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Summary
Jisung blinks. Once. The pink darkens, chiffon blurring into raspberry, into a coruscating kaleidoscope of crimson until he looks how Minho feels. How he’s been feeling for five years.
“What?”
“You are,” Minho repeats because it’s hard to remember why he had spent so long stopping himself from saying these words when they’re at the bottom of the world, all by themselves. “You’re special. To me.”
Jisung lips part. “Oh,” he says faintly.
or: they're in Australia.