Archive of Our Own

“Hold this for me?” Jisung passed his iced Americano to Minho without waiting for an answer. Minho took it gladly, watching as a now-hands-free Jisung slid into the passenger seat with a dramatic thump.

“Extra large?” Minho asked, eyeing the sweating drink in his hand.

Jisung grinned. “If you want me to stay up and help navigate, it better be!”

Minho didn’t need any help navigating. He loved Jisung, but his phone would be much more reliable in terms of driving directions. Besides, the route from Seoul to Busan was familiar enough to him—family trips to the coast in his childhood ensuring he’d recognize all the landmarks—and the directions were fairly straightforward.

This time, they were going down to visit with Jeongin. They had three weeks off between comeback promotions and the tour, and their youngest was already regretting the length of time he’d committed to staying with his parents. He’d begged the members to all make a trip of it. Chan and Felix had taken an evening train down the night before, and the other three promised they’d join tomorrow. Minho, however, knew Jisung hated train travel. He preferred to have his own space—all his stuff in easy access, no masks, no strangers to worry about. Minho had borrowed his parents’ car for the weekend for this exact purpose.

Jisung made himself comfortable as Minho adjusted the mirrors. The drive should be under five hours, traffic gods willing, but Jisung had still packed a neck pillow, a regular pillow (“for the window, duh!”), two phone chargers, an extra car hoodie in addition to the one he was already wearing (Minho’s), and a small arsenal of snacks. Once he was fully settled in, his things all tucked away, he took the coffee back from Minho.

“Thanks, baby,” Jisung said, and Minho’s heart throbbed the way it always did. It was fine. It didn’t matter. He loved the pet names. He would’ve loved anything Jisung called him—just… would love it more if he actually meant it the way Minho wanted him to.

“Seatbelt?” Minho asked, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. 

“Secured.” Jisung clicked his buckle into place, then tugged on Minho’s own shoulder strap. “Safe and sound.”

Minho smiled, fondly. “Ready?”

“Hell yeah. Let’s go save our maknae from his own family.”

Minho got them on the expressway without much trouble. They chatted as they drove, about everything and nothing, as always. Jisung read road signs aloud as they passed them, laughing at weird billboards and asking Minho if he’d been to this or that tourist attraction. He linked up to the car’s sound system and took control of the music, of course, which Minho was happy to cede. Everything on Jisung’s road trip playlist was something he’d want to hear anyway. They belted out their faves, Jisung harmonizing flawlessly and teasing Minho when he forgot the words. Minho didn’t care. He was floating in a placid sea of contentment—happy to be here, happy Jisung was happy. The drive passed. 

“Do you think Channie-hyung and Felix had freaky train sex yesterday?” Jisung asked, slurping down the dregs of his Americano through the half-chewed end of his straw. 

Minho snorted. “Felix wishes.”

“Chan wishes!!!”

“Chan knows better than to do it in a cramped little train bathroom,” Minho said. He thought for a minute, then grimaced. “I think.”

Jisung threw his head back and laughed. “You know he doesn’t,” he said, wheezing, his eyes two half-moons above his round, smiling cheeks. Minho stole a glance his way, smiling himself. He had such a nice laugh.

The next road sign that flew by caught Minho’s attention. “Speaking of bathrooms, you need to stop?” he asked. “Service plaza coming up.”

Jisung consulted his phone. “Hmm, let’s go to the next one. It has that robot that cooks your udon for you, don’t you wanna see it?”

“Mn,” Minho agreed. It did sound cool, and he was just starting to get hungry—a rest stop in twenty minutes would be perfect. He sped past the exit sign.

They weren’t even halfway through another song when, coming around a bend in the road, Minho saw brake lights. He hit the pedal quickly. As they decelerated, a sea of red came into view, stretching into the distance as far as he could see. 

“Huh,” Minho said, as he caught up with the car ahead of him and came to a complete stop.

Jisung looked up from his phone, eyes darting around like a spooked forest creature. “Hello?? What’s happening?”

“No clue,” Minho said, frowning. “My phone didn’t mention traffic.”

He flicked the app open to check their progress, which was now, conveniently, preceded by a long red line indicating a major slowdown. A “slowdown” was one word for it—they, along with every other car in sight, were at a dead stop.

“That’s annoying,” Minho muttered. “Hope it clears up soon.”

Jisung hummed noncommittally, having been drawn into a game on his phone. His attention was a funny thing, a little puzzle that Minho had enjoyed learning to crack over the years. Leaving Jisung alone to his devices, Minho leaned his head against the window to listen to the music, one hand on the wheel in case by some luck they started moving.

They had no such luck. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Minho checked online for a story, an update, anything to clue him in on what the deal was with this traffic, but there was nothing as of yet. After thirty minutes, he gave a defeated sigh and put the car in park. They might be here a while.

In the seat next to him, Jisung was still playing his game—some Tetris-type puzzle involving little cartoon chickens. He’d been bouncing his leg for the past fifteen minutes, which wasn’t unusual, but since they were stopped, it was actually shaking the car. Minho didn’t mind, but he did spare Jisung a glance.

“Hyung,” Jisung said, without looking up. “I have to pee.”

Ah. “Sorry, baby,” Minho said, parroting Jisung’s earlier word choice. “Looks like you’ll have to hold it a minute.”

Jisung didn’t answer. His left leg kept bouncing. 

Minho watched him. “Is it really bad?”

“Uhhh,” Jisung said. “Kinda.” He looked at Minho, then looked away quickly. “I didn’t realize how bad ‘til now.”

Minho hummed sympathetically. “We’ll be moving soon,” he assured him. “Just don’t drink any more coffee.”

Jisung barked out a laugh—his coffee cup was long empty. “Got it,” he said, shifting his gaze to stare out the window. “No problemo.”

The minutes ticked by. Behind them, cars were honking, as though that would clear the road any faster. Minho and Jisung didn’t talk. The only sound inside the car was the continued unfolding of Jisung’s playlist, quieter now that neither of them were singing along.

Well. Not the only sound. Minho wished very badly that the music was the only sound. Unfortunately, as they sat in traffic, Jisung had started… squirming. Minho pretended not to notice at first, but it was getting very difficult to ignore. Every couple of minutes, Jisung shifted in his seat—stretching, tugging at his seatbelt, folding one knee under himself, then the other—and every time he moved, he made a noise .

It was subtle, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. A heavy sigh, or a clipped intake of breath. A whine, low in the back of his throat. He crossed his legs, recrossed them. Minho very, very carefully averted his eyes.

It didn’t help. He could still hear Jisung fidgeting next to him, anxiously crumpling his empty coffee cup in both hands, letting out a soft grunt as he crushed it into a compact knot of plastic. He sounded… uncomfortable.

Of course he was uncomfortable, Minho thought. Nature was calling. He had to piss. A little discomfort was normal. Everything about this situation was normal.

Minho swallowed, keeping his gaze locked on his hands in front of him—ten and two on the wheel. Very responsible. Sure, they were technically parked, but the highway was the highway, and he ought to stay vigilant. Focused. On something that wasn’t Jisung. Because despite himself, Minho could feel his cheeks heating up—could feel an unmistakable fluttering in his stomach when Jisung let out another harsh, painful sigh. He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t… reacting. To the noises Jisung was making.

It wasn’t a secret that Minho had wanted Jisung for forever. Everyone knew it. Friends from back home, Stays—his own mother, if the careful way she always asked after him was any indicator. He was pretty sure even Soonie had figured it out, from the way he nuzzled Jisung when he accompanied Minho home for the holidays, and the reproachful look he gave Minho when Jisung’s back was turned. The members—the first to know everything, always—had begrudgingly stopped pressing him about it when Minho had made it clear he wasn’t going to make a move. 

Which he wasn’t. It wasn’t worth it. He couldn’t risk losing what they had. Minho had never known anyone who made him feel the way Jisung did. With Jisung, the masks that Minho put on every morning to face the world outside fell away. He had some supernatural ability to make Minho laugh so hard he couldn’t see straight, to make being weird okay and being vulnerable feel like home. He was so much more than a best friend—he had Minho fantasizing about growing old together. 

They were soulmates, this much Minho understood. He’d known it from the moment Jisung held his hand so many years ago, their fingers intertwining in the old performance studio, Jisung’s warm, steady palm clasping his sweaty one as they fought to debut together. They had only grown closer since then. Jisung’s friendship had only become more and more important to Minho. He would never do anything to jeopardize something so precious.

Luckily, Minho had a lot of practice keeping his cool around him. He’d honed keeping his cool to an art. For starters, Jisung looked like that. Minho looked at pretty faces every day—it was a huge part of his job—and Jisung’s was still the prettiest he’d ever seen. It was his eyes—round and shiny, always begging for something. And that dazzling smile, the one that could light up entire stadiums. And his body—strong, tanned arms and a broad, inked-up chest that tapered into the slimmest, most perfect waist Minho had ever laid his hands on. And that ass…

Alright. Minho was fighting for his life every single day. And what always got him, even more than the way Jisung looked, were the sounds he made. Jisung whined. He gasped. He yelped and pleaded and cried out if his food was too hot, or he was too exhausted from running choreo, or honestly at any minor inconvenience ever. It could be a random Tuesday, and Jisung would be slumped next to Minho, making the neediest, whiniest, most irresistible noises Minho had ever heard a person make. A well-timed, high-pitched whine was a one-hit kill as far as Minho was concerned—never failing to drive him to distraction, never failing to make his blood run hot and his dick get hard.

Right now was no exception. Minho needed to get a grip. He needed to… to study the car in front of him, whose bumper and rear window were covered with stickers. Half of them looked to be anime characters. Minho squinted, trying to identify the largest one. Demon Slayer? Maybe. The outfit looked familiar.

“Hyung,” Jisung said, loud and out of nowhere. Minho whipped his head around to find him staring, those big brown doe eyes wide and pleading. His legs were crossed tightly in front of him, thighs pressed together.

“What?” Minho asked, even though he knew what.

“I have to go.”

“Hannie,” Minho said, his voice calm and even. “You’ll have to hold it ‘til we get to the next—”

Jisung cut him off. “No, you don’t get it, it’s really really really really really really bad. Fuck, I’m holding it. I’ve been holding it—” He bit back another whine, louder this time, and dug his teeth into his lower lip. “Fuck, it hurts.”

Fuck. Did he have to say it like that? Was it necessary to moan the words ‘it hurts’ so breathlessly, pitching his usually-low voice up so high, letting it trail off into such a pitiful whine? Did he know how weak and desperate he sounded? Horrifyingly, Minho felt his cock throb. Jisung squirmed again, moaning. Both of his hands clenching fistfulls of his hoodie (Minho’s hoodie, Minho’s hoodie), he rocked forward in his seat, trying to get comfortable. Clearly, he had to piss very, very badly. 

Minho’s blood kept rushing downward. Why, he didn’t know. This was not okay. He should not be turned on by this. Jisung would be beyond disturbed if he found out Minho was finding sexual gratification in his… discomfort. Anyone would be disturbed.

“We’ll be there soon,” Minho said, weakly. He set his jaw, praying Jisung was too distracted to glance over at his lap and register anything out of the ordinary.

Jisung let out a pained laugh. “Will we?? We’ve been stopped for forty-five minutes!”

“I—”

“Hyung, no, this is bad. I’m so serious, this is—fuck, this is bad. I can’t—fuck, it hurts so bad. Oh my God, I have to piss.”

Stop. He needed to stop. He needed to stop talking about how much it hurt. Minho didn’t want to think about the time-bomb of pressure building in Jisung’s abdomen. He didn’t want to picture it… The horrifying realization dawned on Minho that Jisung’s desperation was probably visible under his hoodie. His small torso would be distended, swollen with the sheer fullness of his bladder. The tender skin of his stomach stretched painfully taut as his insides made room for so much liquid pressure.

And when the pressure got too much, and the dam burst? Was that what Minho wanted? To see Jisung, in utter desperation, lose that last bit of control and wet himself to ease his pain? 

(Yes, a voice in his head chanted. Yes, yes, yes.)

“Is there…” Minho glanced around the car, trying not to sound panicked. “Is there something you can use? To—you know.”

Jisung laughed again, grimacing. “What, point and shoot?”

Minho gave a stiff nod. “A water bottle, or something.” Goddammit, his parents kept their car clutter-free. “Your coffee cup?”

Jisung bent over to grab it off the floor, hissing in pain as he did so. “Fuck, look at it. I trash-compacted it.”

“Uhhh,” Minho said. His head was reeling. He wanted to hear Jisung hiss like that again. It was near impossible to think about anything else.

“Yeah, no,” Jisung said. “Fuck.” He twisted in his seat to check the floor behind him, before crying out suddenly. Minho jerked at the sound, his breath catching, his eyes flying involuntarily to Jisung’s crotch. It was loud this time, the cry—a startled yelp that unmasked Jisung’s true pain and desperation. He had been holding back after all.

“Fucking… seatbelt,” Jisung muttered. Ah. It was his waist strap, digging into his abdomen when he’d turned around. Cutting into his tight, swollen tummy and increasing the pressure tenfold.

“Undo it, it’s fine,” Minho said, breathlessly. “We’re not even moving,” he added quickly.

Jisung released the button, carefully sliding the seatbelt off his waist and discarding it at his side. Minho watched him press his thighs tightly back together and lean forward, his arms coming to wrap around his legs from beneath, his head resting on his knees. His whole body was trembling.

Minho had been around people who needed to piss before. Hyunjin preferred to go without for entire plane rides rather than use an airplane bathroom. Changbin had ducked behind a dumpster in an alley once, late at night and the eight of them far too drunk to be gallivanting in public. On one very memorable for-content camping trip, a sleepy Jeongin had gone behind a tree rather than trek the thirty feet to the bathroom stall before he remembered, horrified, that there were cameras rolling. At most, instances like these were hilarious. More often, they were unmemorable.

Never in his life had he felt anything like this. He wanted… Jesus, he wanted. He wanted Jisung to hold it until he physically couldn’t anymore, until his body gave in and his spirit broke and he had no choice but to let it all come spilling out of him, welling up like a hot spring and making a mess of him. He wanted to hear it, see it, smell it—what the fuck was wrong with him?

“It’ll be okay,” Minho said, because Jisung was in distress, and Minho’s sick, twisted fantasies couldn’t be lower priority. “I know it—” (he took a deep, steadying breath)—“hurts, but you can hold it. You’ve toughed out worse than this. Just… focus on your breathing, okay?”

Jisung nodded, his face still tucked into his knees. He wouldn’t even look at Minho.

Outside the car, the red sea of brake lights shone on, taunting them. There was nowhere to go, no way to remedy their current crisis. There wasn’t even a tree to make a dash for—not like Jisung could risk someone taking his photo and getting him charged with public indecency, but it’d be nice to have the option.

“This sucks,” Jisung whimpered. The little, stuttering breaths he was taking made his back tremble and shake. “This fucking sucks.”

Minho wanted to reach for him, rub his back or pet his head or something equally innocent and comforting, but he didn’t trust himself to touch him right now. “Yeah,” he said, clenching the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

Five long, tense minutes passed before Jisung broke the silence again. “Hyung,” he said. The barely-audible word caught in his throat, and Minho’s heart sank in his chest when he realized Jisung was crying.

“Sungie,” he said, helplessly.

“We should’ve taken the, the stupid train.”

“I know,” Minho sighed. “We didn’t know.”

Jisung’s shoulders were shaking harder now. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t hold it. Ah—I’m gonna—no, fuck, this is your parents’ car.”

“Baby,” Minho said. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Jisung said, sharply, sitting upright all of a sudden and letting Minho fully take in his beautiful, tear-stained face. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he said, between great, heaving sobs. “I’m—sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, hyung. Oh my God.”

Minho couldn’t look away from the tears rolling down Jisung’s cheeks. The sympathetic, non-sociopathic part of his brain would do anything to ease his suffering, anything for him to stop crying. The rest of him was thinking terrible, horrible thoughts. Fresh tears welling in Jisung’s eyes, dripping down his chin, his lower lip trembling as broken cries escaped his mouth—like a picture out of one of Minho’s darkest fantasies. Minho wanted him on his hands and knees, crying on his cock. He wanted his ass and thighs red and raw and bruising, welts from a flogger or a cane or Minho’s own hand rising up as Jisung sobbed from the pain and begged for release. He wanted… he wanted him to piss his pants. Fuck, he did. And he was close, so fucking close, there couldn’t be much more fight left in him if he kept crying the way he was.

“Fuck,” Jisung said. Suddenly he was scrambling in his seat, his hands moving to his fly. Minho could only stare, dumbstruck, while Jisung struggled with the button of his jeans. This was it. He was about to watch Han Jisung, the love of his life, pull his dick out and piss all over himself.

He didn’t. His fly down, Jisung cupped himself through his tight, black briefs with a trembling hand. He was just trying to relieve some pressure, Minho thought, momentarily pacified—until Jisung let out a harsh moan, low and guttural and anguished. Minho scrunched his eyes shut, willing himself to stay calm. He could do this. He could handle it.

“Hurts,” Jisung gasped. “Fuck, hyung, it hurts.”

“Does that—did that help?” Minho said, hoarsely. He didn’t dare look at Jisung. He heard him choke back another moan, and knew he was reflexively squeezing his cock, trying to stave it off.

“Little,” Jisung said. His voice was strained. He seemed to have stopped crying. “Not really. Sorry, hyung, I’m gonna… I have to.”

“I know.” Minho swallowed. “We’ll… we’ll get the car cleaned.”

Jisung sniffled. Minho heard the rustling of clothes, maybe his jeans being pushed further down his thighs. “Fuck,” he said.

“It’s okay,” Minho said. He knew Jisung was at his limit. A feeling of numbness had settled over him. This was really happening.

“Really?” Jisung asked, so softly Minho could barely catch it. “It’s okay?”

“Mn. Don’t think about it.” Minho barely recognized his own voice. “Let go,” he heard himself say.

“Okay,” Jisung said, with a sigh that was almost relieved. “Sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry.” Minho heard him inhale deeply—this was it.

The loud honk of a car horn made them both jump in their seats. 

Minho’s eyes flew open. The brake lights were gone. The cars ahead were a few dozen meters away now, all those bumper stickers long out of sight. The honking was coming from the ones behind, impatient to get moving too. Minho grabbed the stick shift and threw the car into gear, speeding off as fast as he safely could.

“For the love of god, drive!!” Jisung shouted.

“Driving,” Minho said. He was still a bit shell-shocked, but he kept his eyes on the road—not on Jisung’s lap, not on his bare, trembling thighs or his right fist still curled around his cock.

“Take the next exit, please, please,” Jisung said. “Tell me it’s close, oh fuck I was this close.”

Minho scanned the signs, then checked his phone for confirmation. “Five minutes.”

“I don’t wanna piss in your parents’ car,” Jisung said. Whatever second wind of endurance he had caught was working. He sounded energized, motivated—like there was actually a chance he could hold it again. “Fuck, fuck, please please please God get us to a bathroom.”

While the next exit didn’t have a full-scale service plaza, it did have a gas station. Minho took the exit ramp much faster than he should have, and ended up having to brake hard as they pulled around a tight curve. Jisung was talking under his breath, a whispered prayer of “please please please please” over and over. Minho sped through a yellow light and pulled into the gas station parking lot.

“Pull your pants up,” Minho reminded him. Jisung was already yanking them up to his waist, fumbling to draw the zipper higher, abandoning the button altogether. Minho stopped right outside the entrance, pushing Jisung towards the door. “Go, go, go,” he said, and Jisung didn’t need to be told twice. He jumped out of the car and ran towards the double doors.

Once Minho had safely parked the car, he jogged over to the gas station as well. Just in case Jisung needed anything. Not for any other reason. As soon as he got inside, though, he saw Jisung still in the corner of the shop, over by the restroom signs, frantically tugging at the doorknob.

“Is someone using it?” Minho asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Jisung said, frantically. “I’ve just been knocking, I don’t…” His eyes darted all around, wide and panic-stricken.

“Must need a code,” Minho said. “I’ll ask.” He hurried to the cashier, who rattled off the necessary numbers with a dubious eyebrow raise. Minho thanked her quickly, rushing back to the restroom and thumbing the code into the keypad. He turned the handle—the door opened. As he ushered Jisung inside, Minho heard him let out a barely audible squeak. Then Jisung’s hand was gripping Minho’s shoulder, tightening in the fabric of his jacket. “Fuck,” he whispered, his eyes fluttering closed, and it only took Minho a moment to understand why.

A dark, wet patch was blooming on the front of Jisung’s jeans. Jisung swayed in place, whimpering, as it spread down the side of his thigh.

“Oh,” Minho said. Quickly, he closed the bathroom door behind them.

Jisung’s forehead was creased with worry lines, but his mouth had gone slack. More piss trickled down his leg, painfully evident on his light wash jeans.

Minho couldn’t help it—he stared. He gaped at the wet spot, then at Jisung’s face. He’d broken. He’d gotten so desperate that he’d really gone and pissed his pants, and that was so fucking hot, and Minho was so fucking hard, but—something deep within him clenched, unsatisfied. It had been a big iced coffee, and now that Minho thought about it, not Jisung’s first of the day. That wasn’t nearly enough.

“Goddammit,” Jisung said. His eyes were squeezed shut so tight, his eyebrows furrowed and his fingers digging into Minho’s shoulder. He seemed to be trying very hard to stop the flow, and it was working. The dark patch wasn’t growing in size any more, and Jisung’s expression was pained from the exertion of holding the rest in.

“You can finish,” Minho murmured, before he could stop himself.

A little whine escaped Jisung’s lips. “Huh?”

“Finish,” Minho repeated. When Jisung opened his eyes to look at him, he schooled his expression, giving him an encouraging little nod. “You did it. You didn’t pee in the car.” He slid his arm around Jisung’s waist, fingers wrapping around his hip bone. “Go ahead. I’ve got you.”

Jisung didn’t ask to be helped to the toilet. He didn’t even pull his jeans down. A loud exhale was Minho’s only warning before the sound filled the small restroom—the fast, powerful rush of urine, streaming down Jisung’s pant leg, splattering his socks and designer sneakers. Minho breathed in sharply, gripping Jisung’s waist tighter to keep them both steady on their feet. 

Fuck, it was a lot. It wasn’t stopping. Piss just kept running down his leg in fast, clear rivulets. Jisung’s head lolled onto Minho’s shoulder, his mouth hanging open, feeble groans escaping him as he relieved himself.

“That’s it,” Minho breathed. “Good boy.”

It just slipped out, and it actually made Jisung huff out a laugh—a laugh that turned into another moan as a fresh stream gushed out of him, joining the pool forming beneath his feet on the linoleum floor.

He was still moaning weakly when, some long seconds later, the flow slowed to a trickle, then stopped. Minho stood statue-still, hanging onto Jisung with all the composure he could muster. In such close proximity, his own pants and shoes had not been spared. He had never been so hard in his life.

“Better?” he asked, his voice dry and raspy.

Jisung lifted his head from Minho’s shoulder, which Minho took as his cue to release him and give him some space. Absent the urgency of before, the room felt eerily calm. Jisung looked down at himself, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson. He stepped gingerly out of the puddle on the floor and ran his fingers through his hair. He gave Minho a look.

“Yeah, way better,” Jisung said. “I feel so awesome that I pissed all over myself in front of my—” He laughed again, harsh and bitter this time. “Good boy, my ass. Not even potty trained.” He shook his head. “I’m humiliated, in case you can’t tell. Please never look at me again.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Minho managed to say. “You should, you…” He trailed off, unsure how he’d been planning to end that sentence.

“I should what?”

Minho swallowed. Jisung’s blushing cheeks were such a pretty color. His sodden pant leg was still dripping, loud in the quiet of the room.

Jisung looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since they’d gotten out of the car. Cocking his head to the side, he frowned. “What?”

Minho shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, stiffly.

“You look weird. Are you grossed out?”

Shaking his head again, Minho shifted where he stood, willing Jisung not to look down. Which of course was exactly what Jisung did. His eyes trailed down Minho’s body, coming to rest on the painfully obvious tent in his pants.

“Sorry,” Jisung said, stepping closer to get a better look. “Are you hard?”

Minho could feel his face heating up now, the tips of his ears burning. “S-sorry,” he stammered.

Jisung’s eyebrows shot up cartoonishly high on his face. “You’re hard right now? Why??”

Minho dug his fingernails into his palms. Jisung wasn’t stupid. Oblivious sometimes, but not when it was blatantly staring him in the face like this.

“Hyung,” Jisung said. “Are you hard because I peed my pants?”

Minho took a step backwards. “It’s not like that. It’s not… I don’t know why. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“Hyung, what the fuck??” Jisung laughed—really laughed this time, a genuine smile spreading across his face. Wiping the last residual tears from his eyes, he laughed so hard he nearly bent in half. “What is wrong with you?!”

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” Minho hissed. “It’s a… physical reaction.”

“To piss???”

“To you,” Minho said, then started. “Sorry, not—don’t—forget it, just. Fine. Go ahead and laugh. It’s funny.”

Jisung had stopped laughing, though. Shaking his head, he stepped towards Minho again. “To me?” he asked, the smile still tugging at his lips.

“No,” Minho insisted.

“Right, so. To piss then.”

Minho took another step backwards. “To—to all of it, I don’t know.” He felt his back hit the restroom door. “You couldn’t hear yourself.”

Jisung was smiling from ear to ear now. His professed humiliation seemed long-forgotten. He kept moving forward, narrowing the distance between them. “What did I sound like?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

“Like, like…” Minho flattened his back against the door. “I don’t know. Needy.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. “Desperate.”

“Desperate?” Jisung echoed, moving closer still. “I was desperate, hyung. I didn’t know it was turning you on, though.”

“It wasn’t,” Minho said. “I mean, yes, technically, physically, yes, but—I wanted the traffic to clear up. I really did.”

“I don’t believe you,” Jisung said, with another low laugh. “I think you wanted us to stay stuck there forever. I think you wanted to see me get so desperate I pissed myself in your daddy’s car.”

What was happening. Jisung was so close now, Minho could smell the coffee on his breath. He could smell the faint tang of urine emanating from his soaked jeans.

“I swear I didn’t,” Minho whispered. “I’m so sorry, Sungie. I know this was miserable for you. I didn’t mean to—to make it weird.”

Jisung hummed. He angled his head slightly, studying Minho. “Am I reading this so wrong?” he asked. Minho didn’t know what he meant, not until—

Not until he felt the insistent pressure of Jisung’s hands at his waistband, felt his button being undone and his fly coming down and Jisung’s palm cupping his cock through his briefs.

“Ah—” Minho choked back a gasp. “What—what are you—?”

The smile didn’t leave Jisung’s face as his fingertips trailed down, then up, ghosting along the outline of Minho’s shaft, feather-light when his thumb found the tip.

“Sung-ah,” Minho panted, his head falling back against the door, his eyes drifting closed.

“I don’t think I’m reading this wrong,” Jisung said. He gave Minho’s painfully hard cock a gentle squeeze. “Jeez, hyung, it took you long enough.”

Took him—took him long enough? Minho’s brain felt fuzzy.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t I…” Minho trailed off, forcing his eyes back open. Jisung was rubbing him now, his small, sure hands taking turns feeling him through the fabric.

Jisung tilted his head again, his eyes bright and knowing as he locked them with Minho’s.

“Tell me you wanted to fuck me?”

Minho didn’t understand. “Do you—ah—ah—” (Jisung’s fingers, so deft and confident, so utterly disarming)—“Is that… something you’d want?”

“Are you an actual idiot?” Jisung said. “Have you looked in a mirror, like, ever?” He laughed, giving Minho another firm stroke. “It’s just all the other stuff that, you know. Made me wait.”

“The other stuff,” Minho repeated.

Jisung—tragically, horribly—pulled back his hands and stepped away from Minho. “Yeah, the whole thing where I didn’t want to risk ruining our friendship by making a move on you because I don’t just want you, I’m in love with you and have been for years and it’s kind of been killing me and I’ve never wanted anyone else the way I want to be with you.”

“Oh,” Minho said. He wasn’t sure he was breathing.

“Yeah…” Jisung said. He laughed nervously, sticking his hands in his pockets and grimacing. “Just that other stuff.”

“Oh.” Minho was staring. He was processing. Any second now, Jisung was going to punch him in the side and gleefully make fun of Minho’s face, so pleased with himself at this elaborate prank he’d pulled on him. 

“Sooo,” Jisung said, and waited. When Minho didn’t respond, he rocked back on his heels, apprehensively. “So? Say something?”

Say something? What could Minho possibly say to that? How could it not be a prank?

“You mean…” Minho said.

Jisung nodded, offering him a shy smile.

Minho did the only thing he knew how to do—he reached for Jisung. He pulled him into his chest, heard his grateful sigh as their bodies fitted together the way they always had. If he couldn’t find the words, maybe this would be enough. He hugged Jisung tight, burying his face in his neck. He smelled good, like he always did—that Dior Sauvage he was still so loyal to. Minho nuzzled somehow closer, breathing deep. He was in love with him? He had been for years?

“Hannie,” Minho mumbled, his voice muffled against Jisung’s soft skin.

Jisung gave Minho’s back a pat. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”

“I’m not,” Minho said. He tried again. “It’s the same. For me. It’s the same.”

He heard Jisung sniff, a sharp breath of relief. “Good. Thank God.”

They stayed like that for a minute, not talking, pressed together in the dingy gas station restroom. Jisung broke the silence first, chuckling softly to himself. Eventually, he started to laugh harder, his shoulders shaking, and Minho shaking with them. Minho pulled back, just enough to see Jisung’s face.

“I can’t believe me pissing my pants was what finally got you hot for me,” Jisung said. “That’s so embarrassing for you.”

It wasn’t even anymore. Minho didn’t care. Jisung was in love with him—he didn’t care about anything. “You’re sexy,” he said, indignantly.

“Apparently,” Jisung laughed. He leaned in, his lips soft against the corner of Minho’s mouth. He kissed him there, just above his upper lip. The gentlest, shyest of kisses. 

Minho didn’t let him pull away. He captured Jisung’s lips with his own, drawing him into a real kiss, hot and sweet and everything Minho had been dreaming of for seven years. Jisung smiled against his mouth, answering fervently. He kissed like he’d wanted it for just as long—lips parting, teeth scraping against Minho’s tongue as he opened, opened for him.

“Shit,” Jisung said, breathlessly. “You’re so fucking hot.”

“Come here,” Minho said. 

With Jisung still caught up in his arms, Minho spun them around and manhandled Jisung up against the door, his back hitting the wood with a heavy thump. “Fuck,” Jisung said, as Minho curled in closer, drowning him in hot, open-mouthed kisses. He slotted his thigh between Jisung’s, felt it dampening from the contact with his soaked jeans. Jisung gasped, a sweet, needy moan emerging from his throat. Minho swallowed it down, then ducked his head to mouth along the side of Jisung’s jaw.

Jisung squirmed against him, rocking down on his thigh as much as the stiff fabric would allow. His hands moved to Minho’s ass, fingers toying with the waistband of his briefs under his open jeans. “Let me feel you,” he murmured. “Let me get you off.”

Minho nodded, sucking a sharp kiss into Jisung’s collarbone when he felt Jisung’s hands on his cock. He pulled it out carefully, giving it a firm stroke. 

“You’re so hard,” Jisung said, grinning. “All this, for me?”

Minho hummed. His cock throbbed in Jisung’s grip. His hands were only slightly bigger than Minho’s, but they were strong and tanned and Minho swore he could feel the calluses on the tips of his fingers.

Jisung’s eyes gleamed, inches from Minho’s own. “All this, because of a little piss?”

Minho rolled his eyes and jabbed Jisung in the stomach, right into his bladder. Jisung cried out, doubling over a bit, and dropped his hold on Minho.

“Heh,” Minho said. “Sorry, honey. Did that hurt?”

Jisung ran his hand over his stomach. “It didn’t hurt… ” He looked up at Minho, eyes widening innocently. “But I guess I wasn’t quite done?”

Minho’s breath hitched. “Oh?” he asked, his hand joining Jisung’s on his stomach. With the tips of his fingers, he applied the faintest hint of pressure, and Jisung took another sharp breath.

“Yeah,” Jisung said. “I kind of… I kind of have to go again.”

“Mmm.” Bright white heat flickered to life in Minho’s veins. His first instinct was to rein it in, but…

It didn't seem like he had to.

Minho ran his palm down the front of Jisung’s damp jeans, curling his fingers around the outline of his cock. “You have to go?" he asked. "Right now?”

Jisung squirmed under Minho’s touch. “You’re sick. You think that’s so fucking hot.”

“Sorry,” Minho said. He couldn’t keep the smirk off his face when he pressed down with the heel of his hand and Jisung let out a stuttering, broken whine.

“You want me to try and hold it?” Jisung said, when he’d caught his breath. “Or you want me to piss all over you?”

Minho shuddered. “I don’t know,” he said, honestly. “Both.” While Jisung laughed, Minho reached for his waist, kneading the soft skin above his hip bones before digging his thumbs into his bladder.

Jisung choked out a moan, flinching against the sudden pressure. “Hyung,” he whined.

“Hold it,” Minho said. He pressed his thumbs in harder, massaging Jisung’s stomach with deep, intentional movements. 

“Ah—hyung.”

Minho preened. “Tell me how it feels,” he said.

“Hurts,” Jisung said, breathy and pathetic and exactly how he’d said it in the car. Fuck. “Hurts so good, hyung,” he managed. Oh, he was playing it up now. “Don’t know if I—if I can hold it—”

Little brat. Minho kneaded his bladder with one hand, the other darting down to squeeze his cock. Jisung yelped, the sound trailing off into another low moan.

“Oh,” he said, his chest heaving. “Oh, fuck, hyung, no really, that’ll…”

“Hmm?” Minho cocked his head, innocently. “It’ll what, jagiya?”

“Make me—piss again—” Jisung said, through gritted teeth. 

Minho applied more pressure. He could feel the responding tension in Jisung’s abdomen, spasming against his fingers. It was just like he’d envisioned in the car—smooth and taut and tantalizing with fullness. Was this really his for the taking? He spared a moment to press one hand between his own legs, palming himself with a soft hiss.

“Hyung,” Jisung said again. It was his turn to drop his head back against the door, baring his neck as he did so. Minho leaned in to mouth at it, making his way to that spot just under his ear where he was always so ticklish.

“Stop,” Jisung laughed, breathily, convulsing in Minho’s grip. “Oh fuck, I’m really gonna, hyung, don’t—”

Minho ignored him. He drew the lobe of Jisung’s ear into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth, relishing in the way Jisung twitched and bucked his hips, the noises escaping his throat. His noises, all for him. His desperate little Jisungie.

“Hyung, really, nnghh, fuck—”

Minho dug his fingers into Jisung’s stomach one final time, drawing another gasp from him, followed by a helpless little whimper, and then he heard it—the telltale rush of fluid. Jisung let out a long sigh, swaying in place as Minho folded down his sodden briefs and took Jisung in his palm and then—then Minho felt it.

It was hotter than he expected–his head reeled as he registered that must be how hot Jisung was inside—and it felt like Minho’s hand was taking a warm bath. It flooded his senses, heat and scent and sensation, and any lingering embarrassment he might’ve had evaporated. He was overwhelmed, and grateful, and still insatiate, but he was sure–with a fresh, steady stream of piss running all over his fist—that something so extraordinary couldn’t be wrong.

“That’s it, baby,” Minho whispered, giving Jisung’s soft cock a squeeze. Jisung moaned, the force of the stream strengthening for a moment before it started to peter out.

“You’re,” Jisung panted. He drooped against Minho’s shoulder, letting him bear the brunt of his body weight. “You’re such a fucking freak. Holy shit.”

“Can I suck your dick,” Minho said, realizing the moment he said it that there was nothing more he wanted in the entire world.

Jisung laughed into Minho’s collarbone. “Jesus Christ. Yeah. Yes. You’re so gross.”

“And you’re so sexy,” Minho said.

“You really want to here? In the gas station bathroom?”

Minho answered by sinking to his knees. He didn’t care what he’d knelt in, or that it was seeping through the denim and leaving his knees cold and damp. He only cared about getting his mouth around Jising’s dick—which he did, expediently, and with much enthusiasm.

The moment his tongue touched Jisung’s skin, he could taste it. Strong, and faintly salty, and like nothing Minho had ever tasted before. He groaned, enveloping Jisung’s cock in his mouth, sucking him down until his nose was buried in his pubic hair. The smell lingered there, stronger than on his skin. Minho took a deep, intoxicating huff, inhaling all he could get of the lingering scent of Jisung’s urine. He swept his tongue from root to tip, cleaning up every last drop. 

“Fuck,” Jisung said. One of his hands was clutching Minho’s head now, fingers twisting in his hair. “Is that good? Is that—what you wanted?”

Minho pulled off with a harsh exhale. “Yes,” he said, kissing the side of Jisung’s rapidly filling cock. He flicked his tongue out, giving a few quick, kitten-licks to the tip.

Jisung’s hand tightened its grip, pulling his hair just hard enough to make his scalp sting. “Are you gonna get off like this, my little pervert hyung?”

Minho nodded, reaching down to stroke his own cock as if to demonstrate.

“Good,” Jisung said. “Have at it, then.”

Minho licked his lips and swallowed him back down. He sucked him to full hardness, until Minho’s lips were stretched tight around Jisung’s girth. The contented little sounds Jisung was making were like a drug, and Minho had never been so high. He was beyond happy to have his tongue on Jisung’s velvety-smooth skin, but a little disappointed that the residual taste of piss had dissipated—he had licked and sucked him all clean. 

The smell, though—he could still get his fix of that. It was wafting from Jisung’s cold, wet underwear and jeans, shucked partway down his thighs. The next time Minho pulled off for air, he followed a sudden, carnal impulse to bury his face in Jisung’s briefs, and inhaled deeply. 

“Oh my God,” Jisung said.

The scent was overpowering, invading Minho’s nose and mouth and making him dizzy with want. He caught some of the cotton between his teeth, shivering when he tasted that familiar tang of urine on his tongue.

“Fuck,” Jisung said, a groan wrenching itself from his throat. “Why are you like this.”

Minho blinked up at him from under long lashes. Letting the fabric fall from his mouth, he said, “I love all of you, baby.”

“Fuck you,” Jisung laughed. “Don’t make this romantic.”

If this wasn’t romance, Minho didn’t know what was. It was love that had Jisung humoring him, diving into this alongside him—yes, he was calling him gross, but Minho could see and hear and feel how he really felt. It was love that let Minho trust Jisung with this part of himself. Jisung confessing his love to Minho in a gas station restroom while covered in piss—while unconventional, maybe—was the most romantic thing he could’ve done.

Minho dove in again, taking Jisung back into his mouth. He could feel his climax fast approaching. He’d been hard for the better part of an hour, his own cock leaking strings of precome onto the floor.

“When we get back home,” Jisung said, combing Minho’s bangs off his sweaty forehead with a gentler touch than before. “I’m gonna fuck you right. In my own big, comfy bed.”

Please, Minho wanted to say, but he could only groan around Jisung’s cock, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing on it vigorously. 

“I’m gonna pound your—your sweet ass—ah—and neither of us—is gonna mention piss.”

Minho pulled off to laugh. He let a string of drool fall from his lips, coating Jisung’s cock, easing the glide when he got his hand back around him. Jisung threw back his head and moaned.

“Oh God, ah—keep doing—keep doing that,” he said.

Minho did, pumping Jisung with one hand while the other kneaded his ass. He looked up and grinned. “Does my baby need to go again?”

“Stop,” Jisung laughed, his shoulders shaking. “Gonna—gonna come, you lunatic.”

Minho was too. Before he could say as much, Jisung was tugging him off. “Get back up here,” he said, his mouth hanging open in a lazy, blissful smile. “It’s our first time, wanna do it together.”

Minho stood, and Jisung was kissing him before he could breathe. Their hands found each other, joining around both of their cocks—the moment Jisung’s slid against his own felt like heaven—and they found a sloppy rhythm together. They were kissing, and biting at each other’s mouths, and then Jisung’s hands moved to hook around Minho’s waist, trusting Minho to take over. Minho found it in him to speed up his hand faster and faster, chasing that crest of pressure and pleasure, trembling as he felt his breathing catch.

“Come on, baby,” Jisung said, panting. “Make a mess of me.”

With a choked-off cry, Minho came. The force of his orgasm was so overwhelming he nearly crumpled to the ground. Jisung held him fast, let Minho lean on him even as he too spilled all over Minho’s fist. It felt like hours before they were steady enough on their feet for Jisung to take his face in his hands and kiss him.

Clean up was a process. By some miracle, the gas station shop had a rack of tourist apparel. Minho kept his eyes politely averted as the cashier rang up two pairs of socks, slides, and sweatpants, as well as the packet of wet wipes Minho threw in at the last second. He didn’t dare check to see if she watched him take his new purchases straight back into the restroom.

Ten minutes later, he and Jisung emerged in their matching “I ♥️ Seoul” sweatpants and booked it for the car, trying not to fall over themselves laughing as they dropped their double-bagged, soiled clothes in the trunk and slid back into their seats.

“The next person who goes in there,” Jisung wheezed.

“Shhh,” Minho said, bursting into another fit of giggles. “We mopped it up with the paper towels.”

“There was still a distinctive stench.”

“As there should be! It’s a public restroom!”

Jisung flipped down the mirror to fix his hair. “We look so fucking cool right now,” he said, turning to look at Minho. “We should work for the tourism office.”

“Now that we’re out of there, we can change,” Minho said. “My suitcase is on top if you wanna grab something.”

“Hell no. We’re rolling up to Innie’s parents’ in style.”

Minho laughed and shifted the car into gear. While he turned out of the parking lot, Jisung buckled himself in, putting all his pillows back into place and re-situating his car snacks. “Well, after that brief interlude,” he said, grinning broadly. “How much longer?”

“Couple hours,” Minho said. He stole a glance Jisung’s way. “Unless you need to stop again.”

“You fucking wish,” Jisung said. “No more of my precious piss for you today.”

Minho turned the corners of his mouth downward in an exaggerated pout.

“Stop it. It won’t work. No stops. I’m not even hungry anymore, are you hungry?”

Minho nodded in the direction of Jisung’s unopened bag of chips. “I’ll eat some of those.”

“Oh, you will?” Jisung hugged the bag to his chest. “What’s the magic word?”

“I love you,” Minho said, sweetly, his voice a delicate sing-song as he caught Jisung’s eyes for one earnest second.

Jisung’s face melted into a smile. “Hyung,” he said.

“I love you, my cutie little hot spring. Give me a chip.”

“Hyung!!!”