no exchange of "I love you"s, not that they'd mean much coming from a family who's bruised him to the point where an oversized jacket conceals his every wound. There's no semblance of respect for the human being that Narae created—who John is supposed to love and doesn't.

Jisung draws in a slow breath. It doesn't matter.

His parents are gone, and Jisung is left with only his suitcase and a small cup of overpriced strawberry ice cream he bought—although it'sDecember—for the plane ride.

When Jisung sits on the stiff chairs in the gate lobby, waiting for his flight, he thinks of Minho. He pulls the photo strip from the barcade from out of his pocket—the only photo of them that hadn't faced the wrath of John's lighter and kerosene.

Jisung thinks of how the night stars reflected in Minho's eyes and how they looked like two glittering, beautiful galaxies. He thinks of the way Minho laughed, the sound like a melody he could playforeverand never grow bored of.

He thinks of the way Minho held him close, and the way his embrace always felt like coming back home.

But, as he sits in the waiting area, Jisung realizes that it doesn't matter how hard he thinks.

It won't change anything.

He'll never see Minho again.

"Jisung!"

His heart hammers, and his entire body goes rigid.

It can't be...

"Jisung, oh my God,Ji–"

"M–Minho?" Jisung whispers, his throat tight.

It's him. Minho Lee stands in front of him (like they're in a cliché telenovela) his chest heaving, chestnut eyes blown wide.

Jisung wants to reach out and hold him, wants to press their bodies together, to feel Minho's soft lips against his and not care aboutanyof it. Temptation is a drug, and Jisung just wants to give in and get high off his psychedelic of choice.

He doesn't.

Instead, he stays seated, frozen in shock, his lips slightly parted.

"You're...here," Jisung utters in disbelief. He doesn't want to believe it. If he does, he'll surely fall apart.

"I'm here." Minho's already in tears and it hasn't even been five minutes. He throws his arms around Jisung's body. "I'm here, Ji.I'mhere. Couldn't let you leave without a proper goodbye."

Jisung hugs back, tossing his cares out the window and engulfing the sun in a warm embrace. His hands are shaking, but he buries his face in the crook of Minho's neck, inhaling his familiar scent: cologne, lavender, and ash. Hot tears stream down his face—like the kerosene that burned their memories to a crisp—and he knows that Minho can, too, but he can't stop crying.

"Jisung. Jisung, look at me. Please," Minho whispers. "I need you to know something."

"W–What is it?" Jisung chokes out.

"I love you. I love you so much." Minho wipes the tears from Jisung's face. "I f*ckin' love you."

"I–," Jisung's heart races. There's no amount of words he could string together to describe how he truly feels. So, he presses their lips together in a desperate, longing kiss, and hopes it's enough.

As their lips slot together, Jisung convinced himself he's tasted the sunshine when his life has been consistently cloudy and gray. It's a bite, it's greedy, and it's all too tangible in the creaky airport seats. And Jisung's body doesn't know how to stop, hasn't been wired to stop. He memorizes the details of Minho's mouth: his plush lips that submit to Jisung's every demand, the sweet moans that Jisung drinks up like a damnalcoholic. For maybe, if he embeds Minho into his brain, it'll feel less anticlimactic when they finally have to part.

Because good things never last forever.

Jisung's head swims dizzily with Minho's scent—bitter and sweet, like a flower field and nicotine. He doesn't want to let go, hecan'tlet go.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the final boarding call for flight 233 to Gwangju, South Korea."

Jisung hears his heart shatter in his chest.

"Please proceed to gate five for immediate departure. All passengers should be on board at this time. Thank you."

When they finally break away, Minho's fingers brush along his cheek, the touch gentle and careful, and Jisung can't stop crying.

Minho's crying too. "Ji. It's okay."

"It's not, though," Jisung says through his sobs, clinging to Minho's leather jacket. "What the f*ck am I supposed to do, Minho?"

"You're supposed to go," Minho instructs softly, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. "You're supposed to take this flight a–and fly a million miles away. 'Cause the world f*ckin' sucks."

"I don't want—hic!—to go, though," Jisung admits, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"You haf'ta." Minho sniffles, kissing Jisung's forehead. "And you have toright nowbefore that plane takes off without you."

Jisung hiccups, grabbing onto the handle of his carry-on in a sh*tty attempt at grounding himself.

"I–I love you," Jisung croaks, starting to back away.

Minho smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"I know, love. I know."

As Jisung walks through the jet bridge, he feels his heart slowly begging to rip itself into pieces.

If you told sixteen-year-old Jisung Han, at the start of the summer of '06, that falling in love would bethispainful, he's certain he'd never have fallen in love at all.

I'll find my way back to you, Minho.Jisung promises himself, holding onto the photo strip tightly.

I promise.