Work Text:
The dorm was unusually quiet.
Not silent—never silent—but quiet enough that Han Jisung could hear the rain tapping against the windows.
He sat cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced precariously on his knees, staring at the same unfinished lyric for the past twenty minutes.
Nothing.
No inspiration.
No brilliant line.
No sudden spark.
Just a blinking cursor that seemed determined to mock him.
“You’re going to burn a hole through the screen.”
Jisung nearly launched his laptop into orbit.
“Hyung!”
Lee Minho stood in the doorway holding a cup of coffee, completely unbothered by the fact that he’d just stolen several years off Jisung’s lifespan.
“You looked focused.”
“I was.”
“You looked constipated.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Minho took a sip of his coffee.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Jisung groaned and buried his face in a pillow.
This was a normal interaction.
A painfully normal interaction.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because somewhere between years of living together, performing together, arguing over food, sharing headphones, and staying awake until sunrise working on songs, Jisung had developed a very inconvenient crush on Lee Minho.
A crush he had absolutely no intention of admitting.
Ever.
Not if he wanted to survive.
Not if he wanted to preserve what they already had.
Not if he wanted to avoid being laughed at for the next decade.
Minho wandered over and sat beside him.
“What are you writing?”
“A song.”
“Clearly.”
“Thanks.”
“You’ve written three words.”
Jisung looked at the screen.
Three words.
Minho wasn’t wrong.
Unfortunately.
“Writer’s block,” he admitted.
“Hm.”
The older boy studied the screen.
Then he reached over.
Typed something.
And leaned back.
Jisung stared.
“What?”
“Keep going.”
“You literally wrote one sentence.”
“Then write another.”
“That’s not how inspiration works.”
“It worked for me.”
“You don’t write songs.”
“I write shopping lists.”
Jisung threw the pillow at him.
Minho caught it effortlessly.
The traitor.
⸻
The next day wasn’t much better.
Practice ran long.
Everyone was tired.
Chan was trying to organize schedules.
Changbin was somehow still energetic.
Felix was distributing snacks like a benevolent fairy.
And Jisung was trying very hard not to notice how good Minho looked.
Which was difficult.
Because Minho had tied his hair back.
Which should not have been a problem.
Except it absolutely was.
“You’re staring.”
Jisung nearly walked into a wall.
“What?”
Minho raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve been staring at me for ten minutes.”
“No I haven’t.”
“You walked into a chair.”
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves quite a lot.”
Jisung decided the floor was suddenly fascinating.
Minho looked suspicious.
Dangerously suspicious.
But before he could say anything else, Chan called everyone back.
Jisung silently thanked every known deity.
⸻
Three days later, things got worse.
Because Minho got sick.
Not seriously sick.
Just enough to be annoying.
A cold.
A fever.
The sort of illness that turned even the most capable people into dramatic disasters.
Minho insisted he was fine.
Nobody believed him.
Least of all Jisung.
Which was why he found himself standing outside Minho’s room with soup.
At midnight.
Like a character in a romance drama.
“This is embarrassing,” he muttered.
Then he knocked.
“Come in.”
The room was dim.
Minho sat against the headboard with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
He looked tired.
Far too tired.
His hair was messy.
His voice was rough.
And somehow that made everything worse.
“What are you doing here?”
Jisung held up the soup.
“You didn’t eat dinner.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“That’s not how being sick works.”
“According to who?”
“According to everyone.”
Minho rolled his eyes but accepted the bowl.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Rain tapped softly against the window.
The room felt strangely peaceful.
Comfortable.
Dangerous.
Because whenever things became quiet around Minho, Jisung started noticing things.
The way his eyes softened when he was tired.
The tiny scar near his hand.
The way he always tucked blankets around himself like a burrito.
Small things.
Stupid things.
Things that made falling for him far too easy.
“Thanks.”
The word pulled him back.
“Huh?”
“The soup.”
“Oh.”
Minho smiled.
A real smile.
Not one of his teasing ones.
Not one of his sarcastic ones.
Just warm.
And suddenly Jisung couldn’t remember how breathing worked.
⸻
The confession happened completely by accident.
Which was fitting.
Because absolutely nothing about their relationship had ever gone according to plan.
It happened two weeks later.
After practice.
After a schedule.
After everyone else had already gone home.
Jisung and Minho were the last ones in the studio.
Minho sat spinning slowly in a chair.
Jisung was packing up equipment.
The atmosphere was relaxed.
Comfortable.
Safe.
Until Minho spoke.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.”
“Why do you keep avoiding me?”
Jisung froze.
“…I don’t.”
“You do.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Jisung.”
The use of his name was immediately concerning.
He turned.
Minho wasn’t smiling.
He wasn’t teasing.
He looked genuinely curious.
And somehow that was worse.
“You’ve been acting weird for weeks.”
“I always act weird.”
“Different weird.”
“Oh.”
Minho waited.
Unfortunately.
Because now Jisung had two options.
Lie.
Or die.
Possibly both.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a terrible answer.”
“I know.”
Silence stretched.
The studio suddenly felt too warm.
Too small.
Too everything.
And then Minho said the last thing Jisung expected.
“Is it because of me?”
His heart stopped.
Actually stopped.
Ceased operations.
Filed for retirement.
“What?”
“Is it?”
The worst part?
Minho sounded nervous.
Nervous.
Lee Minho.
The human embodiment of confidence.
Nervous.
And suddenly Jisung realized something.
Maybe he wasn’t the only one struggling.
Maybe he wasn’t the only one overthinking.
Maybe—
No.
Impossible.
Probably impossible.
Definitely impossible.
“…Maybe.”
The word escaped before he could stop it.
Minho blinked.
Neither moved.
Neither breathed.
The entire universe seemed to hold still.
And then—
“Oh.”
That was all Minho said.
Just:
“Oh.”
Jisung considered moving to another country.
⸻
“Say something.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Think faster.”
“I don’t think that’s how thinking works.”
Jisung wanted to scream.
Minho looked down at the floor.
Then back at him.
Then away again.
And somehow that tiny hesitation was more shocking than anything else.
Because Minho never hesitated.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“What did I do?”
“You confessed by accident.”
“I didn’t confess.”
“You absolutely confessed.”
“I implied.”
“You implied very aggressively.”
Jisung covered his face.
This was a nightmare.
A genuine nightmare.
Minho laughed.
Actually laughed.
And somehow that made everything worse and better simultaneously.
“You’re impossible.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
The laughter faded.
The room quieted again.
And suddenly there was only the two of them.
No schedules.
No cameras.
No noise.
Just them.
Minho took a breath.
Then another.
And finally said:
“For the record…”
Jisung looked up.
“…I’ve been avoiding you too.”
Everything stopped.
“What?”
Minho rubbed the back of his neck.
A rare sign of nervousness.
“You make it difficult.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“How?”
“You exist.”
Jisung stared.
Minho stared back.
Neither moved.
Then:
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
“Oh.”
“Jisung.”
“Sorry.”
⸻
The first time they held hands wasn’t dramatic.
No fireworks.
No cinematic soundtrack.
No perfectly timed sunset.
It happened because they got lost.
Again.
“We should ask for directions.”
“We are not asking for directions.”
“We’ve been walking for forty minutes.”
“We’re exploring.”
“We’re lost.”
Minho ignored him.
Jisung sighed dramatically.
Then immediately tripped over a curb.
Before he could face-plant into the pavement, a hand caught his.
Strong fingers wrapped around his wrist.
Steady.
Warm.
Safe.
The world seemed to pause.
Minho didn’t let go immediately.
Neither did Jisung.
Cars passed.
People walked by.
Life continued.
But for a brief moment, everything narrowed down to that single point of contact.
Then Minho intertwined their fingers.
Naturally.
Like he’d always meant to.
Like it was the simplest thing in the world.
And suddenly Jisung couldn’t stop smiling.
⸻
Months passed.
Slowly.
Comfortably.
The way good things often do.
There were no grand declarations.
No dramatic turning points.
Just countless small moments.
Late-night convenience store runs.
Shared headphones.
Coffee orders memorized without asking.
Shoulders brushing together on long drives.
Minho stealing fries.
Jisung stealing hoodies.
Arguments over absolutely nothing.
Laughter over absolutely everything.
The ordinary moments became extraordinary simply because they were together.
And maybe that was love.
Not the dramatic version people wrote songs about.
Not the impossible version from movies.
But the quiet version.
The steady version.
The version that showed up every day.
The version that stayed.
⸻
One evening, nearly a year later, they found themselves back in the dorm living room.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Almost exactly like that night long ago.
Jisung sat on the couch with a notebook.
Minho rested beside him.
Comfortable.
Familiar.
Home.
“What are you writing?”
Jisung smiled.
“You sound familiar.”
“I’ve always sounded familiar.”
“Fair.”
Minho leaned closer.
Trying to read.
Jisung immediately covered the page.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Not finished.”
“Let me see.”
“No.”
“Jisung.”
“No.”
Minho reached for it.
Jisung pulled away.
A wrestling match immediately followed.
As was tradition.
Eventually Minho won.
Also tradition.
He unfolded the notebook.
Read the page.
And went quiet.
Jisung suddenly wanted the floor to swallow him.
The lyrics weren’t complicated.
They weren’t even particularly clever.
They were simply honest.
A song about finding comfort in someone.
About laughter.
About ordinary days.
About feeling at home beside a person.
About Minho.
The room stayed silent.
One second.
Two.
Five.
Then Minho closed the notebook.
Carefully.
Gently.
And looked at him.
“Idiot.”
Jisung groaned.
“I knew it.”
“It’s good.”
“What?”
“It’s really good.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because they came from Minho.
Because they were sincere.
Because they mattered.
Minho leaned against his shoulder.
Comfortable.
Easy.
Certain.
And after a moment, Jisung rested his head against Minho’s.
Outside, the rain continued falling.
Inside, everything felt warm.
Safe.
Complete.
The song still wasn’t finished.
But that was okay.
Some stories weren’t meant to end all at once.
Some stories continued line by line.
Day by day.
Moment by moment.
Like a favorite song left on repeat.
And for the first time in a very long time, Jisung didn’t mind not knowing the ending.
As long as Minho was there to hear it with him.