Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jisung lives his life based on what he knows. Sureties, constants, things that don’t have to be figured out. He has an aversion to fear, naturally, as any sane person does.

The grass is green, the sky is blue, the schoolyard is always empty at twelve thirty nine in the morning. 

It takes nine minutes to walk from his apartment to the nearest elementary school, coincidentally the same one he attended as a child. When he leaves his apartment at twelve thirty and arrives at the schoolyard by twelve thirty nine, the swings should be empty. The schoolyard is always empty at twelve thirty nine in the morning. 

There’s someone else tonight, at the very end of the line of swings that Jisung likes to take up residence at, hunched over a glowing cellphone, feet dragging in the wood chips. Jisung falters, feet scuffing on the pavement. He could turn around, go back home. But maybe the man on the swings has fantastic hearing, because he lifts his head up and sees Jisung standing there, and then it feels more embarrassing to leave. 

Adaptation, then, is the natural progression of unknowns. Jisung hates change, he hates being caught off guard, he hates that the man looked up and now he’s being forced to adapt. He only comes here when his brain won’t slow down. On the worst nights where he’s laying in bed and he has to be up for work in seven hours, but his neurons won’t quit firing. He probably would have turned around and gone home, regardless of the man looking up, if he wasn’t so on edge. But he is on edge, and the chains on the swing creak when he drops to the plastic seat. 

His heart hammers in his chest, and maybe he doesn’t have much adapting to do, because he remembers feeling this way on this very schoolyard many times before. Years ago, when he was much the same but smaller. He glances over to the other man. His hood is up, he’s gone back to hunching over his phone. Jisung focuses on breathing. He’s here to clear his thoughts, not complicate them. 

The appropriate time to sit, to avoid awkwardness, while someone else is here is lost on him. Fifteen minutes? Thirty? Should he wait for the other person to leave first? 

Maybe the man has fantastic hearing and can read Jisung’s mind, because the metal structure clangs along the top, and he’s getting up and walking away. 

Right before he rounds the building he turns back for a second, only a sliver of his face visible in the nighttime, but Jisung is pretty sure he looks familiar. He probably is, logically. Everyone around here knows one another. 

Jisung will let it go. 

Everything is sure again, there’s no reason to dig for any more.

𓐆

“All good, Sungie?” Chan leans back from his laptop, shoves his headphones off his ears when Jisung walks through the door. 

As if Chan doesn’t know. Chan always knows everything, especially about Jisung. Or, at least the outward things. 

“Yes. Couldn’t sleep,” he steps out of his shoes, shuffles across the floor, waiting awkwardly in the middle of the floor, knowing Chan isn’t done with him quite yet. 

“Work tomorrow?” Chan scans him up and down, like he might find signs of injury, or hints of self destructive activity. There’s none, not really, those are all within his head. 

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Chan nods, curt. He tosses Jisung a kind smile. “Try to get some rest.”

And then, to cut some of the awkward air between them, the feeling that Chan is pretending to be his dad rather than his friend, “Where’s Changbin?”

“Fuck if I know,” Chan scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I think he’s seeing someone. He’s being weirdly secretive about it.”

“Boo for her,” Jisung comments lamely, making for his room, slowly, in case Chan holds him up again.

Not today. Chan just chuckles, turning back to his screen. “Night, Sung.”

𓐆

Jisung spins the silhouetted figure of the man on the swings around in his head all day. Through his shift, walking home, laying in bed. He can’t put a finger on why the man looked so familiar. It really shouldn’t matter, but his brain is telling him it does. 

He forces himself to wait until exactly twelve thirty to walk to the park, but because he’s got fire in his belly he arrives one minute early anyway. Twelve thirty eight in the morning and the man is on the swings again, this time without a hood. Jisung steps in time with his heart, practically throws himself into the same swing as last night. He doesn’t dare look up, not yet. 

What he can see out of the corner of his eye, in the low buzzing light of the tall street lamp hanging off to the side; medium-long reddish hair, a straight sloped nose, hands curled around swing chains. Not nearly enough to get a clue. 

Everyone knows everyone in this town, but Jisung is bad at keeping up. He gets up and goes to work, and on nights he can’t sleep he goes to the schoolyard. He doesn’t have friends besides Chan and Changbin, and by extension, whoever they introduce him to, though he seldom thinks any of them care much that he’s around. His only coworker doesn’t like him much at all, and he hasn’t spoken to his mom since she caught him on the street a few months ago and asked him for cash. He doesn’t keep up with how long someone’s hair has grown or what color they’ve dyed it, but now he wishes he had.

Maybe he could go talk to this guy, ask if they know one another. No, though, that seems too far. Too much. Besides, it’s only the second time he’s seen him, and Jisung usually waits for thirds. 

The man leaves a short while later when Jisung is still ruminating over why he is the way he is. He catches a glimpse, right as the man turns the corner, and he does know who the schoolyard intruder is after all. They went to school together.

Minho. Last name slipping his mind. They never ran in the same circles. Jisung didn’t run in many circles, and he remembers Minho being much the same, just from the opposite end of isolation. They never talked. They’d never have reason to. Maybe if Jisung knew he’d run into Minho five years after graduation in the schoolyard he would have made an effort back then. But who is he kidding, no he wouldn’t have. 

He supposes, since next time would be the third, that maybe he could try to talk to him then. Chan and Changbin are always trying to get him to talk to new people. No, he probably won’t, but he doesn’t understand why he wants to try. The loneliness is probably catching up with him, to be frank.

If he runs into Minho a third time, he’ll have to speak to him. The rule has been created in his head, it’s much too late to go back. 

Jisung can’t decide if he hopes Minho comes again or not. 

𓐆

Another surety, Yang Jeongin coming into the smoke shop where Jisung works to flirt with his coworker. 

Once a week, at least, this happens. Today Jisung is rearranging the bongs, tucked away behind a few glass cases, content to listen. 

“I told you, Jeonginnie,” Hyunjin sighs, twirling a strand of his long hair around his finger. Always mixed messages with him. “I’m too pretty to smoke.” 

“And I told you,” Jeongin retorts, sleazy grin accompanying his heavy eyelids. “I’ll make it worth your while.” 

Hyunjin is lying. He smokes nearly every day after they close. He also gets hordes of patrons coming by just to ogle at him and ask for nearly the exact same thing, though none are quite as persistent as Jeongin. 

To be honest, Jisung doesn’t get the hype. Hyunjin is tall and thin and he’s pretty like a girl, but he’s also kind of a bitch. He dislikes Jisung for no real reason at all and does a horrible job hiding his rolled eyes and scoffs. He treats many of his admirers that come to shoot their shot much the same way. 

“No thanks!” Hyunjin smiles at Jeongin, saccharine sweet. “Bye now!”

Jisung waits until Jeongin is gone, bell ringing on the door behind him, before he dares to speak. Returning back behind the counter, much to Hyunjin’s dismay. “Why do you do that?” 

“Do what,” Hyunjin’s lip curls up in disgust, as it often does when he’s speaking to Jisung. 

“Lead him on.” 

Hyunjin laughs, loud and condescending. “Don’t you like to be desired, Jisung?” His face twitches like it does right before he’s about to say something particularly nasty. “Or is that out of your wheelhouse?” 

“No need to be a dick,” Jisung grimaces, turning away, pulling out his bottle of nail polish he keeps under the counter. It’s cheap, smells like chemicals. It’s shit at staying on, but he prefers that, because then he has reason to touch it up, something to do at work besides mindlessly doodling in his sketchbook. 

“Then stop bothering me,” Hyunjin retorts, pissy. 

Jisung presses his chin close to his wrist, eyes hovering over his work as he paints over his chipping black polish with a fresh coat. His nose stings. He probably deserves it. Hyunjin snaps his gum, loud and sharp against Jisung’s eardrums. He snaps his gum much more often ever since Jisung asked him to please stop. 

Hyunjin is like that. He does things very meticulously, small enough acts to be waved off as happenstance. A snap of his gum every ten minutes, but ‘of course he’s not doing it on purpose, Jisung is just crazy’. A sharp dig, but Jisung is too sensitive. 

The worst of it all is that Hyunjin is right. Jisung is crazy and sensitive, and he can’t tell which way is up, and he still doesn’t understand why Hyunjin hates him so much, but he has a bad feeling he probably did something to deserve it. 

𓐆

Bad things come in threes. 

Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison. One after another, all twenty seven years old. Divide twenty seven by three and get nine, and nine divided by three is three. Three can only be divided by one, and one divided by three is three.  

Three is Jisung’s favorite number. There’s not really a rhyme or reason, just a feeling in his gut. Three is easy to count to, it’s not too soon and it’s not too long, and if something is really not meant to happen it probably won’t happen three times by accident. By the same measure, if something is meant to happen, it will probably happen a third time, until it sticks. 

Minho is at the schoolyard a third time, even though Jisung decided that he hopes Minho never shows up again. 

Jisung doesn’t have to do things in threes, it’s not like he’ll die if he doesn’t, but he almost takes threes as a sign of sorts. 

His heart thrums steady in his chest and he sits at the far end of the swings, as far away as he can. He should talk to Minho, because he said he would if he was given a third, and now he has been. He looks over, and Minho’s looking back, and Jisung’s breath catches in his throat until he looks down again. 

Jisung told himself that if Minho was here a third time, that he would talk to him. An internal binding, rope tied around his ribs. If he doesn’t, he’d be ignoring the rule, or the fate of it all, and then maybe he’d be subjected to a bad three the next time around. Something like that, something bad. Jisung doesn’t have to do things in threes, but sometimes it feels like he may die if he doesn’t. 

He looks up again, and Minho is still looking back, and this time he waves.

“Fuck it,” Jisung mutters under his breath, shoving himself up before he can think better of it. He tries not to count his steps in threes as he walks across the wood chips, but he only ends up counting in sixes instead. Three sixes, imagine that, that’s how many steps it takes to deliver him to the swing directly next to Minho’s. 

“Minho, right?” Jisung asks, coughing when his voice shakes. “Choi?” 

“Lee.”

He curses himself internally for such a stupid mistake, he should have asked someone, saved the humiliation. “Ah. Sorry.” 

Minho shrugs. “Easy mistake.” 

“We went to highschool together,” Jisung feels awkward, painfully so. He hates speaking to strangers, he should have stayed on his side. 

“Yes,” Minho’s lips curl up on the edges, Jisung can see it happen from the corner of his eye. “You’re Jisoo.”

“Jisung,” he corrects. “Han.”

Minho snorts, and Jisung’s heart kicks up, a shot of adrenaline, anxiety. “I know. I was just trying to give it back to you.” 

“Oh. Okay,” Jisung stares at his feet, he squeezes the chains on the swing, wills his breath to come out less shaky. By holding it in it only gets worse. And he’s sure that when he stands his hands will be soaked through with the smell of metal. He’ll feel gross until he can scrub the smell off. He probably should have shoved his hoodie sleeves over his hands before he grabbed on. He was too busy thinking about Minho. 

“Why are you out here every night, Han Jisung?” Minho cuts through the silence. His voice is different than Jisung expected. The tone is pitched uniquely, or something. Minho looks stoic, serious, but his voice carries a lilt of the opposite. 

“Not every night,” he mumbles, kicking into the dirt with his shoe.”

“Okay, why are you out here most nights, Han Jisung?” 

Jisung swallows, thick. “I have trouble sleeping. My brain won’t shut up.” 

“Ah,” Minho hums, pushing himself back just enough to rock forward again. “What’s it telling you?” 

“Nothing good.” 

“Fair enough.” 

Conversations go two ways. Ask, answer. How are you? I’m good, how are you? A formula to follow. Easy enough. Jisung also wants to know— he so terribly, desperately wants to know, “Why are you out here?” 

Minho smiles, not skipping a beat, “I cruise in the woods.” 

Jisung’s cheeks heat up, one of the things he hates about himself, how fierce and fast he blushes. He knew few things about Lee Minho from school, and before tonight he didn’t even know his full name, but he always knew that Minho is gay. Not that he was paying specific attention, but people talk, and Jisung is always listening. He knew Minho is gay. He’s known forever, just as almost anyone else in this town has, he just didn’t know it was like that; that Minho did things like that. Unabashed, outward about his preferences for the unsavory, if Jisung could call it that. He’d never call it that out loud, but in his head he says lots of things he doesn’t mean. 

“Oh,” he says lamely, sounding completely idiotic. His hands sweat around metal, sure to be soaking up even more of the smell he hates so badly. It’ll probably take a few washes. 

Minho looks at him then, steady, and his eyes are sort of feline, sharp, they give the impression of a higher level of sight. “I’m just joking.” 

“Oh,” Jisung repeats. His mouth is dry. 

“A little nervous, huh?” Minho asks, but it doesn’t sound condescending like when Hyunjin says it, it sounds more like an observation. 

Jisung shrinks in on himself, wishing he could disappear. “I don’t know.” But the real answer is yes. 

Minho laughs, light and airy, and pushes off his swing, on his feet. “Ah, so that’s it,” he says, grinning back at Jisung over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Han Jisung.” 

Jisung sinks low, the earth feels hard beneath his feet, Minho rounds the corner like he was never there at all. Maybe he wasn’t. Jisung hopes he’s just sunken so far into his head that he dreamt it all up. 

The first thing he does when he lifts himself off of the swing is smell his hands. Just as expected, he can feel the pin pricks across his palms, a feeling that won’t go away until the smell does. 

Changbin is in the kitchen when Jisung gets home. 

Jisung does his best not to touch anything, hands splayed out at his sides, heavy with needles. He brushes past Changbin and shoves the sink on with his wrist, squirts soap into his hands. He can see Changbin watching him, chewing on whatever he’s eating. Jisung tries not to let it bother him as he goes back for more soap, jacks the heat of the water up higher now that he’s used to the warmth. 

“Do people go cruising in the woods?” he asks, attempting casual. Attempting to distract from his washing. 

“Fuck if I know,” Changbin snorts. “Probably. Why?”

“I was just wondering.” More soap, hopefully the last bit. 

Changbin blinks at him, slow and steady. “Please don’t go cruising in the woods, Jisung. Or, if you do, let Chan and I track your location. That’s how kids die.” 

“What! No!” Jisung splutters, face, ears on fire. “That’s not. No. I’m absolutely not interested in that sort of thing. At all— in any way.” 

“Okay!” Changbin raises his hands defensively. “I’m just letting you know.” He looks down at the stream of water, Jisung’s hands bright pink beneath the flow. He goes to leave, but right before he turns the corner he leans back, says, “Don’t forget lotion before bed, alright? I don’t want blood all over the couch again.” 

“Alright,” Jisung mumbles, shutting off the faucet. “Goodnight.”

𓐆

Jisung doesn’t go to the schoolyard the next night. 

𓐆

Desire, or wanting is a funny concept. Jisung doesn’t tend to want. 

When he was a child, as his mom tells it, he didn’t cry often. He slept through the night and he was quiet as a mouse. He didn’t want then, allegedly, and he doesn’t feel like he wants for much now. 

Chan and Changbin keep trying to set him up with girls. They’ll rope him into going somewhere, dump him with someone they perceive to be good for him and fuck off. Jisung usually ends up fumbling through the dates, going home with the girl and having sex with her, if she’s into it, and then wallowing in a disgusting feeling about what he’s done for the rest of the week. It’s not like he doesn’t want it too, because he does, but he feels like he’s missing the point; not making a connection with any of them. 

Sex feels good, but the rest of it doesn’t. It’s not enough to put him off. He almost feels like he needs to prove it to himself, that he’s not a complete lost cause in the scope of humanity. Like if he’s having sex every once in a while that means he’s not the shell of a person that’s got nothing to want for. 

Jisung wants his days to go well. He wants to go to work and feel as normal as he can and go home and be able to go to sleep. He wants to be normal, and to be unassuming, and for people to not know who he is. 

On days that Jongmyeong and his friends come into the smoke shop, Jisung wants to die. 

There’s usually three of them, sometimes one more or one less, but bad things come in threes. He went to school with them, of course, and they didn’t like him then either. He didn’t do anything but exist, and that seemed to be enough to set them off. 

Jisung is willing to bet they get gratification from holding onto something when they’re left behind, all of the rest of the popular boys heading off to college. 

The door rings and Jisung’s welcome dies on his tongue, because as soon as he hears the jingle of the chain on Hongjun’s pants he knows who it is. It’s just the two of them today, Jongmyeong and Hongjun, and they seem worked up, loud, rowdy. He prepares for the worst. 

“Oh, look who it is,” Jongmyeong sneers, as if he’s expecting anyone else, as if Jisung isn’t always here, and Hyunjin doesn’t always disappear when they walk in. 

Jisung doesn’t respond, he continues hunching over his sketchbook, watching ink bleed into paper, lining the sketches he made. 

“What? Are you deaf and stupid today, Han?” Jongmyeong walks up, pushes Jisung’s forehead back with two greasy fingers. Jisung flinches, he scoots back, a bit further out of reach. 

“Just this today?” he asks, reaching for the Swisher’s they usually buy. Grape flavor, the ones that smell the worst. Jisung hates the taste of artificial grape. “Or do you need anything else from over the counter?” 

“Three packs.”

Jisung’s hands shake as he tries to pull the packages off the wall. He can hear the men snickering behind him, he closes his eyes tight for one second, trying to still the swimming black spots there. He hasn’t eaten today. He should have eaten today. 

“Here you go,” Jisung says, sliding the packages across the glass display. He doesn’t bother giving the price, Jongmyeong already knows. 

Jongmyeong looks at him, pulling his wallet out of his jeans achingly slow. He licks across his teeth, something rotten in his eyes, a shake of his chest, laughing. “I bet it gets you off, huh, Han? Being such a little bitch?” He peels bills back, flipping through them one by one, silently counting. “Probably get all hot and bothered from someone being mean to you. I’m sure you like things like that, fucking disgusting freak.” 

Jisung takes the cash with a wavering hand, clicks open the register drawer and closes it up. He doesn’t have anything else to say, though he can be sure of what comes next.

“Stupid fucking faggot,” Jongmyeong scoffs, to a cacophony of laughter from Hongjun, slipping out the door into the street. Jisung braces himself, but still, when they pound their fists on the window out front, he jumps in fright, and he can only squeeze his eyes shut and wait for the laughter to fade away.

He uncaps his pen, tries to trace another line, but he’s shaking, and he ruins the whole thing. The tip rests on the page, ink blooming into a circle, dark, deep black, until the bleed stops, fully saturated. 

“You shouldn’t take their bullshit, you know,” Hyunjin is suddenly back, his feet kicked up on the display, face wholly uninterested. “You need to stand up for yourself.”

Jisung can’t stand to look at him for more than a moment, staring at the tip of his pen instead. He swallows and it hurts going down. He’s much too nauseous to eat now. “It’s easier to just take it.” 

“That’s your fucking problem, Jisung,” Hyunjin says, dripping with a resentment so pure that Jisung’s skin crawls. “You’re a coward.”

“What the fuck is your damage, man?” Jisung’s nails bite into the skin of his palms, the lump in his throat grows to something unmanageable, poisonous, probably killing him slowly. “What did I ever do to you?”

Hyunjin looks at him in plain disgust, lip curled, eyes dark. “Forget it.” 

𓐆

Chan is someone who is desired in the way Hyunjin is. Girls claw through crowds for a chance to get him to look at them, to steal him away, to take him home. Hyunjin asked Jisung if being desired is out of his wheelhouse, and Jisung hasn’t stopped thinking about it since. Hyunjin was being an asshole, yes, but Jisung thinks he was right anyways. 

When Jisung has sex it’s because he has a date, or because his friends have introduced him to someone, or because he’s not done it in a while and he’s getting antsy with sexual frustration. People don’t seek him out, but he doesn’t mind. He’s not exactly advertising himself as a prospect. He keeps to himself, keeps low, tucked away. He agrees that girls want to have sex with him, but that doesn’t mean that he feels desired in the way Hyunjin was talking about. If he is, then it’s not something nice, like Hyunjin says it is. He doesn’t like it, the attention. 

He’s been putting off going back to the schoolyard because he’s afraid to run into Minho. He’s afraid that Minho will find him odd and think he’s stupid. But he can’t sleep, and Chan is desired, evidenced by the noises of pleasure bleeding through the wall between his room and Jisung’s. 

Besides, it’s only eleven thirty six, so maybe Minho isn’t there. 

Jisung arrives at the schoolyard at eleven forty three, as expected, and Minho is on the same swing as always. Jisung debates if he should just walk up and sit on the swing next to him, if it would be weird to head to the other side now that they’ve talked. But maybe Minho doesn’t want to see him, or talk to him. His feet stutter, stomach churning with the decision, but then Minho looks up, and he grins and waves, and Jisung walks towards him. 

“Hi,” Minho says. “I thought I may have scared you off.” 

Jisung shakes his head, sits down in the same swing as last time he saw Minho. “No. Just busy with some personal stuff.” Not a total lie, but not the full truth either. 

Minho nods, hums. “You’re early today. What gives?” 

“My— uh, roommate has a girl over,” Jisung’s cheeks heat. “You know how it is.” 

“My roommate doesn’t date girls.” 

“Well,” Jisung falters, not expecting the response. “You know what I mean.” 

“I do.” 

The chains on the swing creak, Jisung pushes himself back and forth a bit with his toes. He remembered to cover his hands with his sleeves today, so that he doesn’t have to wash out any smell. He clears his throat and it sounds too loud against the silence between them, Minho probably thinks he’s strange, abnormal. 

“Do you think I’m a coward?” Jisung asks, and his voice breaks. He cringes after he says it, immediately wonders why he can’t act normally, interact with people normally. 

Minho turns his head, leaning forward so he’s looking at Jisung sideways. His reddish hair flops down with gravity, sticking out. “What kind of question is that?” 

“I don’t know,” Jisung mumbles, embarrassed that he asked. “Forget it.” 

“No,” Minho says simply.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” 

A teasing smile, one that Jisung wouldn’t expect to receive from someone he barely knows. But Minho seems different, a little bit odd. “I won’t forget it. You asked for a reason.” 

Jisung breathes out of his nose, and then in, because one time someone told him that you get more oxygen that way. “Just something stupid my coworker said.” 

“But you’ve been dwelling on it.” 

“I guess so.” 

“Well, Han Jisung, I have no idea if you’re a coward,” Minho kicks his feet, sending his swing rocking back and forth. “I don’t know you well enough yet.” 

“Yet?” Jisung frowns, disbelieving. “Do you want to know me?” 

Minho pumps his legs, picking up speed, his face flashing through Jisung’s line of vision every few seconds. Jisung can still tell that Minho is smiling. 

“Sure. There’s no one else at the park from the hours of eleven fifteen to one in the morning.” 

“Is that when you get here? Eleven fifteen?” Jisung’s neck aches from trying to follow Minho’s path.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Does Minho count too? Unlikely. Jisung’s never known anyone who does. He’s never told anyone about his own habits, either. Too embarrassed. 

“Because I get off work at eleven.” 

“Oh. Okay.” 

“So, will you come back tomorrow?” Minho asks. “For real this time? No skipping out.” 

“Okay. Sure.”

“I might be late, though,” Minho whooshes by again and again, swinging higher and higher. “So aim for twelve thirty.” 

𓐆

Minho arrives at the swings at twelve thirty two. Jisung was there at twelve thirty, just as Minho said. He made sure to leave home at twelve twenty one so he’d be on time. Minho shuffles over, seeming to be out of breath, looking more disheveled than usual. He has a dopey grin on his face, his neck is red. Jisung’s stomach curls with anxiety for no good reason at all, just from the change in appearance, the change in the small piece of normal they’ve created for themselves. 

“Hi, sorry I’m late,” Minho huffs, plopping into his normal swing with a giggle. 

“No, it’s fine,” Jisung stammers, heart beating double time. He hates his body for betraying him. “Did you stay late at work?” 

Minho laughs, the sound carrying across the empty schoolyard, bouncing off of pavement and brick. “No. I was getting fucked.”

“Oh,” Jisung shrinks in on himself, blood rushing in his ears. 

“Yeah,” Minho laughs again, this time softer. Jisung can feel eyes on him, on the heat rising into his cheeks. “If you don’t mind me asking— Do you have sex, Jisung?” 

Jisung swallows, it feels like there’s nails in his throat, his chest. “Yes,” he snips, more defensive than intended. “Of course.” 

“Hm,” Minho hums thoughtfully. 

Neither of them speak for a few minutes, only the sound of chains, Jisung’s feet digging into wood chips, the dull hum of crickets. Jisung’s spine crawls, pins and needles, he still feels like Minho is staring at him, he doesn’t have the courage to check. 

Would Minho have sex with him? Would he want to? The thought turns Jisung’s stomach. He doesn’t want Minho to get the wrong idea about why he comes here, why he’s meeting up with him.

“I’m straight,” he blurts, without prompting, heartbeat heavy in his fingers, his cheeks, behind his eyes. 

Minho twists around so that the chains of his swing are crossed, staring Jisung dead on with his eyebrows raised. “Um. Okay? I’m not trying to sleep with you.” 

Shame burns deep in Jisung’s insides, through the cavity of his chest, between his bones. “I–I know,” he stutters. “I’m–” swallowing back bile, something sharp. “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that.” 

“Don’t apologize,” Minho scowls, not seeming put off at all, even though he probably should be. “You apologize too much.”

Jisung knows. He apologizes for everything because he always feels like he’s done something wrong. He wants to get ahead of it, let everyone know he doesn’t mean to, he doesn’t want to be like this. His mouth moves before his brain can catch up, he’s spilling over with things he doesn’t intend to speak out loud, “Was it nice?” 

“Was what nice?” Minho lowers his chin, looking through his eyelashes, his creased forehead. “The sex?” 

Jisung nods, unable to maintain eye contact. 

Minho tightens his lips in thought, looks up to the sky. “It was okay.” 

“Okay.” 

“Mhm.” 

Jisung scrambles, his mind reels, frantic to pick up the pieces, to break the uncomfortable tension he’s created. He doesn’t know why Minho is still here, why he’s putting up with it, why he’s even come back. He probably won’t come back next time. 

“Where do you work?” he asks, an attempt to learn something safe, something that he might be able to talk about. 

Minho lifts his feet off the ground, his swing flips right ways around, untwists, throws his body back and forth against the chains. He’s smiling slightly when he answers, “The public library.” 

“Really?” Jisung sounds more interested than not, something he didn’t intend to reveal. He’s endlessly interested, in reality, but he doesn’t want Minho to know that. 

“Yep. Why? Did you think I’d work at a gay sex shop? Corrupting the youth?” 

“No!” Jisung defends. “I– I just—” 

Minho laughs over Jisung’s stammering, completely amused at his suffering. “I’m joking around, Jisung, my god. It’s fine. Where do you work?” 

Jisung thinks that he could cry if he focused long enough. The feeling of being tossed about, never knowing what to expect. He doesn’t hate it as much as he should, not when Minho is the one doing the tossing. “I work at the smoke shop on Main.” 

“Really?” Minho matches his interest, eyes wide, shiny.

“Yes.” 

“You have to smoke me out sometime,” Minho says decisively, grinning. 

“Oh, uh,” Jisung’s brows pull together. This is always fucking awkward, no matter how many times anyone says it to him. “I don’t smoke.” 

Minho cocks his head to the side, smiling brighter than before. His hair is wild, mussed up, he looks silly. Jisung almost laughs. “You are endlessly interesting, Han Jisung.” 

“I don’t think so,” Jisung mumbles, looking down. 

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” 

𓐆

Before leaving for work Jisung snuck two of Chan’s yearbooks off of the bookshelf and shoved them into his bag. He never bought yearbooks himself, but Chan has them all, and they’re all signed to hell, a trophy of his popularity. 

Jisung waits until he’s well into his shift before he pulls out the newer version, thumbs through it, shoulders hunched. He keeps the book open between his thighs while Hyunjin is distracted braiding his hair. Not that Hyunjin cares much what Jisung does anyway, but just to be safe. He doesn’t want to explain himself. 

Minho was in Chan’s class, a year above Jisung, but only because he skipped a grade in elementary school. Jisung knows where to look. He runs a finger across the glossy pages, the lines of headshots, most of them recognizable but not important to him. 

His finger shakes when it nears the L names, his pulse elevated. Stupid, it’s unbelievably stupid how nervous he gets at the thought of Minho. There’s no explanation, no rhyme or reason, but that seems to be a theme with Jisung’s brain, his normal reaction. Constant cycles and spirals, and not one of them makes sense to him. 

The Minho on the page, captured in time, looks like Minho in person, but younger, more awake. He’s smiling with his mouth closed, lips pressed together, a glint of mischief in his eye. His list of activities includes only one, club tennis, still beating out Jisung’s own zero. Jisung is pretty sure one of his old friends used to be on the club tennis team, but he doesn’t care to check. 

The bell on the door rings, Jisung jumps, Hyunjin scowls at his reaction. It’s just Jeongin. Jisung sniffs, goes back to his looking. He flips to the club sports pages, searching for signs of Minho elsewhere. 

“You look beautiful today,” Jeongin purrs, reeking of weed. 

“Thanks, I know,” Hyunjin says easily. “You smell like shit.” 

“Aw, babe. I wore this scent just for you.” 

Jisung tunes them out, fingers grazing pictures, tracing the edges of the squares on the page. He finds Minho, in full color, an action shot of him hitting a ball. His shorts were red, they hit him mid thigh. His thighs look strong, well built, Jisung wonders if he runs. 

Minho still looks strong. Jisung has noticed— not that he’s been staring— not in any creepy way, at least, but Minho’s arms are usually a couple feet from his head, and Minho’s legs are always where Jisung’s eyes land when he looks down, when he’s unable to stare Minho in the face. 

Jeongin laughs, breaking him out of his own head, and then the bell rings and Jeongin is gone. Jisung snaps the yearbook shut, shoving it back into his bag. Hyunjin stares at him, bored, annoyed, probably both. 

“What?” Hyunjin sneers. “Just say what you want to say about me and my sinful ways so we can move on.” 

Jisung doesn’t know what Hyunjin means, not really, but he has been wanting to ask a question. “What do you remember about Lee Minho?” 

Hyunjin is obviously taken off guard, he blinks a few times, his body stiffens. Jisung can count on one hand the number of times that he’s been able to surprise Hyunjin like this.

“Why are you asking?” he recovers easily enough. And then the poison, “Are you gonna fuck him? You’re his type.”  

Jisung’s forehead scrunches up, he burns, quick and hard, from his neck to his cheeks. “No, gross, why the fuck would you ask that?” he spits, without thinking, extraordinary defensive. Hyunjin works to rile him up, but he doesn’t usually pull shit out of thin air like that. 

“Chill,” Hyunjin fires back, lip curling in disgust, his trademark. “No need to get homophobic with it.” 

“I didn’t mean—” Jisung defends, eyes going blurry for a second. Fucked up, everything fucked up again, speaking before he thinks, his throat pushing out words that he doesn’t consent to. But maybe that is how he feels. Red, black, white, his vision is spotted. Is he homophobic? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. Something is wrong with him. 

“Save it, Jisung,” Hyunjin cuts him off, saving them both the trouble. 

They don’t speak the rest of the day.

𓐆

Chan and Changbin like to make Jisung go places he’d rather not go. Tonight it’s out to a bar for dinner. They poked and prodded him until he broke, agreed to get into Chan’s pickup, smushed between the two of them and their unreasonably large arms. Jisung’s only real stipulation is that they don’t go to his mom’s regular place, which was easy enough for them to agree to. 

Jisung is sure his life is about to end when they sit down at a high top and Minho walks through the door. He hunches over immediately, looking down at his hands on the table. It’s not that he’s ashamed of being friends with Minho, it’s just that he doesn’t want Changbin and Chan to know that he’s friends with Minho. Because they’ll make a big deal out of it, and Jisung hates when they do that. He likes having one part of his life for himself, for just him. 

“Shit, is that Minho?” 

Jisung wills the ceiling to fall and take him where he sits. He knew Chan was familiar with Minho, but he didn’t think they were to the level of talking.

Chan cups his hands around his mouth, shouting across the way, “Minho!” 

Minho turns around, eyes searching. He finds them easily, with Chan’s arms waving around in the air. Jisung doesn’t miss the way Minho’s eyes stick to him, almost in question. He hopes his body language is portraying enough bad energy to let him know to keep their cover. That he’s asking Minho to pretend, to lie. 

“Hey, Chan, Jisung,” Minho says. “And you’re Changbin, right?” 

“S’Right,” Changbin nods. 

“Oh shit!” Chan smiles, slinging an arm around Jisung’s shoulders. “How do you know Sungie?” 

Jisung’s heart claws its way up his throat, threatening to spill all over the floor, or maybe that’s the alcohol and empty stomach he’s working with. 

Minho looks over at him one more time, eyes raking down his face. “From school, I think. Right? We talked a few times.” 

Jisung nods. Chan enthuses about how nice that is, and Jisung barely has a moment to feel relieved before Chan is ruining his life all over again. 

“Are you here to eat? Come join us!” 

“I was just going to order to go, I have to get back to work—”

“Sit with us while you wait! It’ll be nice to catch up! What have you been up to lately?” 

Chan has always drawn people in like this, disallowing them to say no, to escape. He’s charming, outgoing, everything Jisung isn’t. Jisung’s brain turns to static as Minho sits down, unable to resist the charm, tells Chan all the things about himself that Jisung already knows. 

Jisung swirls his straw in his drink, a vodka soda, just to take the edge off. He counts the circles. One, two, three. One, two, three. He ignores Changbin’s pointed glances. 

The waitress comes eventually, takes their orders, Minho’s on a separate tab— to go. Jisung hasn’t even been paying attention. He sees red hair, sharp eyeliner, but not much more of the girl. He certainly wasn’t scoping her out as a potential date, but as soon as she’s gone Chan says, “She was cute, huh, Sung?” 

“What?” he blinks, forces himself to sit up straighter. 

“The waitress. You should ask for her number,” Chan elbows him annoyingly, jostling him around. 

Jisung goes red hot, blood in his cheeks, he avoids looking in Minho’s direction, humiliated. “I didn’t even look at her, Chan. I think I’m fine.” 

“It could be good for you, Sung,” Changbin chimes in, shrugging. “It’s been a while since you went out with anyone.” 

“No, guys, really— I’m not. God. I’m not worried about it right now,” Jisung feels like an icepick is being hammered into his temple. His pathetic love life being hung out to dry, waved in front of Minho, no care in the world for tact, humility. He knows his friends mean well, but Jisung would rather be shot. 

“Don’t be shy, Sung. Minho understands, I’m sure. Right Minho?” Chan raises a hand in Minho’s direction.

“Sure,” Minho says, looking pointedly at Jisung. “I understand not wanting to date right now, taking time for yourself.” 

“You guys are no fun,” Chan laughs like something is funny, like they’re all on the same teasing vibration as him.

The angel of death; the waitress returns. She is pretty, Jisung will admit that, but he feels nothing when he looks at her. Not a prick at his gut or a flame under his skin. She drops off their food, takes Minho’s payment, Jisung loses himself in ignoring the world around him again. One, two, three. One, two, three.  

When Minho leaves, Jisung wonders if he’ll be at the schoolyard tonight. The way Minho’s eyes linger when he says goodbye, Jisung is inclined to think he will be. 

The waitress writes her number on Chan’s receipt at the end of their meal, and tells him to call her.

Minho is on his swing when Jisung shows up at the schoolyard at eleven fifteen. 

“What was that about?” he asks, not bothering with a proper greeting. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“What did I say about apologizing?” 

Jisung wishes he brought a bottle of water with him. He’s parched, his tongue feels like sandpaper, he forgot to put his sleeves over his hands before he grabbed the chains, the metal is sweaty and the stench is sinking into his skin already; he can feel it. 

“I don’t want you to think that I don’t want them to know we’re— friends,” he coughs, unsure if he should call them that. He peeks up, but Minho nods, encouraging. Friends, then. The thought pricks his stomach. “They’re overbearing. They push me into things, always have to know everything, to take care of me. I just want something on my own terms for once.” 

Minho nods. “I understand that.” 

“You do?” 

“Yes,” he moves himself to the side, drops his feet until his shoulders bump into Jisung’s with the side to side of the swing. “Why do you let them do it?” 

“Because I know they care,” Jisung frowns. “Because they took me in when I was fifteen and I feel like I owe them.” 

“Fifteen?” 

“Mhm,” Jisung’s heart skips a beat or two. He’s never told anyone about this. He hasn’t had anyone to tell. “I couldn’t really live with my mom anymore— uh. Chan and Changbin would help me out. Chan let me stay with him, Changbin too sometimes. They’d help me with money, food, that kind of thing. It’s whatever. Just kind of stuck— we still live together.” 

“They’re kind,” Minho says. 

“Overly.” 

“It’s good to have people that care about you so much, though.” Jisung wonders if Minho is speaking from experience. 

“I know. That’s why I deal with it,” Jisung sighs, toes making lines in the dirt. “I just wish they’d listen to me sometimes.”

“You should tell them that,” Minho says simply.

Jisung shakes his head. “Haven’t you heard? I’m a coward.” 

𓐆

Minho texts Jisung for the first time on a random weekday. He sends a picture of a squirrel and says ‘it looks like you lol’. Jisung doesn’t reply because he doesn’t know what to say. 

They exchanged numbers so that they could let each other know if they weren’t coming to the schoolyard on their usual nights. It hasn’t been an issue thus far, but he appreciates the forethought. 

“Why didn’t you text me back?” Minho asks that night, sitting on the swings.

“I didn’t know what to say.” 

“Don’t overthink it, Jisung. Just be yourself.” 

“I’m trying.” 

Minho texts him again the next afternoon, a picture of the cover of a children’s book with an evil looking cartoon rabbit on it. ‘This one’s me,’ he says. Jisung responds, ‘he has your eyes’ and Minho sends him back a string of crying and happy emojis. 

“What are you smiling about?” Hyunjin scoffs. “Torturing an unassuming girl with your masculine wiles?” 

Jisung frowns, clicking his phone screen off, laying it face down on the counter. “None of your business.” 

“Oh, you so are, aren’t you?” Hyunjin’s face goes devious. “You totally have a crush, don’t you? What’s her name? C’mon, tell me!” 

“I don’t have a crush,” Jisung mutters, going back to scribbling angry doodles into his sketchbook. He was drawing a fox, a little picture to send to Minho. 

“Right, and I don’t have a crush on Jeongin,” Hyunjin says sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Jisung squints up at him, perplexed. “I thought you didn’t have a crush on Jeongin?” 

“Why else would I let him come and harass me so much?” 

A good point. To be honest, Jisung thought Hyunjin just liked the attention, even if he wasn’t interested. Jeongin is consistent, yes, but he’s also plenty respectful. He never crosses the line of the counter, he never gets anything more than teasingly flirty, he always buys something while he’s in. Maybe Hyunjin would be nicer if he was with someone like Jeongin, dating him. 

“You scare me,” Jisung mumbles, snapping a photo of his doodle and sending it to Minho as inconspicuously as he can manage.

“The feeling is mutual.” 

For a miniscule moment in time, Jisung feels like he and Hyunjin have gotten along. He’s sure it won’t last, but it was nice while it did. 

𓐆

The autumn grows tired fast, a freeze seeping into the air, the dirt, before Jisung even realizes it. He and Minho have been friends for a month or two, also before Jisung even realizes it. 

Minho calls him at eleven at night, and Jisung’s hands shake as he answers the phone. 

“Hello?” his voice shakes too.

“It’s cold out,” Minho says, matter of fact. 

“Yes.” Jisung almost nods, but then he remembers Minho can’t see him. 

“How do you feel about getting in my car?” Minho asks. 

Jisung clears his throat. “What?” 

“My car, y’know. It’s a two thousand and twelve Toyota, if you want specifics.”

Twelve divided by three is four. Not the worst year for a car to be made, at the least. Toyota has six letters, too, not that he’s counting. 

Minho continues when Jisung doesn’t say anything, “I just thought that over the winter we could keep up our tradition, keep hanging out— but since it’ll be too cold to be outside we could just do it inside. Inside of my car.” 

“Oh,” Jisung says. “Okay. That sounds fine. What are we going to do?” 

“Hah!” Minho laughs, short and sweet. Jisung can picture the kind of smile that usually accompanies that sort of laugh on him. “What the fuck else is there to do in this town? Go sit in the cemetery or the Walmart parking lot.” 

“Alright, sure. Let’s do that,” Jisung shifts on his bed, he feels flame underneath his skin, it makes it feel too tight around his insides. “Do you want me to meet you at the school?”

“Nah, just text me your address, I’ll be there soon,” Minho hangs up before Jisung can protest. 

He doesn’t really mind if Minho knows where he lives, but he’s more concerned with Chan and Changbin catching on to his secret. They know he goes out at night when he can’t sleep, but they also know he doesn’t go out in the winter, because he gets cold much too easily. It wouldn’t be too hard for one of them to catch him climbing in or out of Minho’s car. 

He sighs, texts Minho instructions on where to park, and sits on his hands so that they stop shaking so badly before he has to go. 

𓐆

Minho’s car is comfortable, the heat thrums low, warming Jisung’s fingers where they dig into the seat. 

Jisung has never had the urge to learn to drive, he doesn’t think he ever will. Minho seems like a safe driver. He keeps his hands on the wheel and checks his mirrors and makes full stops. He does it all with a practiced ease, and Jisung doesn’t think he’s ever watched anyone drive before, but Minho makes it look nice. 

“Cemetery or Walmart?” Minho lets him decide.

“Cemetery,” Jisung says, because there’s less people there. 

Minho hums to the song he has on the radio, tapping his fingers on the wheel. It sounds like he has a nice singing voice, even if he’s not doing much. Minho is like that, though, Jisung has concluded; he doesn’t have to do much to excel in whatever he’s doing. He exists in a place of elevated status, already succeeding before he’s begun. 

The cemetery lot is tucked away, they’re the only car, obviously, and when Minho pulls up his headlights shine across the expanse of grass and tombstones. He throws his car in park, shuts his headlights off. 

“Wouldn’t want to disturb them,” he says, grinning cheekily at Jisung. 

Jisung’s mouth pricks with a smile of his own. “My grandparents are buried here.”

Minho’s face grows horrified in an instant, smile falling into an open mouthed gape. “Shit, sorry, we can go somewhere else—” 

“No!” Jisung stops him. “That’s not why I said it, sorry. I don’t know how to fucking talk to people normally. I was just saying shit.” 

“So they’re not buried here?” 

“No, they are,” Jisung amends. “I was just throwing out how I know the place. Connecting it to myself or whatever. It’s not a big deal. It’s fine.” 

Minho blinks at him, a series of a few quick ones. Sometimes Minho does that, just stares and blinks a handful of times when he’s confused, or trying to figure something out. He looks at Jisung like he’s going to be able to pull a thread of information out through the top of his head with his mind, and he always blinks as he does it. 

“Okay,” Minho says. 

“Okay,” Jisung repeats. 

“Why are you so nervous?” Minho asks, smiling softly, a hand coming up to nudge his knuckles against Jisung’s shoulders. “It’s just me?” 

It is just him. Because they’ve been friends for a while but Jisung still bubbles with nerves, and now Minho feels comfortable enough to casually touch him, and that makes Jisung burn beneath his skin. But isn’t that the problem? Jisung can’t tell anymore. “I don’t know,” he sighs. “I’m just a nervous person.” 

“Well, that’s alright too.” 

Hyunjin really pisses Jisung off, because he says things as off handed comments and jabs and they stick inside of Jisung’s chest for days and weeks on end and Jisung can never shake them loose.

The thing about desire, the thing about Jisung being a coward, the thing about Jisung being Minho’s type. 

“Do you have a type?” Jisung asks, as casually as he can, eyes roving over the lines of headstones. He thinks his grandparents are buried in the middle, but he can’t remember very well. He was so little when it happened. He was looking at the sky the entire time they lowered the caskets into the ground. 

“What, in guys?” Minho questions. The seat makes a noise when he turns his head towards Jisung, but Jisung doesn’t look back, he just nods his affirmation. “Sure,” Minho says. “Doesn’t everyone have a type?” 

“I don’t think I have a type.” Jisung has been with all sorts of girls, none of them much like the last. Short hair or long, tall or small, he doesn’t care. “What’s your type?” 

Minho smiles, and his eyes flicker with something alive, so expressive. Jisung remembers thinking that Minho’s eyes look like they can see more, but now he knows that they show more, too. 

“I like cute. Cute, pretty, just someone approachable, but nice to look at. Maybe a bit smaller than me, I’m not really into crazy muscles. Someone who’s easy to talk to— a must.” 

Jisung follows along, filing through attributes in his head. Hyunjin must be mistaken, Jisung doesn’t fit the description Minho gave. He doesn’t think he does. Jisung really hates Hyunjin, because now he can’t figure it out, and he’s still stuck. 

“I don’t know. Don’t you just know when you’re attracted to someone?” Minho shuts one eye, smiling. He looks nice, Jisung thinks, the picture of casual youth. “You just feel it.”

“I don’t know,” Jisung sinks further into his seat. “I usually just go out with girls my friends set me up with. If they’re into me I’ll go for it. I don’t know if I have much of anything else going on.” 

Minho looks at him a bit funny, and Jisung feels embarrassed, almost like he’s said something wrong. 

He rushes to continue his thought, “I guess I wish I felt something like what you’re describing, because that sounds nice too. Or maybe I do feel it and I just don’t get out much. I don’t know— I’m rambling.” 

“What kind of porn do you watch?” 

Jisung coughs, chokes, “Excuse me?” 

Minho laughs, grin wide. “What kind of porn do you watch? That can be a good insight into your type. What you like to see.” 

One, two, three. One, two, three. Jisung’s heartbeat cuts off some of his lung function. “I don’t think it’s anything out of the ordinary,” he says. “Just whatever is there. Uhm. Nothing too kinky.” 

“Okay, we don’t have to talk about it if it’s weird,” Minho laughs again. “Just thought it might help you figure it out for yourself.” 

Jisung’s mind spins as Minho launches into a story about his childhood cat. 

Figure it out for himself, he doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t pay attention to what porn he picks out. He usually goes through the thumbnails of what’s popular, he finds one where the guy looks as normal as possible, like someone he could know, just so that it feels more realistic. 

“Jisung, are you listening?” Minho pokes him. 

“Yes, sorry.”

𓐆

“Jisung!” Changbin’s voice rings through the apartment. “Did you get blood on the couch again?” 

Jisung groans, shoving his pillow over his head, waiting for the inevitable. He hears his door open, smacking against the wall, no knock afforded to him. 

Changbin rips the pillow from his arms without care, tossing it away, staring down at Jisung with fire in his eyes. “What did I tell you?” 

“I’m sorry!” Jisung whines. “I hate the way lotion feels on my hands! And it got cold so fast I couldn’t keep up, and then I was really tired after work and I washed my hands when I came in and I didn’t even feel it until later, really! But I fell asleep on the couch and, I swear to you, I didn’t feel it, Changbin.” 

“Jesus,” Changbin grumbles, turning around and coming right back where he came from. 

Jisung sits up, confused, but when Changbin comes back a minute later with a pair of cotton gloves and scissors, he understands. 

“You know I don’t give a fuck about the couch, right?” Changbin asks, eyebrows raised, snipping the tips off of each finger on the gloves. “I care about you, and that you’re not bleeding everywhere because your hands are so fucked up.” 

“I know,” Jisung says under his breath. 

“Okay, well you’re not hearing it again, so.” Changbin thrusts the now fingertip-less gloves into his hands, perfectly prepared how Jisung likes them. Covering most of his skin but room to touch his phone screen. “Here, now I don’t want to hear any complaints about sleeping with lotion on.” 

“Thank you,” Jisung looks down at his lap, embarrassed. He feels stupid, being taken care of like this. If he lived alone he could bleed on the couch as much as he wanted. Chan would never let him do that, though. Jisung wouldn’t want to, either. 

“Have you been trying to cut back?” Changbin crosses his arms. “Or no.” 

“I don’t know. I’ve been going outside more.” Changbin’s problem is that he thinks Jisung’s hands are the worst of it. He thinks that whatever he sees is the worst of what Jisung does, and he treats it like the end of the world. “How’s your girlfriend?” 

“Not my girlfriend,” Changbin sighs, dropping to the bed. “But good. I’m having fun.” 

“That’s good.” 

“I can’t decide if you two would get along or not. You might be too much alike.” 

Jisung perks up at that, flopping his head to the side to stare Changbin down. “What do you mean?” 

“You both count.” 

“Count,” Jisung goes still. 

Changbin turns his head then, looks Jisung right in the eye as he shatters everything Jisung thought he knew about Changbin’s perception of him. “Yeah. Min’s number is seven. Yours is three, right?” 

Jisung blinks. “Right.” 

𓐆

When Jisung was in elementary school, in the same school building that sits near the swings he met Minho at, he learned about nuclear war. 

Their teacher told them that other countries have big missiles, bombs, and that if they wanted to, they could shoot them off at any moment. The bombs are big enough to level cities, kill everyone, destroy civilization. 

It seems a bit fucked up now, Jisung thinks, that a teacher would say that to kids so young. But Jisung also figures that most of the kids in his class didn’t dwell on the information in the same way he did. 

A few days after Jisung learned about nuclear war, his grandparents took him to a baseball game in the city. He specifically remembers sitting in the back seat of their car and staring into the blue abyss of the sky between rows of buildings and waiting, hoping, that he would at least catch a glimpse of the bomb before it hit. If he were to die at the foot of a nuke, he wanted to see it first, to see it coming, so that he knew. Silly, maybe, to want to know you’ll die seconds before it happens instead of going blissfully unaware; but he figured at least he’d know. He just wanted to know. 

‘If they bomb us, we’ll bomb them back,’ is what his teacher said. All Jisung could think about is how he’d be dead either way. He was horribly afraid of death, for no good reason at all, besides maybe the fact that it was an unknown. 

He didn’t tell anyone why he was looking up at the sky, waiting for the moment where he’d see the missiles, but he thought about it plenty. 

Mutually assured destruction. 

Jisung thinks it sounds like a nice way to go, knowing that someone else is coming with you. 

“Do you have a favorite number?” he asks Minho, their seats leaned back, staring at the ceiling of Minho’s two thousand and twelve Toyota in the cemetery parking lot. If there were a sunroof, Jisung would be able to stare into the sky and wait to see the bombs hurtling for them. 

Minho makes a noise like he’s thinking. “Not really.” 

“Do you know any girls around here with ‘Min’ in their name? I’m trying to figure out who Changbin is fucking.” 

“Sure,” Minho goes with his change of topic without question. “Somin, Minjeong, Minju, Minnie. What else do you know about her?” 

Jisung sighs. “That her favorite number is seven.” 

He wonders if Changbin’s Min looked up in the sky when she was a child too.

𓐆

Jeongin comes into the shop while Hyunjin is out, something that’s never happened before. Hyunjin doesn’t leave often, but he said he had an errand to run and Jisung didn’t complain. Jisung is almost positive that Jeongin has never even looked at him, in all the times he’s come in, he’s always too busy staring at Hyunjin. 

Today he does. 

“Shit, hey,” he laughs, grin wide, vulpine. “Is Hyunjin here?” 

“He stepped out, but he should be back soon. You can probably wait, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” Jisung offers him a tiny, tight smile. 

“Cool, cool.” Jeongin starts looking around, bending over and peeking over shelves, his attention span short as can be. 

Jisung pulls out his nail polish, shakes the bottle. His nails aren’t that chipped, but he hates just sitting here while someone meanders around the shop, and who knows how long Jeongin will wait for Hyunjin. Probably all day, if it came to it.

Jeongin gets bored quickly, wandering over to lean against a pillar near the counter. “Are you the coworker that might be homophobic? Or is that someone else?” 

“Is that what Hyunjin says about me?” Jisung grimaces. “I’m his only coworker, so, probably.” 

“Yo, that’s crazy,” Jeongin chuckles. “Because I swear that I thought you were into dudes too.” 

Blood rushes up Jisung’s neck, he’s sure his face is bright red, shining off the LEDs. He hopes Jeongin is too high to notice, or too nice to care, or both. “Nope,” he manages, hand shaking on the stroke of his brush, a bit of black paint tainting the tip of his finger. “Not into dudes. Also not homophobic, I don’t think, just bad at talking to people.” 

“But you know Lee Felix, right?” Jeongin presses. His eyes weigh heavy on Jisung, though Jisung is pretty sure he’s too high to think straight. “Weren’t you two close?” 

“We were friends in school. That’s about it.” 

“Oh. Alright.” Jeongin seems satisfied for the moment, falling quiet. 

Jisung finishes off one hand, moving on to the next. The smell stings his eyes more than usual today, he almost feels like they’re watering. It might be time to get a new bottle of polish. 

“If it helps, I don’t think Hyunjin hates you, man,” Jeongin rambles, hand rubbing at his cheek, lost in thought. “I think you’re misunderstood.” 

“Thank you?” Jisung laughs, bitter, though only slightly. 

“Yeah,” Jeongin nods, he’s cracked the code, apparently. “You’re just a misunderstood dude. Like, in general.” 

“Okay. Thank you, Jeongin.” 

“Shit. How do you know my name?”

“Because I’m always here when you come in to flirt with Hyunjin.” 

“No way?” Jeongin smiles, eyes wider than Jisung has ever seen, looking genuinely surprised. It’s kind of cute, in a way. “That’s so crazy! Dude. I’ll totally say hi next time, I swear.” 

Jisung laughs. “Okay, thanks. Also, Hyunjin is lying to you— he does smoke.” 

“Oh, I know. I’m his plug.” 

𓐆

“Where have you been going lately?” Chan grabs Jisung’s wrist as he’s on his way out the door. “You’ve been gone almost every night at the same time.” 

“Uhm,” Jisung falters. But maybe this is an out, an answer to his prayers. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t thought of this sooner, actually. “I’ve been seeing someone. A girl.”

Chan blinks, surprise replaced with genuine joy. Jisung feels a little guilty at how happy he seems. “That’s great, Sungie! Are you two getting serious?” 

“I don’t know. We’re just hanging out, it’s nothing crazy yet,” Jisung swallows, mouth dry. “I’ll let you know if it turns into something— but I'm definitely not looking elsewhere right now.” The drop, the solution to his problems with Chan and Changbin trying to set him up. 

“Look at you, stud!” Chan laughs, socking him on the shoulder. “Go on, don’t leave her waiting! But I want to hear about it later!” 

“Okay,” Jisung chuckles nervously, tugging his scarf tighter. He scurries out before Changbin can come see what the noise is about, taking the stairs down two at a time. 

Minho is waiting right where he usually does, headlights bright against the night. 

Jisung slips into the passenger's side, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Hi, sorry I’m late. Chan held me up, being annoying.” 

“No problem,” Minho says, shifting the car into drive. He looks over, takes Jisung in, head to toe, says, “You look cute.” 

“Thanks,” Jisung smiles for real, hiding his mouth in his scarf. 

“What did Chan want?” Minho backs out of the lot, starting down the road. His fingers tap on the wheel. 

“He thinks I’m seeing someone.” 

Minho glances over. “Are you?”

Jisung snorts, “Only you.”

His answer rings out in the empty space of the car, tone teasing, but words heavy, dripping with something else; dark, serious, much too scary for Jisung to face.

Hyunjin was right, he is a coward.

𓐆

Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Ed McMahon. All three died in the summer of two thousand and nine. Nine divided by three is three, and three is a prime number. 

If Jisung thinks about kissing Minho three times, he’ll be bound to think about it. But he hasn’t thought about kissing Minho three times, he’s only thought about it once, right now, while Minho sings to the radio, a Michael Jackson song, ironically, and his lips are shining in the passing lights of the city as they drive. Jisung thinks about kissing Minho then, but it doesn’t mean anything, because he’s not gay, and he isn’t going to be gay, and he’s only thought about it once. 

Intrusive thoughts, another symptom of whatever is wrong with him. That’s what this is, this thing with Minho. Intrusive thoughts. He’s not gay, because when he thinks about it, it makes him sick to his stomach. He might be homophobic. He’s definitely misunderstood. 

He’s not gay, even though he’s thinking about kissing Minho. He’s not gay. He’s not gay. He’s not gay.

Three times so it will stick.