Chapter Text
“Eomma, I don’t need his help,” Jaehyun hisses, using that one voice he puts on that manages to sound petulant and irritated at the same time. It ages him backwards, like he's a toddler throwing a tantrum. Jisung doesn’t bother trying to decipher the who or what or why of the conversation unfolding next to him, despite the car’s bluetooth system making it hard to ignore the sound of Jaehyun’s mom (who Jisung wouldn’t even have recognised if it wasn’t for his boyfriend biting out the word eomma like it’s a cuss word) on the other end of the line.
Jisung folds his arms in front of his chest, feeling small; the way he always does when his social battery’s on the verge of running out and something in him, secret and shy, feels like it hasn’t been fed the thing that it’s craving. Mostly, Jisung just feels drained. However unfortunate, this end-of-date feeling has become all too normal. Jisung brought it up one time when he was talking to Hyunjin, who had, back then, just gotten home to their shared apartment after spending a whopping two weeks at his boyfriend’s mansion (Jisung hasn’t checked to see if the home in question is actually a mansion, but knowing Hyunjin’s taste in men and the fact that this particular man has managed to hold his best friend’s attention for more than 6 months, that house is probably as damn close to a mansion—hell, a castle—that one can get in a city like Seoul). Hyunjin’s an introvert too, so Jisung figured it would be reasonable to ask him how he does it. In this flashback, Jisung had spent multiple days without hearing from Jaehyun because of something at work, or whatever, and Jisung was still new to the whole relationship thing so he was attempting to be responsible and understand his feelings. Hyunjin, though, took a boulder to Jisung’s self-assurances that surely all relationships feel like a ping-pong match between confused abandonment and overstimulation when he furrowed his eyebrows and said that him and Changbin just get along well and that it just feels natural, Jisungie. Doesn’t it feel that way for you?
Jisung rolls that question around a palm-shaped landing in his brain like a dice, thinking of random chances and how one choice bled into another. He thinks that this whole thing—the past year, the weird limbo he’s in, the maybe/maybe-not of his relationship with Jaehyun, which only really started out because Jisung wanted so badly to be held after he was fresh off the graduation boat and thrust into the real world—is a waiting game. Like one of those in-between stops between point A and point B, passing by in a blur.
The truth is that Jisung doesn’t really know what natural means, and he isn’t sure if the problem lies with Jaehyun, or him, or just the weird mish-mash of emotion that arises every time he’s with his boyfriend. It feels natural when they talk about music, because that’s how they met. Jisung had just finished playing a set at the only bar accepting walk-in performers, and Jaehyun emerged from the mildly packed crowd looking like he’d rather be anywhere but there.
When Jisung recounted the story—the meet cute, if you could even call it that—to Changbin, he realised that Jaehyun's accidental eye contact with him was a result of him looking for the exit. Another lapse in time, another universe, and they would have completely missed each other. But, alas. So the story goes: Jisung, soft-hearted and puffy-eyed from one million post-grad job rejections and somber musings about whether he would ever be able to pursue a future as a musician and Jaehyun, running away from a bad date with someone who, to quote Jaehyun’s own words from their first date, “didn’t hold a candle to the way Jisung had looked on stage”.
“You always do this,” Jaehyun of the present says to his phone, slamming the brakes when they come to a stop in front of Jisung’s apartment.
Jisung startles before grumbling, “You know I hate it when you do that, Jaehyun.”
In response, Jisung receives a non-committal hum. Jaehyun tsks into the bluetooth earpiece wrapped around his ear like some kind of muzzle for tech bros with codependent relationships with their moms.
Well, that’s a bit unfair. Jaehyun’s trying, these days. He’s been putting up boundaries, and whatnot. This phone call must be the consequence of boundary-making.
Right on cue, Jaehyun throws his head back and does the adult male equivalent of stomping his feet. Jisung grimaces, reminding himself that he needs to give his boyfriend grace, and getting the ick from him right now isn’t really the…nice thing to do.
“Eomma, you can’t send Minho here. He doesn’t know shit.”
Through the car speaker, Jisung registers Jaehyun's mother's voice for the first time during this car ride. Halmeoni left it to you both, you know. It was her last wish. You need to work with him to take care of the house.
“Why don’t you trust me to do it?” Jaehyun whines.
Jisung wonders if he cares enough to reach over the console and take Jaehyun’s hand in his, but the remnant bitterness of their earlier argument—which, by the way, is the cherry on top of this sudden detour to wherever Jaehyun is driving him—is still lodged in his throat.
Whatever, Jisung thinks, watching Jaehyun kill the engine. The doors unlock automatically, and the backs of Jisung’s thighs stick awkwardly to the too-expensive deep brown leather of Jaehyun’s car seats before Jisung shifts and goes to open the door.
Jisung can't be in this car a second longer, so he lets himself out with the desperation of a man underwater, coming up for air.
Jaehyun doesn't apologise. He never does. He just keeps talking on the phone while Jisung looks up at the mansion-like house looming over him, taking in the distantly familiar neighbourhood of Jaehyun's grandmother's house. He looks down at his cute new boots, the ones he was putting on at the very start of this godforsaken date, right when Jaehyun took a work call. I’m ready, Jisung had mouthed, feeling done up and prettier than he’d felt in a long time. Jaehyun had spared Jisung a singular glance and held a finger up to his lips—a wordless be quiet.
The call ended up eating into their pre-planned date time, which, of course, wasn’t Jaehyun’s priority. In fact, Jisung didn’t get a single compliment all night. No words were exchanged about anything other than the directions to the restaurant Jaehyun picked, the menu, the decor, the valet. Jisung didn’t even fucking like the restaurant, which is a fact even a casual acquaintance could have guessed about him.
Fine dining was never his thing.
So, with his arms wrapped tightly around himself to protect him from the cold, Jisung wonders what the fuck he’s getting out of this relationship. He doesn’t remember the last time he had a conversation with Jaehyun that ended with him feeling butterflies.
“Babe, wait,” Jaehyun says, the beep beep beep of the call's end tone leaking out through the open car window. “Sorry, that was my mom. You know how she is.”
No, Jisung doesn’t say. I don’t, because I haven’t met a single member of your family. I don’t know what your mom means to you. I don’t know how many siblings you have. I don’t remember the last time you told me something real.
“Mm,” Jisung says, swallowing his words down.
After a few moments of silence, Jaehyun says, “I’m sorry.”
Jisung raises his eyebrows. Unusual. “Sorry for…?”
Jaehyun sighs. “My brother is coming over. And we’re going to have to stay here tonight. Maybe even for a while.”
Jisung yanks the car door open, crouching to bring himself face to face with Jaehyun. "Are you fucking serious?"
"I know," Jaehyun says, his tone dipped in insincere sympathy. "It's just my brother..."
It's not the house that's the problem. The Lee family home isn't an unfamiliar sight to him, but they only came here once, months ago, when Jaehyun wanted to pay his respects after his grandmother passed away. It was a surprisingly unemotional affair.
He waits a moment, feeling a surge of irritation pass through him when he realises that that’s all Jaehyun is apologetic for. No apologies for anything that happened tonight, then.
“He’s really annoyi—” Jaehyun begins to say before Jisung closes the car door with a loud slam and begins to make his way to the entrance of the house. He considers calling Seungmin, who he's sure lives somewhere nearby, and just making a run for it.
“Babe?!” Jaehyun says. “Baby, you know I hate it when you leave while I’m talking to you.”
Jisung turns around, provoked. He folds his arms in front of his chest. “Maybe you should try being more interesting, then.”
Jaehyun doesn’t react much, in general. It's another thing that bothers Jisung about him. He doesn't respond to jabs or small talk or big life updates. Jisung could push and push and push and all he’d get is the same chuckle Jaehyun lets out now.
Ugh. Jisung used to think that was so cute. Time has only soured the taste of Jaehyun in Jisung’s mouth.
“Don’t be like that, babe,” Jaehyun says, shaking his head like he isn’t taking Jisung seriously.
“I’m not being—” Jisung’s voice shakes, overwhelmed with the buzzing, static energy collecting at the tips of his fingers. “I’m tired today,” is what comes out. “I’m going to go inside. Can I have the code?”
Jisung leans down, face against the window, watching it roll down fully. Jaehyun’s eyebrows scrunch up the way they do when he’s trying to be understanding but he doesn’t know what to say. “Okay. Ah, I think it’s on the app, babe. Let me just…park the car, okay?”
“Can’t you just give it to me now?”
Jaehyun’s phone starts ringing again. The display screen of the car reads: eomma. “Shit,” he mutters. “Sorry, love. I have to take this.”
Jisung fishes his phone out, trying to fight off his annoyance for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. “Fine,” he says.
Jaehyun doesn't spare Jisung a glance before he drives towards the garage, leaving him on the staircase going up to the grand, wooden doors with his jacket wrapped tightly around himself. There goes his hope of getting into a warm shower within the next 15 minutes.
“Fuck,” Jisung mutters to no one, trying to warm himself up to no avail. Fuck the cold, biting winter, and fuck the door standing in between Jisung and a bed and fuck the fact that Jisung is too cold to take his phone out of his pocket. Jisung drops his forehead against the door frame, defeated, He listens to the distant thrum of the car’s engine, zoning out to contemplate how long he’ll be standing here before—
“Oh,” a voice says from behind Jisung, startling him so hard he drops his bag. He watches it tumble down the small steps leading up to the door as if it’s moving in slow motion. He finds himself momentarily frozen, knocked over into stillness by the surprise of hearing a somewhat familiar voice behind him.
Faster than Jisung’s brain can catch up, the stranger to whom the voice belongs swoops onto his knees and retrieves the bag, which was well on its way to rolling all the way down the walking path. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Jisung’s eyes shift from the ground to the shoes the man has on—pristine, shiny. A little pointy. They have a slight heel on them, and they look like the kind of shoes older men with fancy jobs always have on.
“Huh. Han Jisung?”
Jisung’s eyes hesitantly flick upwards, both scared and curious about what they’ll discover.
“Ah. I thought it was you.”
"Oh my god," Jisung says, feeling his eyes widen to what must look like a comical circumference. “Um. Uh. Wow, hi, Professor Lee.”
A light breeze, tinged with that specific gust of caught-in-time citrus, washes over Jisung. It takes him back to sitting in the front row. He feels, for a moment, exactly how he did back then—nervous to raise his hand for the first time, not knowing that he’d go on to do it countless more times.
It’s a bit surreal, seeing the man that used to be Jisung’s favourite part of being at university out and about in the real world. He looks more laid-back here, less structured. And beautiful, of course, as ever.
Professor Lee has a woollen sweater on. It looks perfectly lived-in, cutting off below his waist just so that the pleats of his tailored pants fall over his thighs like water from a stream. Upon slightly closer (and inconspicuous, he hopes) inspection, he finds that these pants are most likely thinner than the ones he used to wear to class. Here, now, the flip-flopping of the wind teases Jisung with more glimpses of the outline of his ex-Professor’s thighs than he was ever allowed.
“You can call me by my first name now, Jisung. Your graduation grants you permission. I think we’re past the formalities, right?”
Jisung gulps. “Oh,” he says, his brain flatlining.
Professor Lee—Minho—chuckles, a little sound that hits the air intimately.
“Sorry,” Jisung blurts. “I’m just...tired. Long day.”
“Oh, of course, how rude of me. I’ll let you…” Minho’s eyes flit to the door behind Jisung. His eyebrows furrow. “Hm. I’m not at the wrong house.”
Jisung makes a small, questioning noise and looks behind him to check if, suddenly, the ancestral house that his boyfriend brought him to (right, Jisung’s mind whispers to itself. You have a boyfriend. Remember that?) has transformed into something else. Jisung giggles, a little hysterical. “I got lost here the last time I came, haha. It’s even worse when you walk here. But you—” Jisung sneaks a look behind Minho, to the very expensive car currently parked a little bit away from the house, all-black and almost camouflaged into the night. “You drove here, so maybe it was different.”
“You still prefer not to drive?” Minho asks, tilting his head curiously.
Jisung tries not to feel butterflies at the fact that Lee Minho remembers he never drove to campus and shakes his head. “In my defence,” he begins to say, and then swallows his words when he notices the twinkle in Minho’s eyes.
“Nothing to defend yourself about,” Minho says.
A shiver passes through Jisung, and Minho must interpret it as Jisung being cold (which he is) because he jumps into action. He reaches into the narrow space between Jisung’s waist, pressed up against the door at this point because he doesn’t know what to do with himself, and the keypad.
Beep beep beep beep, and the door behind Jisung clicks open.
“Let’s go inside and we can figure out why we’re in front of the same door, hm?” Minho says, his perfume invading Jisung’s senses. Jisung isn't sure if he should stop breathing or take in as much of it as he can. He likes to think that he's a good man, so which one's worse? Should he deny himself, or indulge?
“Um,” Jisung says, confused but also surprisingly unbothered about Professor Lee knowing the code to enter his boyfriend’s house. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, or something. Buried in the depths of his consciousness, a voice reminds him that he’s still very much in a committed relationship, and no other man should qualify as a gift horse.
No mouths must be looked into, lest they swallow him whole.
Okay. All of this is happening very fast, but it doesn't change the truth, which is:
Jisung has a bad habit of letting Lee Minho consume him.
He remembers hours upon hours and a crick in his neck and being hunched over the final assignment for ENGL371: Introduction to the Short Story. He remembers the smell of old books and the dust collecting over volumes in the library that hadn’t been touched for decades. He remembers touching them. He remembers agonising over his word choice as early as the first creative writing assignment. He remembers wanting to write a romance and side-stepping the why.
He used to think over every little choice. Would Professor Lee prefer if desire painted a character’s cheeks red, or would he prefer a warm, beating heart in the palm of a hand? Would he like it if the love was underlined or implied? Would he like three chapters, or one long, sprawling confession?
There was nothing implied about Jisung’s fixation on Professor Lee. He sat front row, always. He used to dust his cheeks with blush to cover up the real warmth that rose to his face every time he went to office hours. He started wearing glasses regularly after he was rewarded with a compliment from his Professor Lee, who used to say the most intoxicating, confusing things, crossing Jisung’s role model and pathetic crush wires more often than not. My favourite student. Good job. You did well today.
It didn’t get better with time. Jisung is glad he’s a good multitasker, because he didn’t hesitate before he applied to be Professor Lee’s TA in his second year. He blushed into his hands when he got his acceptance the day he applied—no interview, no hesitation. The perks of the job included countless more hours spent together and the chance to see Professor Lee unbutton his shirt cuffs to roll his sleeves up. Jisung used to skip his other classes, sometimes, just to sit in the same room as his Professor while they graded papers.
Jisung was never normal about Lee Minho, which is exactly why he lets this moment transpire. He holds his breath when Minho squeezes through the doorframe. Narrow as it is, the frame forces their bodies to press into one another. Jisung’s freezes, overwhelmed by the walking memory of the recent past, which means that Minho has no choice but to press up against Jisung to get inside. This closeness, while new, feels like it was a long time coming.
“Minho-hyung?”
Jisung startles, and the ghost of Minho’s breath fanning over his face disappears, replaced by a hand on his shoulder gently pushing him inside the house. From the foyer, Jisung registers the fact that Jaehyun is outside the door, looking in between Jisung and Minho as if they were just caught doing something they shouldn’t.
“Jaehyun-ah.” Jisung says. “Hey, it’s—”
Not what it looks like? Is that what Jisung was just about to say?
“Jaehyun,” Minho says, sounding slightly confused. “Did eomma not tell you I was coming?”
Jaehyun exhales irritatedly and lets himself into the house, closing the door behind him. “Yeah, she told me. Listen. I told her once, and I’ll tell you again. I don’t need you here to do—whatever you came to do. Aish, when will you trust me? I bet you talked her into letting you come over.”
Jisung looks in between Jaehyun and Minho, suddenly realising where he landed up. “Uh, sorry. You both are…brothers?”
The hardened look on Minho’s face cracks a little when he turns to look at Jisung. “Yes,” he says, “and you must be Jaehyun’s friend, I assume?”
“Boyfriend,” Jaehyun corrects, walking closer to Jisung and throwing an arm around his shoulders.
“Ah,” Minho says, turning to look at Jisung with a slight eyebrow raise. “Boyfriend. I see.” Jisung feels the urge to cover his face and let his jacket swallow him whole. He wonders if Minho has any thoughts about this relationship, if he even knew Jaehyun was dating someone. Does Minho think Jaehyun and Jisung are compatible? It’s only natural to have those kinds of thoughts, given that Minho knows both of them. From what Jisung can tell, Minho and Jaehyun don't have the best relationship.
Jisung tries very hard not to shrug his boyfriend’s arm off, or make a face, or do anything to feed the stupid little voice in his brain whining nooooooooo why would you tell Lee Minho I’m taken and other silly things.
He wonders if Minho thinks Jisung settled or—god, what if Minho thinks that Jisung isn’t good enough for his brother?
“You’re a lucky man, Jaehyun,” Minho says, slapping a hand onto his brother’s shoulder. His knuckles are still bruised, Jisung notices, and then promptly reminds himself he shouldn’t notice these things, especially because those bruises used to be a regular feature in Jisung’s night-time dreams about—
Jisung probably shouldn’t finish that thought.
Minho doesn’t stop there. “Jisung used to basically teach my class in his final year. He’s always been insightful. And daring. Which is why I didn’t expect…” Minho looks in between them both. “Ah, anyways. Are you still making music, Jisung? I still think about the few seconds you played for me before you graduated.”
Jisung loses control of his mouth, which lets out a surprised laugh. “Wha—really? The one for that assignment I was writing?”
Minho nods, solemn as ever even though he’s wearing a sparkle in his eye that Jisung doesn’t think he’s ever been allowed to see before. “I drove myself up the wall thinking about how it ends.”
“The story?”
“The song,” Minho replies, like it’s obvious.
Jisung doesn’t know how to answer that question with the truth, because, honestly—it's disappointing. The truth is a painprick in the palm of his hand, a tug at his heart. The truth is that Jisung has sat in a room, amplifying the sound of all the half-finished songs he hasn’t been able to write for so long that looking into the eyes of someone who sees him and thinks about music feels like the most heartbreaking greeting he could’ve imagined.
Entirely unprepared to face the abyss of feeling that Minho’s scrutiny spoons out of his body, Jisung gives Minho a half-smile and a non-answer. “Maybe you’ll find out soon.”
Jaehyun clears his throat. “If you’re both done exchanging greetings, can we get a move on? Jisung, do you mind putting our leftovers in the fridge, honey?” Jaehyun doesn’t bother looking at Jisung when he hands him the takeout box from their date. “Minho, we need to talk about what we’re doing with this house. Did eomma tell you—”
“You you want me to put that in the kitchen for you?” Minho asks, reaching his hand out towards Jisung, smoothly interrupting Jaehyun.
Jisung’s hand tightens around the box, almost on instinct. “It’s okay,” he says, looking in between the brothers. Now that he knows they’re related, he’s stuck trying to find at least one familiar trait. Their eyes are different, that’s for certain. Jisung always likened Minho’s gaze to that of a cat, and Jaehyun—well. Jisung never thought about it much, but he guesses he’d say Jaehyun’s eyes are like peeled almonds. The hard-set line of Jaehyun’s mouth doesn’t find a mirror in Minho’s. Their hands are shaped differently, shaped by diverging paths. Most importantly, there isn’t a single thing on Jaehyun’s face that ever reminded Jisung of his past, of music, of making art, or of a Professor he crushed on.
Jaehyun is safe. He never reads books and he doesn't care for music, so he doesn’t ask Jisung how his new song (or lack thereof) is coming along. Jaehyun kisses Jisung on the forehead when he complains about an unsuccessful studio session, but never, not once, has he asked Jisung how a song he might have overhead once ended. He knows, vaguely, that Jisung makes music, but the only time Jisung ever played something for him was accidental, that first night they met. He didn't know he was performing for Jaehyun, and part of him thinks he never has. Jaehyun and music exist in two different boxes, compartmentalised neatly.
Jisung can’t stay in this room much longer. The more he looks at Minho, the more those safe little boxes threaten to burst. He doesn't know if he can let that happen in Jaehyun's presence, so he blurts, “I’m going to go upstairs." He makes the last minute decision to shove the take-out box into Minho's hands, as if to say here, you handle this, and then takes off.
“We’re in the first room on the left!” Jaehyun shouts, his voice getting muffled the further Jisung ventures upstairs, fleeing the scene faster than his thoughts can catch up with him.
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺
Later, in the guest bedroom, once Jisung’s face is scrubbed red with how long he spent trying to wash the blush sitting high on his cheeks off, Jaehyun asks:
“Are you sure you want to stay?”
Jisung rests the book he’s reading on his stomach, half-open. “I think so.”
Jaehyun’s brows frown. “Are you sure? You hated it here last time.”
“Everyone hated it here last time,” Jisung counters, thinking of the awkward family reception and that particular somber wordlessness that comes with being in someone’s house right after they die. Jisung had walked through the entire place in an effort to excavate some feeling for a woman he never knew—because it was the least he could do. He wanted to put himself in Jaehyun's shoes, desperate to be a good boyfriend. He felt so special to be trusted with something so personal.
“I didn’t really hate it,” he adds. “It was just…creepy, I guess. The house. It felt emptier that day.”
“Halmeoni was a creepy woman,” Jaehyun says, the corner of his mouth lifting, reminding Jisung that this whole brotherly reunion isn’t really all that emotional. Jisung didn’t know it then, but Jaehyun’s relationship with his grandmother was distant, like that of two colleagues who floated out of each other’s lives across many years and many vocations. “Good thing it isn’t empty today. Which...that reminds me, I didn’t know Minho was your professor.”
Jaehyun's tone has a hint of accusation in it, like Jisung somehow purposefully withheld this information.
Jisung’s eyes widen at the reminder of who else is in the house. “Oh,” he says, and then laughs nervously. “Yeah, I didn’t even think that you—that, uh, you guys would even know each other, I guess.”
Jaehyun nods, reaching out to place a hand over Jisung’s tight clasp on the spine of his book. The page Jisung left off at is a voice in his mind. It speaks to him as a fragment of the past, materialises as Minho—no, Professor Lee. The page he paused on is one Jisung has heard recited to him in class. The memory is photograph-sharp in his mind: Professor Lee with his sturdy hand spreading open the bookmarked pages of his paperback, thumb pushed into the space between pages as he held them down and apart. His hair always perfect, never falling into his eyes. His voice like honey as he read the same words that seem to brand themselves onto Jisung’s stomach right now: Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall.
Through the spine of the novel, Jisung swears he can feel the thump thump thump of his heart beating in his stomach.
“Makes sense,” Jaehyun says easily, and then turns Jisung’s hand over until their palms touch and the book slips away, onto the mattress. “God, I can't imagine you as a student. Didn't you have a favourite professor, though? How funny would it be if it was Minho,” he says, laughing like he just cracked the funniest joke.
The feeling in Jisung’s stomach churns, turning sour and red and all-too-reminiscent of guilt. Still, he says, "It was, actually."
"Funny," Jaehyun says, a flicker of confusin floating over his face before he meets Jisung’s eyes, raising an eyebrow before breaking into what Jisung can only call a guffaw. Loud and unrestrained, Jaehyun slaps a hand over his knee and pats Jisung’s clasped hands, saying, “Ah, Jisung, Jisung, Jisung. You’re so funny.”
Jisung’s mouth opens and closes. He imagines a lemon-wedge trapped in his mouth, its oozing sourness bleeding into his gums as if to punish him for letting the truth come out so easily. Belatedly, he joins Jaehyun’s laughter. “Yeah,” he says, hurriedly putting the book on the nightstand and shaking himself out of it. “That’s me.”
“He wasn’t actually your favourite professor though, right?” Jaehyun asks, standing up to begin getting ready for bed. He puts a palm to Jisung’s cheek, angling his face upwards so their eyes meet.
Jisung looks up at his boyfriend, tasting that sourness again. “Not really,” Jisung says, wondering if Jaehyun will push some more, ask who this other alleged favourite was. Jisung doesn't think that far ahead—he finds that he rarely needs to.
Of course, Jaehyun doesn’t push, or ask, or do anything to suggest he’s actually interested in decoding Jisung’s truth. Jisung feels another flare of irritation rise through him as he watches Jaehyun’s shoulders relax with subtle relief. He wonders if the relief arrives because he's possessive about Jisung or competitive about Minho, and then berates himself for having that thought. He needs to stop comparing Jaehyun to an alternative he's still scared to name.
Jisung pulls his face away from Jaehyun’s hold. “I’d like to sleep now,” he says, biting back the urge to instigate another argument, push, say something loudly. He feels like he could be loud if he tried. Maybe he'd even be loud enough to warrant intervention, or loud enough to snap himself out of whatever’s making him stay with someone who cares little about Jisung and a lot about being liked.
“Oh,” Jaehyun says, his footsteps retreating further from the bed. “Okay, babe. Night!”
Jisung hums his acknowledgement, closing his eyes, thinking of old adages, of never go to bed angry, of the slowly unfurling sound in his head that sounds very much like the beginning of a song he’ll write soon.
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺
Jisung wakes up earlier than he has in a long, long time.
Jaehyun’s fast asleep next to him, his arm outstretched towards Jisung—touching but not really. His fist is closed, and they’re barely making contact, so Jisung doesn’t have to work very hard to roll himself out of bed quietly.
The door creaks when Jisung pulls it open, just a sliver. Enough to let himself out. He steps out, recalling his last visit to this house well enough to guide himself to the bathroom.
The floor squeaks under him every time he takes a step.
“Shhh,” Jisung murmurs, as if that would get the house to listen to him and be quieter. He doesn’t know if Profess—if Minho is still asleep, but he would be mortified if he was the reason he woke up. Also, Jisung is vulnerable right now—sleep still in his eyes, the shirt he found in the guest room closet still half-ridden up. A freshly awoken Minho might have him reacting in…unpredictable ways.
Once Jisung finds the tell-tale golden handle of the fancy looking bathroom, he twists it only to find that it doesn’t budge.
Before he can try again, though, the door clicks from the other side and flies open, revealing—
“Jisung,” Minho says, a wet strand of hair falling into his eyes. Jisung, as established, is very, very vulnerable, so he’s simply not to blame for the fact that his eyes follow a droplet of water making its way down the expanse of Minho’s throat. Or the fact that he then sneaks a peek at the shape of Minho’s chest so obviously visible through the plain white t-shirt he has on. Obviously, this isn’t his fault. Who wears a t-shirt like that and expects no one to stare at them?
Of course, the biceps deserve a moment of their own, because Minho's shirt sleeves fit snugly around them.
Jisung’s just...appreciating the clear evidence of hard work. That's all. He's allowed to look. Looking doesn't mean anything.
“Good morning,” Jisung manages to get out, remembering where he is.
Minho smiles, his eyes crinkling up. “Good morning, Jisung-ah. Sorry for hogging the bathroom, it’s all yours now.” He sidesteps Jisung, a wave of citrus-scented steam escaping with him. Jisung tries not to inhale too obviously.
“No, please,” Jisung shakes his head. “No apology necessary! I just got here. I don’t even know why I’m up so early.”
“I’ll make you breakfast,” Minho says with a nod, beginning to walk away.
The words catch up to Jisung. “What? Wait!” He surges forward, grabbing Minho’s hand so he turns around. Then, he looks down at his fingers around Minho’s wrist and feels heat climb up his neck. “Sorry,” Jisung says, dropping Minho’s hand. “You don’t have to do that." Shyness overtakes him, so he looks down at the floor to ground himself.
Jisung, vulnerable as he is, can’t resist the urge to slowly peek over his lashes after a second or two and assess if Minho was weirded out by that sudden hand-hold. The only thing he finds is a sparkling set of eyes and a smile, easy and inviting and almost fond.
“I want to,” Minho says, reaching out to ruffle Jisung’s hair.
Jisung tries not to lean into the touch. “But—”
“No buts. Say thank you and let me get to work.”
Following Minho’s instructions is muscle memory, at this point. He used to grade papers, attend office hours, raise his hand, prepare presentations, push himself, push himself, push himself—all under Minho’s instruction. “Fine,” Jisung grumbles.
Minho tuts. “What do we say?”
Something swoops through Jisung’s stomach again. “Thank you, Minho.”
Minho shakes his head. “Hm, doesn’t sound quite right, does it?”
“Thank you, Professor Lee?”
Minho huffs. “I did always like the sound of that from your mouth,” he says, something in his gaze quick and almost invisible when he looks Jisung up and down, as if he’s sizing him up.
Jisung wishes he was wearing something thicker, or more decent—but he isn’t. He feels like he’s doing something forbidden just standing here. Through his sleep-shirt, he swears he feels his nipples harden, like those things are set out to incriminate him further.
“But no,” Minho continues. “Call me hyung. It’s only right. We live in the same house, don’t we?”
Jisung sputters, the heat at the back of his neck rising through his face. “Uh—okay. Okay…hyung.”
“Good.” Minho says with a nod, and then tilts his head towards the open bathroom door. “All yours. I’ll see you downstairs.”
Jisung runs into the bathroom and locks the door behind him, feeling his heart beat in his stomach again, giving him signals he doesn’t know how to decode.
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺
“Hey, Jisungie,” Minho lilts, a dish rag slung over his shoulders as he maneuvers Jisung’s breakfast off the pan. “I made you gyeranbap.”
Jisung gasps. “You did?”
Minho gives Jisung an amused look while he plates his breakfast. “Were you expecting something else?”
“No—I just…ah, it’s been a while since I’ve had such a warm meal for breakfast.”
Minho’s eyebrows furrow, and his mouth falls into a distinctly disapproving frown. Jisung tries, once again, not to ogle at the smattering of grey hair over Minho’s head. He always thought that Minho wore his age with the right level of authority. Not too much, not little—just enough. “Jaehyun hasn’t been making you breakfast?”
“Mm mmmmm mmm mmm mmm mmm mmmm,” Jisung says through a mouthful, his cheeks bulging with the bite he just took.
Minho chuckles. “Say that again for me?”
Jisung tries his best to swallow and do as he’s asked. “I said,” he swipes his mouth with the back of his hand to make sure there aren’t any stray crumbs on his lips, “he doesn’t get any time before work.”
“Huh,” Minho says, nodding as he watches Jisung move to the kitchen island. “And you’re okay with that?”
Jisung pauses mid-bite. “Um…I guess? I don’t usually expect it from him.”
“You should,” MInho says. “Anyone in their right mind would cook you breakfast, especially since you eat so well.”
Jisung ducks his head, half in embarrassment and half in disbelief. Is Minho suggesting that he’d make a better boyfriend than Jisung’s actual boyfriend, or is Jisung just engaging in some good old wishful thinking?
Jisung backtracks. Not wishful thinking. He can’t be wishing for—
“I’m surprised you’re with him,” Minho says, leaning back against the kitchen counter. He folds his arms in front of him, looking exactly the way he did when he handed Jisung his first subpar paper. Jisung feels some sort of Pavlovian dread rise in him, his stomach churning as if the fear of disappointing Minho is wired into him.
“Oh?” Jisung asks, eating another mouthful so he doesn’t accidentally say I’m sorry. What the fuck does he have to be sorry for?
“Yes,” Minho says.
Eventually, Jisung stops avoiding eye contact, looking back at Minho only to find a strange sort of conviction in his eyes—like he’s made his mind up about something. Jisung doesn’t know how to feel about being a witness to this kind of look, how it breaks over Minho’s face like a thunderstorm waiting to happen.
“I never got along with Jaehyun,” Minho offers after a few more moments of silence. “We’re too different.”
“I noticed,” Jisung says with a wry smile. “You never told me you had a brother.”
“Well,” Minho shrugs. “I used to try to not talk about things like that with students.”
“Why?”
“It brings you closer,” Minho says. “Family, relationships, all of that.”
“I thought we were close,” Jisung says with a pout. “I mean, a little bit, at least? Right?”
Minho seems to look beyond Jisung, all the way into the past, when he says, “We were as close as I could have allowed myself to be.”
Jisung feels a thrill crawl up his spine. “That implies you wanted to be closer, you know.”
“You didn’t hear it from me,” Minho begins to say, “but I always thought you were—”
“Jisung, what are you wearing?”
Jisung startles, almost dropping his heart from where it’s climbed all the way up to his throat, begging to escape and ask Minho to finish that sentence.
He turns to look at Jaehyun, whose voice just interrupted something.
“Babe," Jaehyun says, "do you mind changing into something less revealing?”
"Oh, fuck no," Minho says. At the same time, Jisung raises his eyebrows. “Sorry, are you talking to me?”
“We have guests in the house!” Jaehyun says, gesturing towards Minho like his presence somehow explains what he just said.
Jisung scoffs. “So?”
“Also, I’m not a guest,” Minho adds. “I have just as much right to this house as you do.”
That seems to rile Jaehyun up some more. “That doesn’t—that…justifies nothing.”
“Justifies?” Jisung repeats. “Justifies what, my fucking shirt?”
“Look, I get that you and my brother like…knew each other, babe, but there’s a time and place. And—I mean, that shirt doesn’t even fit—”
“That’s my shirt, you know,” Minho says, interrupting Jaehyun.
Jisung looks down at himself, abruptly forgetting everything that was just coming out of Jaehyun’s mouth. “It is?”
“Mm. Halmeoni used to keep some of my old clothes in that closet, back when I used to visit. I’m guessing that’s where you found it?”
Jisung nods.
“Right. So. That’s my shirt you’re insulting, Jaehyun.”
The tips of Jaehyun’s ears are a damning shade of red. “Shut the fuck up, Minho.”
“Look inward, babe,” Minho bites. “You’re the only one shouting in this house.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but just because you’re here doesn’t mean I’m giving up my right to this place.”
“I never asked you to give it up,” Minho responds. “You haven’t even heard what I have to say.”
“What you’re going to say,” Jaehyun says, slinging his jacket over his shoulder and marching out of the kitchen, “is some bullshit.”
Minho’s jaw clenches. “There’s no need to be so crass. What, are you going to throw a tantrum next?”
The anger cresting inside Jisung falters at Minho's words. He tries to hide a smile behind another bite, shoving his food quickly into his mouth.
“You know what,” Jaehyun begins to say, turning around and storming out of the kitchen. Jisung hears the sound of a door opening, of shoes against hardwood, and then, “I don’t need to deal with this right now. I’m going for a walk.”
The door slams shut before anyone else can get a word in.
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺
In the aftermath of Jaehyun’s departure to wherever, Jisung notices that Jaehyun stops sharing his location with him. Jisung tries texting Jaehyun and wonders if he should just block his boyfriend:
Jisung
Hey
Can we talk?
You know i don’t like it when you say stuff about what I wear. It was uncalled for
“Are you texting him?” Minho asks. He’s sitting in front of his laptop at the dining table, his hair swept back like he just ran his fingers through the strands. He’s been typing away, looking very much like the dedicated Professor that Jisung first fell in deep, deep infatuation with. He looks like he’s supposed to be here, in Jisung’s proximity.
Jisung sighs, sinking deeper into the couch and feeling an invisible string tug at him. It begs him to get closer to Minho, to throw his phone away and let himself bask in this moment—the one in his periphery, waiting to bloom. “Feels like what I’m supposed to do,” he says, and then listens to his urges, tossing his phone face-down onto the couch.
“Hm. You aren't the kind of person who does things out of obligation, though. Are you?”
He angles his body towards Minho. When their eyes meet, Jisung worries his bottom lip and finds no answer worth giving. Instead, he asks, “What are you doing? Still making lesson plans, Professor?”
Minho chuckles. “I’m starting to think you prefer calling me Professor, Jisung-ah.”
“Well, you were always the best one I had,” Jisung says. He means for it to be a little flirty, but it comes out a bit too earnestly.
Minho blinks, and then clears his throat. “I see. And what can we interpret from Han Jisung’s non-answer?” he asks, putting on that one voice he always did when he wanted someone to 'dig deeper' in class.
“Not fair,” Jisung says, hiding his face in the couch cushion. “I didn’t even raise my hand.”
There’s some shuffling somewhere to the right of Jisung. Then: something placed on a table, the sound of knees cracking, an ahjussi-like groan that makes Jisung laugh quietly.
“I see you laughing at my knees, little boy,” Minho says. Jisung tries not to shiver at the tone Minho uses, but it’s hard to stop himself—and easy to dismiss whatever’s fluttering around in his stomach as just another symptom of being in Minho's proximity.
Minho’s voice gets closer. “And also, we aren’t in a classroom anymore.”
Jisung exhales. Thinks about who he is, who he was, how mad he is at his boyfriend, and how much of this feeling has built up over time. He thinks about his ongoing writer's block—that static always buzzing at the back of his brain, and he thinks about how looking at Minho’s face is making him want to write again, even if the songs end up being gibberish. Finally, he thinks: am I really about to do this?
“I don’t usually,” Jisung says, peeking over the edge of the cushion to sneak a glance at Minho, who, as expected, is sitting closer now. Fuck, Jisung thinks. I'm really about to do this. On the loveseat, Minho’s legs spread, each of his thighs swallowing the full breadth of the seat. Drool collects over Jisung’s tongue, and he swallows before saying, “To answer your question, I mean.”
“Good,” Minho says. “You’re too pretty to waste life on obligation.”
Jisung feels a zap of energy pass through his body, making him sit up straight again. He faces Minho, looks away, looks at the floor. His face burns. “Thank you,” he says, his voice reduced to something like a whisper. “You don’t have to say that.”
Maybe Jisung shouldn’t have taken that compliment, but he cares too little about what he should be doing right now.
“I don’t say a single thing out of obligation either, Jisungie,” Minho says, and then winks—poorly—at Jisung when their eyes meet again. “I want to know—did you get to see all the rooms when you came here last time?”
Jisung doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed at the subject change. “I think so?”
“Did you go to the basement?”
“Oh,” Jisung says. “No, I…walked through the rooms above. I mostly just wanted to escape the living room. It was so…”
“Suffocating?” Minho asks. “I can only imagine. That’s why I didn’t come. Halmeoni never liked me that much, and my extended family likes me even less.”
Jisung shakes his head. “Their loss.” A second later, he realises he might have overstepped. “I mean—I didn’t mean…like—”
“It’s fine, Jisung,” Minho says. “I didn’t like any of them. You might have noticed, now that you know I’m Jaehyun’s brother, that I wasn’t there for halmeoni’s funeral, or any of the family gatherings after. I’m sure Jaehyun must’ve dragged you here for that?”
Jisung nods, giving Minho a wry smile.
“My condolences,” Minho says dryly. “Anyway, then you must know. They aren’t exactly the most exciting people, my family. And they didn’t enjoy the paths I chose for myself. Halmeoni didn’t like that both of her grandsons were gay, but she was happy at least one of us decided to become an insufferable finance bro.”
Jisung lets out a surprised laugh. “Right, you’re only the best professor at a highly coveted university.”
“The black sheep of the family takes many forms,” Minho says. “Enough about that. If you haven’t seen the basement, I know exactly where to take you.” He stands up and offers Jisung his hand. “Come.”
Jisung looks up at Minho, and then down at his offered hand.
Hesitation escapes him so quickly he wonders if it ever was there in the first place. How thin do the limits of his morality stretch? Jisung thinks there should be an alarm ringing inside him somewhere, reminding him not to let it happen this easily.
But, there's this song. It simmers underneath the surface of Jisung's consciousness and begs to be let out. It feels violent. Eruptive, almost. Like a volcano. The song speaks through him, pushing him over the threshold, burning hot with potential. Jisung, for once, stops resisting.
He takes Minho's hand.