Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ JUNE, 2006
The Pilot

Sunnavelle is a big town nestled among palm trees and tall grass, just a little way outside of Atlanta.

It isn't so notable that outsiders flock here for vacations, so despite its size, its residents are all connected. Gossip spreads through the neighborhoods quicker than a wildfire during the dry season.

For this reason, Jisung likes to pray. He crosses his fingers and sends a prayer up to God.

'Please don't let my dad find out about this. Please.'

The window creaks as he raises the glass higher up the sill. He listens for the telltale shuffle of footsteps outside his bedroom door. Nothing.

'God, if you love me — and I think you do — please let this work.'

Jisung presses his hands into the window frame to pull himself up and squeeze through the small space between the screen and the wood. He contorts his body at an angle that might just break his spine in half, legs dangling behind him as he carefully moves onto the slope of the roof.

This was probably not a good idea. This is definitely not a good idea. This is—

"Took you long enough," Felix teases, poking his head out from beneath the slope. "I've been down here for five minutes."

"Y-Yeah, well...!" Jisung squeaks. "What if I slip, and fall, and crack my head open on the ground?"

"You won't slip and fall, Ji—"

"Easy for you to say! Y-You break into my fucking house for fun!"

Jisung's palms flatten against the windowpane and his shoulders rise toward his ears. Felix huffs a laugh and disappears beneath the ridge of the roof.

"Come on," Felix calls out after a beat. "We've got places to be, remember?"

"I'm... I'm coming!"

Jisung grinds his teeth together, hard, until it feels like they're close to being worn away into ragged little cubes.

He looks back through the window and into his bedroom. From here, he can see his desk, piled with unfinished summer homework, and his bed, where his school bag lies propped against a pillow. The door is closed. Quiet. Waiting. He could crawl back inside, slip back into the warmth of his covers like he does every other night, and forget this ever happened.

But...

"Jisung~! You're taking forever~!" Felix drags out the 'ever'. Jisung swallows down a whine.

Felix's words have a way of easing Jisung into situations like these, where every cell in his body is screaming at him to back away, back home, back into the safety of his bedroom walls and call it a night. Felix has this ability to convince him to step toward the edge of the roof.

Freedom is right there. Mere steps away.

"Okay," Jisung breathes. "...Okay."

Another quick survey of his room.

A glance at his closed bedroom door.

One last plea sent to God up above.

'Dear God, please don't let me slip, fall, die, and become bloody juice for my dad to find on the lawn. And please, please, don't let Ms. Celine do her bullshit midnight check-ins while I'm out.'

'Thanks, Amen.'

Jisung squeezes the edge of the windowsill one last time before swinging his leg down to rest flat on the roofing beneath him. With a bit of fumbling, Jisung shimmies himself down until he can reach the ladder rung Felix propped below his window for their escape. He steps onto the bottom step with all the hesitance of someone walking over broken glass. His legs tremble as he climbs down, and after the longest two minutes of his life, he finally meets solid ground.

'Holy shit. I didn't die.'

"Well." Felix cocks a brow. "Uhm... Is that your idea of a 'party' outfit?"

"What?" Jisung looks down at his knit sweater and khaki shorts. "What's wrong with it?"

They're discolored in the evening's darkness, but the yellow sweater — blue trim — is the most fashionable piece Jisung owns! Sue him for being his parents' personal mannequin at sixteen years old.

Felix's silence says the quiet part out loud: 'you look like a loser geek.'

"I just..." Jisung gestures to his clothes with a helpless shrug. "I thought I looked okay. I mean. Ugh. Whatever."

"You could not look more lame even if you tried." Felix pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "'S okay. We can stop by my house and I'll hook you up with some stuff from my closet."

Felix is taller than Jisung by just a hair, all angles and lines compared to the soft curves that make up Jisung's face. His blond hair flutters with each sway in the wind, like the blades of wheat fields in the summer. In the darkness of his backyard, his freckles are barely visible on his cheeks. But if you squint hard enough, you can still see them: tiny dots sprinkled onto porcelain skin like little brown stars splattered onto the night sky.

Felix is handsome. Felix is popular. Somehow, Felix is his best friend.

Jisung lives tucked safely behind an ivory-white gate and walls, with shitty cameras set up near the front entrance and spotlights perched on virtually every corner of the house. Felix lives across town, where weeds grow between cracks in the cement.

Felix leads Jisung to a car lent by his mother even though he doesn't have his provisional license. Felix takes him to drive-in theaters to watch cheaply made horror movies in the parking lot. Felix sneaks candy to munch on during class when boredom strikes. Felix drinks at parties and kisses boys he doesn't love.

...Felix is free.

Tonight, Felix is dragging Jisung to a party. This kind of situation is the one his dad made him promise never to get involved in. That promise is now out the window and on top of Felix's shiny, white-picket-smile.

"Let's go before you chicken out. Again," Felix nudges Jisung lightly with an elbow. "Remember, this is only gonna be a few hours, tops. Two, three-ish? You'll be back before anyone notices."

"You know my dad would never forgive me if I...if he found out that I did this, right?" Jisung slides into the passenger's seat. It smells like cigarette smoke. "I'd be grounded for weeks. Sent to the crazy Korean military. Sent to Korea—"

"Shush, will you? Don't you remember the first rule of 'Felix's Guide to Manliness: 101'?"

Jisung takes a moment to remember. Through pouted lips, he mumbles: "Rebellion against your parents' wishes leads to...success?"

"Exactly," Felix laughs as he settles in behind the driver's seat. "Good ol' Daddy Han won't even know you're gone."

When the engine starts and the headlights switch on, Jisung's gut reaction is to shove his head between his knees and pray that no one looks out the front door to witness this.

But...

But wait...

"Daddy Han?" Jisung gags, still slightly breathless with anxiety, but another emotion joins it. Disgust. "Please never call my dad 'Daddy Han' again."

Felix cackles and cranks the volume dial on the radio up as far as it will go. Britney Spears blasts through the speakers. Felix revs the engine and drives with a screech! of tires against the asphalt road. In that moment, when they speed through the neighborhood with the wind whipping through their hair, Jisung glances at his best friend.

His name is Felix Lee. He is everything Jisung dreams of being one day. (Except an alcoholic. Except a raging homosexual. Except— ah, semantics.)

❤︎

Pepper's Pie Shop is a hole-in-the-wall type of joint owned by Felix's mom, Pepper.

It's tucked in the back alleys of a sketchy neighborhood. Pepper's is a hideaway for anyone and everyone looking to escape — whether it be their problems, their shitty ass boss, or even the law. Pepper's Pie doesn't discriminate against the people it serves. As long as there's dough to be made, everyone can share a meal.

The sign hanging above the door used to be bright red, but it faded over time and the metal rusted over. Jisung's gotten used to the odd stench and interior walls in need of a new paint job. It's not a concern that there are more cracks in the linoleum dining floor than in the concrete outside. It's just how this side of town is.

A little bell hangs above the doorway and sings every time someone walks in or out. Inside, past the swinging kitchen doors and after taking a short flight of stairs, is Felix's apartment. Jisung has taken this route to Felix's bedroom ever since he was small.

"Oh-kay, 'S time to get you outta' that," Felix reaches to fiddle with the hem of Jisung's sweater, "...and into something hot."

Felix drags the sweater upwards, stretching the cotton over Jisung's arms until he gets the hint and pulls it off himself. Felix tosses the sweater onto the heap of his clothes on the floor and rummages through his closet.

'Guess I'm never seeing that again. Rest easy, buddy.'

"Uh-huh... Uh... No, no—" A handful of clothing flies past Jisung's shoulders as Felix sorts through his options. "...Yeah? Yeah!"

"Here." Felix tosses something at his face, effectively smothering him for half a second before Jisung realizes what he's supposed to do. "Wear this."

Jisung lifts the material between two fingers and holds it up against the jaundiced lights of Felix's room

"This... This feels like enough fabric for a toddler to wear."

"Don't be a baby, Ji." Felix waves a hand around and turns back to his drawers. "It'll look hot."

Jisung has a difficult time believing anything could make his twig-thin limbs and gangly body "look hot," but Felix's word is a good enough guarantee for the moment.

Jisung wiggles around to get his arms through the sleeves and head through the neck. It's a sleeveless denim crop that has him relating to the women of the nineteenth century with their corsets. Is it ever worth it? Being squeezed into an organ-compressing outfit for style?

Jisung turns to Felix for approval.

"Wow..." Felix grins, slow and cheeky. "Jisung Han~. What are you planning on doing to me?"

Jisung crosses his arms over his belly button and flushes. "Fuck off. T-This is ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous is that fuckin' sweater and khaki get-up," Felix scoffs. "There's a time 'n place to look like a nerd. Now's not it. Here."

"Hm?" Jisung glances down at the dark jeans resting in Felix's open palms — faded in some areas and ripped to shreds in others. "Thanks."

Jisung unbuttons his shorts to slip them down his hips. Felix's eyes wander down towards his thighs.

"...Are you really wearin' Spider-Man boxers to a party?"

"Uhh..." Jisung pouts at the way Felix raises his eyebrows at him. "Yes? So what?"

"Nothing. 'M sure it's someone's thing," Felix teases. "You better hope any girl you meet tonight is wearing some Wonder Woman undies or something."

Jisung fights the heat crawling up his neck and fights harder not to slap a palm over Felix's lips.

"Felix."

"Yeah?"

"Just... Shut up."

The jeans ride low on his hips, exposing even more of his torso to the naked eye. With the addition of a beat-up pair of Converse All Stars and a chunky, glittering bling belt, Jisung supposes he feels a little hotter. Like he might actually pass off as somewhat attractive at this party. Glasses, baby fat, and all.

"See?" Felix punches his arm. "Look at you. Gonna have girls eatin' from your palm."

"Ha ha. Yeah. Right."

There's a persistent nagging in the back of Jisung's mind telling him that this is going to turn sour. His dad is going to find out somehow about this dumb scheme to sneak out. The thought makes him want to curl up in bed and stay hidden under the covers, preferably until his inevitable death in seventy-something years. Maybe more. Probably less.

"Okay!" Felix beams at him from across the room, waving him forward. "Come here, Ji. Got some eyeliner."

"Don't you dare put that weird black shit anywhere near my face," Jisung retorts, face contorted into a scowl. "I'm already dressing up like a girl for you."

"Not like a girl, Ji," Felix rolls his eyes. He marches across the bedroom to get within reach of Jisung. "Like a man. And it's eyeliner, not 'weird black shit'. C'mere."

Jisung stumbles as Felix tugs on his arm, guiding him to sit on his mattress with a dull squeak! of rusty bedsprings.

"Hey! Stop it! The internet says that too much of that stuff can infect your tear ducts and cause cancer—"

"Cause cancer, my ass," Felix spits around a laugh. He plucks Jisung's glasses from his face. "Hold still. Unless you want me pokin' your eyeballs out."

Felix holds Jisung by the chin and gently applies the kohl along his waterline. Next, Felix uncaps a tube of mascara. His mouth drops a fraction as he focuses on running the brush carefully over each lash. Something catches at the back of Jisung's throat, and suddenly, he's left wondering why he let Felix convince him to go along with this.

"Ta-daa~!" Felix ushers Jisung to face the mirror. "You look gorgeous. 'Specially without those huge geek glasses."

"Thanks," Jisung chews the inside of his cheek. "I guess..."

Jisung's eyebrows furrow as he examines his reflection. Felix isn't wrong; he does look gorgeous.

His reflection is a tad fuzzy, but not enough to detract from the effect. His eyes are more pronounced, almost sultry, under the layers of mascara, eyeliner, and a smoky gray substance known as eyeshadow. Blush product daubs his cheeks rosy. The cut of his jawbone looks sharper. For the first time in forever, Jisung is somewhat stunned by his own image in the mirror.

He wants more of this. But...

'I shouldn't.'

He wants more of this. But...

'It's wrong, and my parents would kill me, and this is what fucking girls wear, and...'

He wants more of this feeling. Of standing straight and having confidence roaming inside his ribcage for once.

Jisung's glasses lay haphazardly atop one of Felix's pillows. He doesn't reach for them.

'This just feels so...wrong. And what if I'm tricking myself into feeling like I'm any more attractive than I usually am? Is it possible for makeup to have that effect?'

'Or.... Is it just making me feel this way because now I look like a completely different person? Not plain, boring, Jisung? The Jisung no one fucking likes and no one wants to be friends with?'

"Uhm. Are you sure this isn't...too much?"

"What are you talkin' about?" Felix scoffs. "I'd do you. You'll have girls on your nuts before you can even pour yourself a drink."

Jisung blinks. Once. Twice. "Uh. Ew—?"

KNOCK! KNOCK!

"Boys?" Ms. Pepper pushes open the bedroom door, voice rasping from years of chain-smoking cigarettes. "It's almost time for Happy Hour. Y'all headin' out to Chris's? Can't have minors in here while I'm passin' out alcohol."

"Yes, Mama. We were just leaving. Gonna stop by Eli's place to pick him up. Can I still take the car?"

"Yeah, you can. But you're losin' car privileges if you drive one more of my cars drunk off your ass, you hear me?"

"Can't make any promises, Ma. But I'll try~. Promise!"

Ms. Pepper looks exhausted, but her face lightens a touch once she spots Jisung.

"And you. Well, both of you. I've got a stash of condoms in the car. All sizes. Don't go getting no STDs or getting no girls pregnant."

"Ma," Felix whines. "Please."

"If you're old enough to give backshots, you're old enough to throw it in a rubber!" Ms. Pepper cackles, followed by a fit of wheezing and heavy coughs. "Now get on, boys. Get on!"

And with that, she slams the door shut behind her and descends back down the stairs. Jisung gapes.

"Uhm..." Jisung swallows around a dry lump in his throat. "What are...back...shots?"

'Do I even want to know?'

"Ahh..." Felix laughs. "Oh, sweet child. Sometimes, I forget how sheltered you are."

Jisung blinks. Once. Twice. Three times.

'Nope. Definitely don't want to know.'

❤︎

Tons of cars fill the cul-de-sac outside. The lights are dim, and loud music makes the ground rumble beneath Jisung's feet.

Chris Bahng is the host of tonight's party, and apparently, he's 'bahnged' everyone on the invitee list.

Felix flushed and laughed awkwardly when he explained this tidbit to Jisung, all before subjecting him to a listen-along as he gave Eli Anderson "I love you more than Chris Bahng"-head from the driver's seat. Not even the staticky radio helped to drown out Eli's pornographic moaning while he told Felix where to kiss next and how much further to take him down his throat.

Eli Anderson falls under a category Jisung likes to call 'Felix Lee's Typical Picks'. There are only a few requirements to qualify for Felix Lee's "I love you"-head. (1) Brunet. (2) Athlete. And, most importantly, (3) a closeted gay man with homophobic athlete friends.

Eli and Felix break up every week, but always rekindle after a big game for some 'make-up sex' at the nearest function.

Felix always reminds Jisung that he "can't judge" because "[he's] got a body count of zero" — and Felix is right, so Jisung keeps his mouth shut.

Lips still slick and swollen, Felix turns over his shoulder and properly kills the engine.

"Don't be nervous, Ji. Chris is really cool. You'll have a ton of fun."

At this rate, Jisung's more traumatized than terrified, but he doesn't tell Felix that. He can't say anything at all, really. Remember the whole 'loser virgin' thing? Yeah.

On top of that, his stomach hurts from that stupid thing he calls nerves — and when it gets bad like this, talking is harder than it usually is.

When silence lingers, Felix tries again.

"Don't worry, Chris said you can come too. I told him you're hot~."

Felix wiggles his brows at Jisung through the rearview mirror and climbs out of the car. It takes Jisung far longer to gather the courage to follow.

What if no one here wants him around?

'What if everyone thinks I'm some creepy stalker tagging along because I'm so pathetic, and because I have no friends or a life of my own?'

What if—

"Hurry up!" Felix taps against the window. "We're not gonna wait forever, y'know."

As per usual, Felix leads. Jisung follows.

Jisung steps onto the curb and tugs the hem of his denim shirt down with little success. It is a little too small where the bottom hem meets his waistline, and so, it exposes a silver of his pale stomach. It also has a zipper down the middle that threatens to expose his chest with every movement. The collar dips far past the comfort zone where 'modest' becomes 'being a tease'.

Eli comes up behind them and snakes an arm around Felix's waist. Jisung can only awkwardly stand off to the side as he watches the two exchange a kiss and a giggle en route to the entrance.

"You'll be okay by yourself, right?" Felix shouts over the blaring pop music, a hand cupped over his ear. "Eli and I are gonna grab a room. I can stay with you if you want, though!"

Drunk teenagers linger everywhere: on the porch, the driveway, all throughout the foyer, and the kitchen. Alcohol is plentiful and freely distributed among partygoers wearing fewer clothes than Jisung is. The plastic cups lay half-full and abandoned here and there throughout the house. There are hands hiked up shirts and sliding down into skirts. Teenagers grind against one another to the tune of bass-boosted music.

'How can people possibly enjoy this?'

"Jisung!" Felix's voice pulls him away from his thoughts. "Hey, you don't mind if I let you fly solo tonight?"

Felix's hand trails a familiar path from Eli's jaw to his neck, down his arm, before slithering back up and tangling into his hair.

"I-I... Uh, yeah. Have fun!" A nervous laugh escapes when Felix and Eli lock lips without a care for Jisung's presence. "Don't... Don't worry about me."

Jisung doesn't stick around to watch much more than that, throwing a thumbs-up over his shoulder and making distance between them. He'd rather burn alive than stick around as Felix Lee's loser lapdog.

Unfortunately, independence leaves Jisung on the sidelines. Left to be stripped bare of his skin and judged by everyone in the vicinity. Forced to make fun to avoid looking like the loser everyone already knows he is. Forced to make fun out of this humid, presumably unbearable experience.

Still standing stiffly by the entrance and falling victim to shoves from eager partygoers, Jisung catalogs his surroundings.

THUMP! THUMPTHUMPTHUMP!

Dancing? Absolutely not.

Ba-DUMP. THUMP! THUMP! THUMPTHUMP!

Playing drinking games? Might kill him. Not yet.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

Grabbing a drink? Plausible. It might stifle the nerves that are slowly eating him alive.

BA-DUMP! BA-DUMP! BA-DUMP!

THUMPTHUMPTHUMP!

By the time Jisung has escaped the cruel game of sweaty Foosball — being ping-ponged between unsolicited ass bumps and unexpected shoves — his hand is violently twitching around an empty plastic cup.

All around him, blurry bodies bounce against each other to a rhythm he can't feel. There's a faceless crowd judging him for everything, he's sure of it. For wearing makeup. For having a singular friend. For being so fucking lonely. For being a virgin.

Who cares? He does.

One drink won't hurt. At least it'll help with loosening his inhibitions a bit and help him feel included.
　
According to Felix and subpar high school health classes, alcohol (in moderation) helps to calm the nerves.

"Getting a drink?"

'Hell no,' Jisung's brain answers before his mind can properly process it.

Jisung is on the verge of bursting out into nervous tears and this stupid bitch just had to speak to him. Great, fucking great. So, now he's going to embarrass the shit out of himself in front of this stranger and—

'Holy fuck.' In the least 'gay' way possible, this stranger is beautiful. 

Dark lashes flutter along the soft, rosy contours of high cheekbones (one of which is scarred). Irises shine under dimmed lighting and sparkle through deep browns or caramelized golds depending on the trick of the light. Brown hair spills in subtle waves that frame handsome features.

'This guy is not real. No fucking way.'

Like Jisung, the stranger's fingers are curled around a red plastic cup filled only halfway with foamy beer. The rim presses softly against his lips as he awaits Jisung's answer.

'Right my answer. I should do that now, right? Before this guy starts thinking I'm a freak—'

Jisung has a tough time getting the words out. His palms are already growing damp, and his lips are reduced to useless flaps of skin.

Everything is uncomfortable. His clothing is too tight. He's too hot, too dizzy, and this fucking handsome guy is staring at him, expecting him to say something...anything. Anything?

He squeaks out an answer...or something like it. Just a long "eeeeeeeh." As per usual, he doesn't sound sure of anything coming out his mouth. So, Jisung turns his gaze down to his shoes instead, flushing in embarrassment and praying that he doesn't look as idiotic as he feels.

"Are you...okay?"

Concern melts the brunet boy's expression. Like Jisung is a child in need of consolation. And while he is acting like a toddler who needs someone to cut their pizza slices into tiny squares, Jisung still feels patronized.

Even worse, he still hasn't gotten one coherent word out, and this guy is just staring at him with expectant brown eyes, like he knows Jisung wants to say something and will be patient enough to hear it. Fuck him.

"Do you...want me to...pour you a drink?" Brown eyes flit to the cup wrinkling in Jisung's hands. "You're kinda crushin' your cup."

When the realization hits him, Jisung releases his grip on the plastic and lets out a tiny gasp. A nervous laugh bubbles up from his chest, but it never makes it past his lips. It comes out sounding closer to a wheeze instead.

"O-Oh... Oops..."

"You don't have to be nervous around me, y'know." The corners of his lips tug upwards, and he lets a giggle slip. "'M chill, I swear. I'll pour you one cup and then I won't bother you, yeah?"

Jisung breaks into a pathetic nodding frenzy: a 'response' that draws an actual smile out of the brunet boy. And although it doesn't quite reach his eyes, he looks sweet. Sweet enough to convince Jisung that letting his guard down couldn't do much harm. Sweet enough for Jisung to hold his cup out just a few centimeters closer for the other to take.

A full minute of fumbling passes before the boy returns with a cup overflowing with frothy, purple, bubbly liquor. According to the Sharpie ink etched into the drink dispenser, this flavor goes by CHRIS BAHNG's PURPLE PaSsIoN!, which looks suspicious but still enticing enough to try.

Jisung flashes him a shitty excuse of a smile as thanks. Then, he raises the plastic rim to his lips.

Oh. Oh, fuck. Never mind. This tastes like shit, but it seems pretty alcoholic if the burn in his chest is anything to go off of. Jisung takes another sip. And then another. Then gulps and gulps until—

Until he's spitting up purple over the sink and gagging around the little alcohol that actually made its way down his throat.

A sparkling laugh rings out from the boy next to him. The tips of the brunet's ears are tinted red and his eyes disappear beneath the crescent moons of his smile.

"First time drinking?" He asks, all cute giggles and quirked eyebrows.

"I'm not... Well, yes. Kinda..." Jisung blurts out a somewhat coherent sentence. His insides kind of feel as though they've been replaced with boiling lava. "I-I've had wine during mass."

"Mm, 'cause I'm sure you're drinkin' enough to get fucked up for Sunday Service." An angelic smile and a swig of his own drink follows suit. "Name's Minho, by the way. And... Ah... I'll get you somethin' else."

Minho fills a quarter of the cup with the only non-alcoholic option available in the entire kitchen: fruit punch. A couple of ice cubes slide in afterwards before he tops the rest of the drink off with a water-dilution of the purple liquid. Jisung doesn't even realize that his hands are still twitching at his sides until Minho's fingertips brush over them.

"Relax." Minho's tone is so gentle it sounds more like a suggestion than an order. "'S generally not a good idea to poison someone in the middle of a party. You can trust me when I say it's safe."

"That's exactly what a murderer would say." After Jisung realizes he sounds far too serious and slightly ridiculous, he adds a soft "...Dumbass."

Minho laughs, but not in a conniving way, like he's poking fun at him. More in a, "wow, what you said was pretty funny," kind of way — and Jisung is not used to being funny. That usually falls under the categories reserved solely for Felix Lee. Minho's reaction is reassuring strangely. Or maybe Jisung is delusional, and it only feels less teasing because Minho's laugh is sweet like candy.

"Mmm," Jisung hums. The fruit punch is passable in taste, and it has that alcoholic way of warming his inside.

"So? How is it?"

"It's good. It's...uh... It's really nice of you to do this...for me..."

"You shouldn't be alone for your first time," Minho reasons between sips. "First-time drinkers can get really sick. Whoever brought you here should know that."

Jisung shifts on his feet and shuffles his sneakers against the tile. It seems odd to spill how his only friend brought him to a party without a second thought for him or his lack of experience with parties (or alcohol, in that matter). So, he keeps his response vague.

"My friend, Felix, he's..." Jisung traces the rim of his cup. "He just...got caught up with someone."

"You're with Felix Lee?" Minho clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and gives a knowing sigh. "Figures."

"You know him?"

"We're cousins." Minho explains. He takes a swig of his drink, leaving no sign he's planning to elaborate. "So... You must be Lix's friend. Jisung...Han?"

"Uh... Yeah. That's me. I, uh—" SMACK! "—oof!"

A foreign hand lands hard against Jisung's ass, eliciting a pitchy, choked-off noise.

Jisung's head spins over his shoulder with a speed so fast, he nearly loses his balance. He comes face-to-face with an unfamiliar redhead with smudged lipstick and droopy lids. Her stare darts down the length of Jisung's figure and rests somewhere along his midsection. He suddenly remembers what he's dressed in, and so, a tingling sensation ghosts his cheeks.

"Cute butt," she coos, far past the state of tipsy. "Call me if you ever wanna...ya'know...get togetha' sometime~!"

She bats her lashes when she speaks. One corner of her mouth tugs higher than the other in what must be meant as a sultry grin.

"Sorry about her, dude!" Her friend says, dragging the drunk chick away. "She just broke up with her boyfriend... Excuse her!"

"What...the...fuck...," Jisung mumbles, eyes blown to saucer size.

And Minho. Fucking Minho is laughing right next to him. It starts as little snickers of disbelief. Then, it develops into something so melodious that Jisung would prefer not to believe it's happening at his own expense. Minho wipes at nonexistent tears gathering in the corner of his eyes and shakes his head.

"Your pants! They've got fuckin' 'SPANK—," Minho's sentence breaks around a loud laugh, "—ME!' on the back..."

"...What?!"

The color drains straight from Jisung's face upon closer inspection in a window's reflection. It's printed across his ass like an advertisement for anyone interested in a quick whack or cop-a-feel. In huge, blocky lettering. SPANK ME. Clear as daylight. And suddenly, Jisung has the biggest urge to vomit.

'Felix Lee, you are so dead! Deader than dead! And when I get my fucking hands on you, you'll wish you were dead!'

'Ugh!'

"It's... I... It's not mine," Jisung stammers, face glowing as bright red as the plastic cup in his hands. "I'm uh... I... I'm... Felix gave it to me! I had no idea! I didn't wear it willingly!"

"Hey, hey. It's not like I care about what you put on your body." Minho takes another sip from his drink. "Wear whatever you'd like. Not my business what your preferences are."

"No—! My preference isn't..." Jisung groans, digging the heel of his palm into his forehead. "Shut up. Can we just pretend you never saw that? I'm begging you. Please?"

Minho smacks his lips together and feigns careful consideration. "Hm... 'M thinkin' about it."

It seems that Minho's mind is made when he strips out of his jacket, exposing the tight, black longsleeve shirt underneath. All cognitive processes in Jisung's brain effectively come to a screeching halt.

The material is practically painted onto Minho, stretching over his body and contouring the curves and edges of his figure. It leaves nothing to the imagination: not the lines of his stomach, nor the dip of his waist and the subtle swell of his hips—

'I'm drunk. I'm so fucking drunk that I find another man hot. Great.'

"Look, I can lend you this." Minho gestures to the jacket. "So, you don't look like a walking, talking advertisement for gay sex. Unless, that is, you wanna be?"

"N-No, absolutely not," Jisung stammers. "I'm straight. And sixteen."
　
Minho pokes fun at Jisung's panic with a sweet-sounding chuckle, his eyes crinkling into crescent moons and his shoulders shaking with laughter.

"Okay, 'Straight and Sixteen.'" Minho hums, amusement clear as day. "Noted."

Minho takes a step forward, draping the leather jacket over and around Jisung's waist. He ties it so that it resembles a makeshift skirt that covers the obscene, glittering lettering. It fits comfortably, smells faintly like cologne, and looks as though it's always belonged around Jisung's waist.

"There, looks good on you."

"...Thanks..."

"Don't sweat it. 'S chill."

There's a pause in the conversation. Neither of them move or talk, and Jisung assumes that Minho will soon be parting ways after helping him cover up his shameful predicament. Jisung wouldn't blame him, especially because there are countless other people worth talking to at Chris Bahng's house. Not someone socially incompetent and completely dull. But despite this, Minho makes no move to leave.

"Hey," Minho calls softly, fingers closing around Jisung's wrist. "Do you wanna...find a corner?"

"Huh?" Jisung croaks, staring at where their skin connects. "A corner?"

"A corner." Minho repeats as if it's obvious. "'S not a real party if you never hit the floor. Dancin' I mean. Do you dance?"

"No...? No. No. Never." Jisung draws his hands to his chest. "Can't. I'm...I'm not very coordinated and... And I definitely suck ass—"

"So? No one's good when they start." Minho swipes the cup from Jisung's hold, setting both of their drinks aside on the edge of the island counter. "Just relax and— hic!— have some fun, okay? 'M not expectin' perfection."

(A hiccup interrupts Minho mid-sentence. His cheeks flush pink and he giggles behind his palm, probably realizing that he's becoming pretty fucking intoxicated himself.)

Minho's touch is gentle, but his grip is firm. Before Jisung can protest any further, Minho tugs him into the crowded, sweaty living room. 'Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,' echoes in Jisung's mind. Their fingers connect through the gaps of strangers until, by some miracle, they find a corner fairly devoid of people.

"SOS" by Rihanna blares at max volume from oversized speakers. It's painfully loud. Not only are Jisung's ears ringing, but the floor pulses in time with each bass drop. He swears he might have already developed permanent hearing loss from the thirty minutes spent within the perimeter of this rager.

As for Minho? Well. He looks like he's in his element.

Jisung stares dumbly as Minho wraps his fingers around Jisung's wrists, guiding his arms skyward in a silent attempt at teaching. He's a bit starstruck. Jisung isn't sure whether Minho's this good because of prior knowledge or if he's somehow gained dancing skills from alcohol.

Either way, it doesn't matter, because holy shit.

Holy shit.

'Holy shit.'

"You can't look— hic!— hot and not know how to dance." Minho leans closer to Jisung's ear. "Move."

Hot?

Does Minho think he's hot? Does it matter if Minho thinks he's hot? Why would it matter if another guy finds him attractive? It doesn't! Of course it doesn't! Obviously, it doesn't matter because Jisung doesn't give a rat's ass what other boys think—

'Hot. Heh,' Jisung's drunken mind supplies, before a stupid smirk creeps onto his lips. 'You hear that? I'm hot!'  

Jisung has zero clue how dancing works. So, naturally, his immediate solution is to mimic whatever he sees in the background. That's how babies learn, isn't it? Apparently not. Because none of his moves look like dancing. He looks like a fish wriggling to free itself from a hook, he's sure of it.

"Ah... 너 진— hic!— 진짜 연습 필요하겠다." ("You seriously need practice.") Minho giggles behind the curve of his hand, face flushing baby pink. "근데, 네가... 귀, 귀여우니까... 괜— hic!— 괜찮아." ("But, it's okay 'cause you're cute.")

'Was that English just now or am I really drunk after one cup of alcohol?'

Jisung opts against embarrassing himself further by keeping the question tucked underneath his tongue. Better yet, he disregards communication altogether and tries his best to focus on imitating the shapes Minho's body creates.

His limbs still flail like a deranged octopus, and there's no visible improvement, but progress is meant to be slow. Baby steps. Baby steps.

"I'm going to get another drink," Jisung announces once a gap presents itself between songs.

He thinks this is what he's supposed to do. Dance, drink, dance, drink, dance, drink again.

"Mmmkay." Minho nods. "Want me to come with— hic!— 아이씨— you?" ("Aish")

"N-No... It's fine," Jisung assures, throwing a hand dismissively.

'I can get a damn drink by myself. I can!'

'Can't I...?'

Jisung leaves Minho to dance alone while he fights his way through hordes of drunken dancers. Eventually, he stumbles his way back into the kitchen.

Now that Minho's nowhere near the drinking station, Jisung pours his own shot. And by his own shot, he means he tips the nozzle down and waits until the cup is three-fourths full of alcohol. Drinking is the rite of passage, and Jisung has yet to get totally smashed. Fuck the fruit punch. Fuck moderation. Fuck everything that tastes remotely fruity or watered-down.

The first sip tastes less horrid than before, but the burn on his insides feels the same — maybe even a bit worse. Maybe. Jisung can't tell. Whatever. It doesn't matter anyway.

"Are you new around here?"

Some blond-haired, shirtless dude stands on the opposite side of the counter, fixing Jisung under an incredulous gaze. He has big muscles and looks like he could crush Jisung with his thumb alone. There are lipstick stains and obscene messages written in Sharpie ink all over his chest. 'I BAHNGED CHRIS' is scribbled a million times in tiny, smudged, sloppy fonts.

"Huh?" Jisung blinks. At the back of his mind, the realization dawns that this is the infamous Chris Bahng: the man responsible for this shitty, purple liquor. "Uhm..."

Jisung wipes at his mouth with the back of his forearm and tips the cup towards his lips once more.

"New. Y-Yeah, I guess you could say that," Jisung shrugs, the liquor dribbling a trail down his chin. "That's me."

Chris smiles crookedly. It's not very charming, nor very comforting. Neither is the way his hand slides around the counter, trailing towards where Jisung's hand grips the neck of the drink dispenser. Both Chris' smile and proximity make Jisung want to duck beneath his arms and slither off somewhere else. Anywhere else.

"Nice threads," Chris plucks the lip of Jisung's borrowed jacket with his forefinger. "You come here with SWB?"

"SWB...?"

"Ya'know. Brown hair? About yay-tall? Has a massive scar goin' on his face? That's SWB. Don't know why we call 'im that, we just do. Pro'lly 'cause he has sex with boys."

"Oh..."

"You his friend?"

Jisung makes a noncommittal noise in a response. Is he friends with Minho? He doesn't know. Unfortunately, it only urges Chris to continue.

"He's a fuckin' queer and works in a gay-ass bakery with his Grams," Chris continues. His disdain is ironic, given that it's coming from someone who's fucked Felix Lee. "I'd be careful bein' friends with guys like him. Those fags try to force themselves on ya', 'n make you gay 'n shit."

An acrid feeling worms its way beneath Jisung's flesh. It reminds Jisung vaguely of an allergic reaction, like an itch or a burn. It's almost impossible to ignore. He forces himself to stay rooted to the spot when his gut tells him to leave. When the sickly heat grows to unbearable temperatures, Jisung tips his cup back and gulps down the entire drink.

("Those fags try to force themselves on ya', 'n make you gay 'n shit.")

It didn't seem like Minho was trying to make Jisung gay, but what if he was? What if there was an ulterior motive festering beneath his friendliness the entire time?

Jisung shakes the thoughts from his mind, or, tries to. He fills another cup, pouring with less caution than the last round.

"And 'M not even homophobic," Chris adds, albeit belatedly. "My parents voted for Bush. So, I'm tolerant, y'know? But SWB's got a reputation..."

Alcohol makes Jisung's syllables come out sloppy.

"A repu...reputation?"

"Yeah. 'M jus' warnin' ya'. Be careful," Chris warns, clapping a hand on Jisung's bare shoulder. "He's good at havin' his fun with newbies like you."

Something sour burns at the back of Jisung's throat. It all makes sense now: Minho's weirdly generous attitude towards him. Him lending a hand for no apparent reason. Him taking Jisung under his wing and teaching him how to dance, or at least attempting to. All of this is just so Minho can  use him for a night. A toy for his entertainment. Nothing more.

How stupid could Jisung possibly be? There's no way someone like Minho would settle for being platonic with Jisung. (Minho, with his smile that could whisk anyone into doing anything he asked for. Minho, who approaches vulnerable boys at parties.)

"I'll... keep that...uh, yeah. Mind. Got it. Kinda."

"Good choice." Chris snorts as he helps himself to a handful of potato chips. "Don't wantcha' endin' up bent by a limp-wrist pansy."

Once Chris is gone, the voices that normally whisper in Jisung's head are screaming. They're yelling about everything. Minho wanting to get inside his pants, Minho being a filthy sodomite, Minho being one of those disgusting fairies that Jisung's dad rages about over family dinners. They tell him how sick it is that Minho wants him. Another man.

In a futile attempt to silence them, Jisung guzzles down alcohol. One drink turns into four cups, and suddenly five, and then six— and then the world is spinning a bit too fast for Jisung's comfort.

Frustration is bubbling up and sparking all over Jisung's skin. Anger is spilling from the pot and turning his veins into lighter fluid.

("Those fags try to force themselves on ya', 'n make you gay 'n shit.")

Jisung fills another cup to the brim with purple fluid. Steam blows past his ears.

("'M jus' warnin' ya'. Be careful. He's good at havin' his fun with newbies like you.")

Jisung storms his way back into the living room, pushing bodies out his path in the direction of the corner they've claimed. He's greeted by shitty strobe lights, the pounding base of shitty pop music, and far too many fucking people grinding up on each other. Just before his patience wears thin, Jisung spots the familiar shape of Minho. Or 'SWB' — whatever the hell Chris called him.

Jisung! You were takin' forever!" Minho shouts over the blasting stereo system, all smiles and bright eyes. "Thought you fuckin' died—"

SPLASH!

Alcohol sloshes onto Minho's collarbones, staining his shirt in a dark, wet patch. Translucent, purple liquid splatters onto his face and actively runs down his cheeks until it meets his neck. Minho gapes, horrified. Something tells Jisung that behind that innocent façade, there's something lecherous waiting for the chance to take advantage of him. He's sure of it.

"What the fu—"

"You're gay." It comes out before Jisung can register what he's saying. "You're... You're... gay, right?"

Minho licks alcohol from his lower lip and blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice. "...Yeah? 'N why's it matter to you?"

"It matters because—"

("Those fags try to force themselves on ya', 'n make you gay 'n shit.")

("Don't wantcha' endin' up bent by a limp-wrist pansy.")

Jisung inhales so sharply that it chokes back the rest of his sentence.

"It matters because...what? 'M not allowed to like boys?" Minho raises an eyebrow and wipes at his face with the back of his hand. "Look... Do you wanna' get back to dancing or—?"

"I'm not—" Jisung gnaws on the inside of his cheek. "I'm not gonna dance with a..."

("Fag." "Limp-wrist pansy." "Fuckin' queer.")

Minho's eyebrows raise with slight surprise. Then, he barks out a single laugh. "With a what? Huh?"

"...with a gay guy. 'Cause... 'Cause it's—!"

Minho's irises turn to daggers. Words dissolve on Jisung's tongue and are reduced to pathetically broken stammers.

Without warning, Minho's fingers latch around Jisung's wrist in a bruising hold. Panic flows through his veins as Minho forcibly drags him outside of the crowd and into the hallway. Each breath cuts sharper than the last.

Where the fuck is Minho taking him? To murder him and dispose of his corpse somewhere no one can find?

❤︎

To his surprise, Minho takes them directly to Chris' front lawn. Breathing comes easier outside and the air is cooler against the wildfire that runs along Jisung's skin.

The crescent moon can be glimpsed here and there through breaks in the cloud cover, though it's mainly obscured by the pitter-patter of incoming downpour. The wind sweeps through the streets, rustling stray debris and trash strewn along the lawn.

"Go ahead." Minho folds his arms across his chest and glowers. "Say it. Now. Say whatever the fuck you wanted to say in— hic!— side."

Despite the interruption of a few hiccups, there's no waver or hesitation in Minho's voice. All the honey and sweetness melt to something black, caustic, lethal.

"I-I..." Jisung's hands curl into fists at his sides. "You can be gay all you want but I-I'm not one of you. I'm.... I'm gonna make my parents proud someday."

"Okay...?" Minho snorts. "Good for fuckin' you. 'S not like I'd expect otherwise from— hic!— you, Straight-'n-Sixteen. What? Did you think I wanna fuck you? Is that it?"

Jisung doesn't respond, which apparently is the worst response. It's met with Minho cackling cruelly, like he's been let in on a private joke no one else knows. Like he finds some type of morbid amusement in this scenario.

"Holy fuck, I was right. You did!" Minho snaps, voice dripping in mockery. "God, how many cups did'ja pour back? Two? Three— hic!— three hundred?"

"Fuck you—"

"Look. Just 'cause you're dressed in 'fuck-me jeans,' doesn't mean I wanna fuck you," Minho quips, making vague gestures in Jisung's general direction. "'Cause, newsflash, I don't."

"But Chris—"

"Chris Bahng? Is that who you got this fuckin' idea from?" Minho's features twist in distaste. "Chris has fucked more guys than I will in my whole fuckin' lifetime. If there's anyone handin' out STDs like— hic!— Halloween candy, it's that bitch. He's a fuckin' hypocrite."

Minho pauses, brows furrowing and lips thinning to pale lines. Raindrops begin falling steadily around them, picking up speed as time passes.

"Minho—"

"Nah. 'S whatever." Minho sighs and scrubs a hand across his face, letting his smile fall flat. "I'm goin' back inside. Do not fuckin' follow me."

As soon as Minho is out of sight, the storm begins.

Thunder roars in the distance, the clouds rolling over the sky and darkening the summer night even further. Jisung stands alone in the pouring rain, clothes plastered to his skin and his hair soaked to the roots.

'What's wrong with me?'

Jisung thinks he deserves this: the torrential downpour that leaves his cheeks glistening. It's his fault. It's all his fault.

Minho doesn't spare another glance when the front door slams shut, leaving Jisung alone with the thunder.

❤︎

It's "fun in a bottle," or, at least, Jisung assumes alcohol is when it burns another trail down the back of his throat. Felix thinks so. Chris Bahng thinks so. Minho probably thinks so. It leaves sparks to settle beneath Jisung's skin: fizzing, and popping, and bubbling up in liquor-laden laughter.

Alcohol sells a promise: a guarantee of freedom that lightens the chest. Alcohol advertises courage. Alcohol epitomizes fun. Fun, fun, fun—

"Are you wasted?" SLAP! Slap! "H-Hey, Earth to Jisung..."

Back inside Chris' house, Jisung realizes just how fucking smashed he truly is.

The walls tilt, then spin, then stretch towards the ceiling like taffy, or putty, or clay. Yeah, clay. Stretching like clay as it warps and bends out of shape. The floorboards sway beneath Jisung's feet, sloping downward, then upward, then downward again. Colors smear together. His heartbeat hammers between his temples. Everything spins, and it doesn't stop, not even when it feels like the universe might collapse beneath him.

Jisung can't think. Not properly. Can barely form coherent thoughts. Barely registers Felix's voice floating somewhere overhead.

Slap! Slap! Slap!

"Hey... Jisung?"

Rainwater leaks from Jisung's clothing, sticking to him like a second skin and leaving tiny lakes scattered throughout the kitchen. People bump against his shoulders as if he doesn't exist, but shoot dirty looks in his direction because he does. Because he's more than Felix Lee's loser lapdog when Purple PaSsIoN is pumping through his veins. Because he's somebody, and he's free, and the opinions of others don't matter anymore. His body is weightless, drifting to-and-fro amidst a sea of swaying teenagers.

SLAP! Slap. Again. SLAP! And again.

"Hmmgh?" Jisung garbles, rubbing where pain forms as a red splotch on his cheek. "'M... 'm here... S...Stop— Stop it!"

"Fuckin' hell," Felix scoffs. "You're totally shitfaced. C'mon. I'm takin' you home before you get sick...or start strippin' for pennies. Let's go."

"H-Hmph," Jisung huffs, droopy-eyed as Felix ushers him away from the liquor station. "Dun' wanna'... Mmm' tired... Needa... Needa lay down..."

'Need to...lay down....'

'So...tired...'

'Sleepy...'

'Ugh...'

Exhaustion makes Jisung's eyelids fall shut, knees buckling as gravity pulls his body close. There's a moment where Jisung is careening forward, ready to make out with Chris' dirt-stained hardwood floors. And then— WHAM—

Darkness.

Pitch black. Lights out.

...

Time skips. As soon as Jisung is about to crash into the floor, his eyes peel open. Somehow, he's back in Felix Lee's bedroom.

There's no white light waiting for Jisung at the end of the tunnel. There's no golden gate swinging open for him. Instead, there is a fucking white ceiling littered with popcorn-like acne. There are no harp-playing angels floating in the space above this bed. Instead, there's the fuzzy outline of chiseled abs slapped onto a poster hanging from the wall. Instead, there's a dim-lit bedroom filled with the faint echo of retching. It wouldn't be so bad if Jisung could feel anything other than a stabbing agony between his temples.

There is a distinct reason the law states that people mustn't drink until they're 21 or older (though trashy TV flicks would tell a different story). As Jisung lies curled up in a bed that isn't his own, he understands the law a little more.

Sunlight is cruel and unforgiving, spilling through Felix's curtains, burning through the cracks between Jisung's eyelids. Everything hurts: from the splitting migraine raging against Jisung's skull, to his store muscles, to his scratchy throat and sandpaper tongue. A particularly nasty paroxysm of sick surges to the forefront of his nausea.

'Ugh.'

The mattress squeak!s under Jisung's weight, the sound grating against his ears and only exacerbating the headache that has made a home for itself in the base of his skull. It's as if a thousand tiny hammers are hacking away, constructing his skull into a deformed sculpture. It hurts. Fuck, does it hurt.

Jisung attempts to roll over and pull a pillow over his head. Despite his best efforts, sleep refuses to return. Minutes pass like hours in the prison that is Jisung's throbbing brain. His lips part around a groan.

'What the hell happened last night?'

Everything is so...disjointed. Bits and pieces of memories float aimlessly in his skull: severed puzzle pieces lost to oblivion. Strobe lights. SPANK ME. Drunken redheads groping his ass. A storm rolling over a starless sky, pouring and pouring until everything was soaked through. Music pulsing through his veins. Brown hair. Big eyes. Honeyed voice.

'And alcohol,' Jisung notes, disgusted as he runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth. 'Lots of it.' Finer details of the evening remain elusive, lost somewhere behind the throbbing wall of mind fog and confusion.

"Oh. Great. You're not— cough!— dead."

Felix stumbles into his line of vision, blond hair slicked to his forehead and skin looking paler than usual. He slides the curtains until they're fully open to allow even more sunlight in. It sends another wave of sickness crashing into Jisung's body.

"Fuck...you...," Jisung groans. He pulls the cover over his head. "Close them."

"Well, suck it up. 'S almost noon," Felix huffs, arms folded at his chest. "Ain't nobody told you to get fuckin' trashed."

"Noon?"

"Noon."

"But—" Jisung flails to sit up. "But I was s'posed to be back home by three at the latest—"

"Unh-unh. You should've seen yourself last night," Felix grunts, knocking a fist on Jisung's rib cage. 'Uh oh.'

"You were completely fucked up—"

'Uh oh. Oh, God'

"—When you started puking into the bushes—"

'Oh, God. Oh, God'

"—I considered callin' the cops for like...alcohol poisonin' or something."

'OhGodI'mFuckingDoneFor.'

Panic squeezes Jisung's lungs and smothers him alive.

If Jisung wasn't feeling nauseous enough before, this most certainly sends him hurling towards the edge. Tears threaten to burst, and it takes every fiber of self-restraint within Jisung's body to hold them at bay. This is it. He's going to be grounded for all eternity (or, at least until he dies from the lethal combination of a hangover and severe anxiety).

At least the ground hasn't swallowed Jisung whole yet. He's not sure if he's happy about that fact. In fact, it still seems that the floor is contemplating whether Jisung's mistakes are bad enough to warrant his premature death.

Death is easier than facing William Han.

"How could you let me do something so stupid?! I've never had a drink before in my life!"

Jisung lifts from the mattress, struggling against his weight to glare at his best friend. His accusatory finger wavers in the air like a faulty gun aimed for Felix's jugular.

"This is all your fault!"

"Whoa! My fault?" Felix bites back defensively. "I'll say it again: I never asked you to get hammered! You're s'posed to be the responsible one, Ji-sung Han."

And Jisung usually is, except... He wasn't.

"I..." Jisung buries his head in his hands and lets out a defeated sigh. "Just— Just...fuck. Where's my phone?"

He peeks through the gaps in his fingers and catches Felix nodding at the bedside table. The device sits between a box of tissues, a bottle of lotion, and atop a men's magazine. Various scratches decorate the plastic case, although the worst damage is on the screen itself. A giant crack splits diagonally from corner to corner: a spider web of shatter marks protruding in all directions.

A whimper slips past Jisung's lips as he fishes for his phone: a Motorola RAZR V3. Its blue LCD screen illuminates at a single touch. Once it fully boots up, it's clear that there's no escaping impending doom.

At least 50 missed calls await Jisung's attention, most of them coming from "Ms. Celine" (Moirah Celine: the household assistant of the Han family). The rest of the voicemails are attributed to William Han himself. I​​f Jisung hadn't been holding his breath before, he sure is now.

BEEP!

"Jisung. Why aren't you picking up? Your father is starting to panic..."

BEEP!

"Jisung Han. This is your father speaking. You need to call me back this instant, or I swear to God I'll—"

SNAP!

"—And...that's enough," Felix decides, snatching the device from Jisung's trembling hold. "Ji', c'mon. Snap outta' it. They'll forgive you. And then, they'll buy you a new phone 'cause rich people do rich-people shit like that and...."

Felix's voice trails off until it is no more than buzzing static. There's not much Felix can say or do to placate Jisung's nerves, nor dilute the dread settling into his bones. If anything, it's as if Felix's words are making everything worse. More worrisome. More daunting. More real.

'Well, this is it,' Jisung figures miserably. He'll never see the light of day ever again. Goodbye, summer. Hello 3 months full of captivity.

Jisung's stomach lurches. A roil of sick climbs up his esophagus and presses against his uvula, threatening to spill at any given moment. With a desperate, choking noise, Jisung bolts for the bathroom.

It smells like vomit. It also smells like lemon scented Mr. Clean, pine tree car fresheners, and floral-scented pot-pourri. Probably an attempt made by Ms. Pepper in covering up the reek of teenage drunkenness. Judging that the scent of last night's party is still going strong, the efforts weren't terribly effective. Fortunately, Jisung makes it just in time before he paints the inside of Felix's toilet with puke.

Dry heaves echo throughout the empty bathroom, reverberating off the tiles in unpleasant, guttural bursts. It's as if some entity is clawing and tearing at his insides and scraping the inside of his throat. By the time the episode ends, his stomach aches as if he's been punched square in the diaphragm. Even after flushing it all away, the stench is enough to burn holes in Jisung's nostrils.

Gross, gross, gross.

With the strength of an infant, Jisung slams his fist into the toilet lever and lets his head drop. He silently begs for death to arrive already and put him out of his misery. Naturally, Jisung isn't so lucky.

"You okay?" Felix asks, though he's already answered his own question at the sight of Jisung hunched over the toilet bowl.

He runs his palm across the expanse of Jisung's quivering shoulders.

"Obviously," Jisung responds in a hoarse croak, "not."

Felix hums sympathetically and passes Jisung a small cup of water. Jisung accepts with shaking hands and downs the glass in two big gulps. Unfortunately, his body rejects it. It burns its way back up and resurfaces as an acidic mixture of saliva and bile.

Felix offers an identical glass a second time, but Jisung swats the offer aside in favor of resting his head on the seat. It smells horrendous — like bile, and vomit, and a vague trace of urine — but it's nice and cold. It's a balm against Jisung's feverish cheeks.

Maybe you should take a shower," Felix suggests gently. "Do you...need me to help you?"

"I dunno... I..." Jisung swallows down another wave of bile. "Can you, like...turn it on?"

While Jisung gathers the energy to peel off his sweat-crusted clothes, Felix fiddles with the knobs in the shower. Soon, water gurgles through rusty pipes and shoots forth from the showerhead in heavy sprays. There's no pleasant white noise that follows. The water smacks against the porcelain in loud spurts, only worsening Jisung's migraine.

"C'mere." Felix offers an arm for support. He helps Jisung stand from the floor. "Hold on to me. I'll get these off."

Felix makes quick work of the damp, ripped jeans pooled around Jisung's ankles, then tosses them to the corner of the room. There, the clothing lies forgotten alongside the rest of their dirty laundry. Minus the Spiderman boxer-briefs sitting snug, he's left mostly bare from the waist below.

"C'mon." Felix motions to the stall. "Get cleaned up. Try to make it quick. Ma's makin' tea. Oh! And don't throw up in there."

Then, he's gone.

With nothing left to do but what he's told, Jisung tosses the denim crop and steps beneath the showerhead. Jisung braces his arms against the mildewed walls and closes his eyes. Water ricochets against his chest, sliding between creases in his rib cage and traveling south. The sensation alone soothes the ache embedded within Jisung's core.

Memories drip from the ceiling. They melt against Jisung's body and leak through the drain beneath his feet. Slowly, bit by bit, the pieces assemble themselves in his brain:

He's stumbling outside in the middle of a rainstorm. He's watching brown hair stick to flushed cheeks and a face contorting into an angry expression.

("You're gay.")

Eyelashes painted with silver moonlight, sharp features doused in the shadows.

("Yeah? And why's it matter to you?")

Hands clenched into fists, knuckles paling from the force.

("I'm not gonna dance with a...")

Then, he's watching brown hair stick to flushed cheeks, a face contorting in betrayal. There's rainwater running down a defined jawline, soaking through a black, skin-tight shirt. The boy provokes Jisung to "say it," and then...

("I'm gonna make my parents proud someday.")

Jisung's hand flies to his mouth. Guilt claws its way up his sternum and stabs into his heart. 'I said that. ISaidThat. Why the fuck did I say that?' Guilt brings a sour taste to his mouth. That, or maybe it's the dark, semi-translucent liquid dripping over his lips and bringing a chemical taste to his taste buds.

Wait... What?

Black liquid trickles through the gaps in his fingers. His hands look as if they've been dipped in ink, or paint, or something else along those lines. So... Is it a stain? On his palms? No, wait. It's not just his palms. It's dripping down his torso where he scrubbed earlier, collecting soap bubbles and grime along the way.

Jisung steps away from the stream of water in search of answers. The curtain is a pain to drag open, but once he does, he meets his foggy reflection in the mirror. There are dark smudges on his chest: letters, words, sentences (...names?) written in sloppy handwriting.

'I'M A F...RY... A... I F...KED S.W.B.' is written in Sharpie on his chest. His stomach somersaults. It threatens to twist his intestines into knots as the implication sinks in.

'I'M A F(AI)RY A(ND) I F(UC)KED S.W.B.' For a fleeting moment, it feels as if he might puke up his innards. Bile burns the tip of Jisung's tongue.

("Ya'know. Brown hair? About yay-tall? That's SWB.")

No. No.

("Don't know why we call 'im that, we just do. Pro'lly 'cause he has sex with boys.")

Memories are pouring from the ceiling now, raining over Jisung's figure and racing down his back. Words. Faces. Places. Names.

"Those fags try to force themselves on ya', 'n make you gay 'n shit." )

He recalls people bumping into his shoulders and shooting him dirty looks while passing through the kitchen. There were clusters of friends shouting slurred words at each other, throwing food, and making a mess with beer bottles all over the tile floors. They laughed in Jisung's face when he drank too much and stumbled out of the house. They were laughing at him, right? Because he's pathetic, and he deserves it, and—

'Oh my God.'

The writing etched into Jisung's flesh explains what happened better than any recollection ever could. Because it means he touched another man.

Jisung scrubs frantically until it's impossible to tell whether tears or soap bubbles are running down his cheeks.

❤︎

By the time Jisung musters enough courage to leave Felix's en suite bedroom, he's fully dressed and armed to-the-teeth with nerves.

He found his yellow sweater amidst the stacks of clothing articles in Felix's room, so it's the first thing he throws on, hoping to disguise the Sharpie-stains on his chest. Back in the shower, he scrubbed them until they washed away with the other grime on his body, but the words still feel there. He finds himself obsessively checking for smudges or streaks every few seconds.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Don't cry. 'You know Hans don't cry.'

With shaky hands, Jisung runs his palms over his clothes in search of imperfections or wrinkles. He does this as if it'll change anything, but somehow it eases the worry clouding his mind. Even if it's only a fraction, it's welcome.

When Jisung takes the stairs down to the diner, he spots Felix perched on a bar stool with a piping cup of chamomile waiting in front of him. Across the countertop, Ms. Pepper prepares pancakes while her husband sips coffee and watches whatever broadcast appears on the small, ancient-looking television set.

Jisung's presence in the doorway brings a sudden silence to the household. All eyes find him, whether it's from across the counter, from behind the TV, or sitting on a barstool. Something uncomfortable churns beneath his bellybutton.

'They know. OhGod, they know.'

'They know I'm a freak who got drunk and...did things...with a...'

"Mornin'," Felix greets. There's nothing remarkable in his expression, which provides zero clues as to what might come next. "Feelin' better?"

Not knowing what else to do, Jisung nods dumbly and inches towards Felix's side.

'What will I tell my parents?'

'I'm a disappointment,' he decides inwardly. 'I go to parties...I get super drunk...and I do things with...with—'

"Jisung! Finally! Here, sweetheart." Ms. Pepper gestures towards a stool across the kitchen counter. She sets down a cup of steaming tea alongside a plate topped with a short stack of pancakes. "Eat."

Despite the overwhelming urge to decline, Jisung sinks into the proffered spot and mutters gratitude.

It's difficult to find his appetite with a flock of worries gnawing away at his internal organs. Even with ample time passed since Jisung last emptied the contents of his stomach, sickness crawls over the bridge of his tongue and brings an acrid taste.

'My dad. Shit, my Dad...and...my mom...Oh, God.'

("I'm gonna make my parents proud someday.")

'OhMyFuckingGod—'

CLINK!

Jisung tries not to dwell on those thoughts as he cuts his pancake into bite-sized chunks, but it's hard. Thoughts are impossible to shake once they've made a home for themselves inside his skull. Dread takes up residence in the deepest crannies of Jisung's brain, keeping him wide awake even when exhaustion blurs the corners of his vision.

He can already picture William Han's face twisted into an angry frown: bushy eyebrows pinching together, thick arms crossed tightly over his chest, and hazel irises aflame with anger. Perhaps his father will only be furious at first — but perhaps he'll be disgusted later. Disgusted that his son is gay...or whatever sexual orientation fits the criteria for letting another man touch your dick.

"You gonna eat that food, Ji?" comes a distant voice.

"Huh?"

Jisung shakes off the guilt weighing heavy on his chest, blinking his surroundings into view. Right. Pancakes. Food. Eating. He takes a bite. Then another. Another.

Before long, he realizes he doesn't feel very well again. It happens right after Ms. Pepper slides Jisung's phone across the countertop.

"We was just on the phone with your daddy," Ms. Pepper says, wiping wet hands on the hem of her apron. "Told 'im that you and Lix were very safe last night. Ain't nothin' for him to be worried about!"

Jisung pales. He wails out a: "What?"

"Yeah, he's a good one. Real sweet guy. Said that he would've let you go to the party if you just asked 'im."

Her smile is gentle. Comforting. Reassuring. It only serves to worsen the storm raging in Jisung's head.

William Han has perfected the art of wearing masks and of playing pretend. Jisung knows damn well that once his ass crosses the threshold leading inside their mansion, all hell will break loose. William Han will reveal his true colors. Ms. Moirah Celine will cluck disapprovingly under her breath. His mother will catch wind and send him a choice-worded voicemail the next morning. She will threaten being pulled from public school, threaten being sent to Korea, just threaten.

'Everyone will hate me,' Jisung realizes, swallowing around the bitter lump building in his esophagus. 'Everyone will hate me because I'm pathetic, and I don't listen, and I fuck up all the time, and—'

'—And I should respond.'

"Yeah?" he squeaks, poking his fork around the leftover pancake bits scattered on his plate. "He said that?"

"Sure did!" Mr. Lee chirps from where he sits watching the television. "You've got a great dad, Jisung-ah."

Jisung pulls a grin over his lips. It stretches awkwardly for a moment, so he adds some teeth to seem genuine. He pulls it wider when it doesn't feel like it's enough, allowing his eyes to squint into crescents. Still not enough. Jisung yanks his grin higher until it stings. Until it's perfect.

("Jisung Han. This is your father speaking. You need to call me back this instant, or I swear to God I'll—")

"Mhm!" Jisung offers a fervent nod and a small laugh. "I really do."

❤︎

"What were you thinking?!"

Predictably, William Han doesn't stick to the script written by Ms. Pepper. Instead of appearing understanding, he looks close to blowing a fuse as he storms into the living room. His hair sticks out in odd directions, his tie dangles loosely around his neck, and his expensive suit is askew on his frame. They're all indicators that he left his office in a hurry.

"I knew that Lee kid was a terrible influence on you! I thought you had more common sense than that!"

Jisung watches as his father struggles to form sentences. William falters for a moment before settling on a deep frown.

"Drinking! Are you stupid?!"

"No, father... I—"

"No, father," William mocks, narrowing his eyes into a razor-sharp glare. "But I have to disagree, Jisung! I think you are pretty fucking stupid! To go to some stupid party with all those idiots— What about college?! Do you think any Ivy League school would accept someone who sneaks out behind his parents' backs to drink?!"

Jisung stares at his lap. His nails dig half-moons into his palm, reminding him to hold himself together and maintain composure. 'Hans don't cry.' 'So don't fucking cry—' It grows increasingly harder to ignore the heat searing behind his eyes and through his tear ducts. 'Don't. Don't—' Brick-by-brick Jisung crumbles beneath the intensity of his father's anger.

"Do you?" William barks out. When there's no response, he raises his volume tenfold and demands again: Answer me! Do you?!"

"No...," Jisung croaks. Tears prick at his waterline as his voice cracks again. "They wouldn't..."

"And why wouldn't they?"

"Because...because..." Jisung hates how his voice warbles as his world crashes down. Everything is too much: the verbal assault, his migraine, his guilt. "Because... I'm...stupid..." 'And disgusting.' "...and I don't use my brain. And stupid kids don't go to college."

William's scowl twists further.

"If you keep hanging around that crowd, you are going to turn out just like them: a complete and total waste of air," William spits. "You'll amount to nothing. Understood?"

Jisung lifts his chin. Through his tears, his father remains fuzzy. Just looking at him brings more shame than Jisung can handle.

"Y-Yes, father. Understood." Finally, a tear races down Jisung's cheek. It stings as it runs down his face and drips off the edge of his nose. He rushes to wipe it away. "I-I'm sorry."

Just go to your fucking room. Leave your phone on the table," William spits, dismissing his son with the wave of a hand. "Ms. Celine will be up with your dinner tonight. God knows I don't want to see you."

Jisung nods quietly. Once he deposits his phone in William's hand, he scurries past his father's seething figure and climbs the staircase. He wipes furiously at his face as he goes, ignoring Ms. Celine's questioning gaze trailing him from the foot of the stairs.

There's barely any time to lock his bedroom door before everything spills over. Tears flow faster than Jisung can swipe them away. Snot bubbles from his nostrils in a pathetic display of ugly-crying. Once the gates are open, it's nearly impossible to bring everything back under control.

So...

'It's okay, father.'

'I wouldn't want to see myself either.'

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ JUNE, 2006
The Pilot

　　　 Imagine looking into a mirror and seeing not just your reflection, but everything that makes you human...

Monotonous and blatantly mocking him, a computer cursor blinks on Jisung's screen. It's a reminder that the open Word document needs to be filled with something other than an introductory sentence. Frustrated fingers trail across the smooth planes of Jisung's face, dragging out a sigh as he rakes them through the roots of his black hair.

A string of fitting adjectives run through his head, each word relating to how he looks and feels after being sentenced to four weeks of solitary confinement (also known as "grounded"):

Tired. Sore. Bored. Lonely.

At least, that is what he sees whenever his reflection peers back from the mirror clipped to the wall. After deciding that his mirrored image is pitiful, Jisung turns his attention back to the computer screen.

　　 ...Consider your values, fears, dreams, and experiences. What parts of yourself do you embrace, and which parts are you still trying to understand?

Writing prompts are meant to lie as the stepping stones to college admission. However, this prompt looks less like a stepping stone and more like the Great Wall of China. Or maybe the Red Sea, because it does a great job of forming an entire ocean between himself and his goals. Or maybe it's some other metaphorical barrier built for making Jisung Han's life miserable.

　　 Write a personal essay exploring this idea. Who are you? What defines your identity? How are you human?

Jisung grits his teeth until they strain under the pressure. After three hours of staring blankly into the white abyss known as Microsoft Word, Jisung can safely say that he made zero tangible progress. Zero effort was given, so there are zero results to reap. Go figure.

　　I am Jisung...|

Delete.

　　My identity is shaped...|

Delete.

　　Looking in the mirror...|

Delete, delete, delete.

'Ugh.'

Jisung's hands hover over the keys, fingers twitching with nerves that cause a slight sweat to break out at his hairline. His reflection glows faintly on the glossy screen of his computer: tired eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses, hair that hasn't been properly styled in days, and a rumpled hoodie falling off his shoulder.

Every aspect of his appearance is sloppy, dull, and unmemorable. It's a stark contrast to the hyper-groomed version of Jisung that's been shoved into pristine suits and forced to attend random events since he was thirteen.

Type. Type. Type, type, type— Delete.

For the fifth time today, Jisung deletes a paragraph and starts anew. Then, the cycle continues.

Click! Clack!

He types, then deletes his stupid thoughts, then types again. Words dissolve. Letters rearrange themselves on the screen. Nothing is cohesive anymore. Everything exists in fragments of syllables floating aimlessly on a Word document. Nothing is good enough.

'...Who am I?'

A question as simple as this leaves Jisung wondering if it's acceptable to rip up the application guide he got in the mail, spit on the torn pieces, and chuck it somewhere else.

How does someone who's never been their own person describe their identity? How can you write about somebody you're not familiar with, nor do you care to learn about? How can you articulate who you are when everything you know about yourself was prescribed by someone else?

After all, Jisung is nobody. He has no interests. No goals. No aspirations. Just expectations like endless mountains looming above him, their peaks out-of-sight and their structures too difficult to climb.

Identity. What is identity?

Jisung can list his accomplishments, his accolades, and his grade-point-average. He can describe the Han family legacy and his place within it. He can outline his extracurricular activities, his community service hours, his proficiency in piano, and love for mathematics. But none of that answers the fundamental question posed by the Harvard application committee: Who is Jisung Han?

'...Who am I supposed to be?'

More importantly, what kind of person does Harvard University want him to be? Maybe if he takes all the elements of himself, rips them out, and sticks the best parts back together with superglue, he'll end up being someone interesting enough to get accepted. Someone worthwhile. Someone who's not...

("...a complete and total waste of air.")

Click! Clack!

Jisung drags a few words onto the screen. Then, he deletes them. Types something else. Deletes that, too. After spending a solid minute staring holes into his computer, Jisung drops his head on his desk with a loud THUNK!. Give him trigonometry equations, please! Ask him to analyze poems with bizarre, nonsensical meaning! He can do that!

Math makes sense. Numbers make sense. They have concrete answers, no matter how long it takes to solve the equation itself. Identity is intangible. Messy. Complex. There are millions of answers. What makes things worse is that none of them are good enough. Not for his parents, not for himself, and most certainly, not for Harvard.

Jisung groans and knocks his head against the desktop several times. THUD! THUNK! THUNK!

Ever since being put on lockdown following his misbehavior, Jisung's entire world has narrowed down to four white walls and a computer screen. Time seems to pass differently inside this space. Every second feels like an hour, every minute feels like an eternity, and days pass slower than years. All he ever does is stare at a blank Word Document titled 'Application Essay' and type until the sun dips beneath the horizon.

Usually, essays aren't this difficult. Usually, he has a general idea of what's supposed to appear on the page in front of him. Usually—

Fuck it. Jisung needs a break. Just a momentary escape from the blank page that demands more honesty than he can bear.

Click! Click!

Jisung minimizes the document and opens a new tab in his web browser. Internet Explorer whirs in loading before popping into existence. Jisung scans through websites he's bookmarked during late-night sessions filled with sleep-deprived curiosity.

YouTube: probably the best invention of the century, in Jisung's humble opinion. Jisung has spent most of his grounded days camped in his desk chair, clicking through video after video in an endless stream of entertainment.

Yahoo! Answers. Jisung sometimes delves into the many forums, hoping to find funny memes to send Felix. Unfortunately, it only leads him down a spiral of unproductive, wasted time scrolling endlessly through posts.

MySpace. Felix forced him to make an account, and it kind of just...stuck. Jisung mostly uses the site to send messages to Felix every once in a while. They never go past general chit chat; Jisung prefers hearing about Felix's days than divulging details of his own. 'Hi, Felix. I just spent ANOTHER day lonely and bored' is the too-honest message that would kill any conversation and dampen his family image.

Still, he should probably let Felix know that he's alive.

Click!

The logo — "myspace" — sits in plain lowercase next to three little cartoon silhouettes. Jisung scrolls past headlines like "Top 8 Drama: Are You Even Friends If You're #4?" and "New Music from Panic! at the Disco!"

Jisung scrolls past ads for bedazzled jeans and chain wallets before clicking on Felix's profile. A blast of pink and glitter slaps him in the face, paired with poorly compressed anime girls making kissy faces. The page takes a second to fully load, and then Britney Spears' "Toxic" blasts at full volume.

"Eek!" Jisung squeaks, slamming his fingers on the MUTE key. "...Christ."

Felix's Top 8 is a curated mess: two actual friends, no Jisung, three shirtless boys Jisung vaguely recognizes from Sunnavelle High's swim team, and...

'minh0 lee ^-^'

In a pixelated, 72x72 icon, brown bangs fall in waves down the sides of Minho's face, framing sculpted cheekbones. He's smiling in that non-perfect way that's precious: crooked and slanting his face, showing that scar along his cheek, smushing his eyes into thin crescents, scrunching his nose, and lighting up his whole face. An orange-haired cat sits perched in his arms, nuzzling into its owner's chin.

It's cute, but it's...

Minho Lee. SWB. Something inside his gut twists upon catching a bite-size image of someone he'd rather forget altogether.

Memories from the party come flooding back. There was the feeling of too-warm alcohol sliding down the back of his throat, along with flashes of multicolored lights burning behind his eyelids. Thumping music. Raindrops on his skin. The weight of a leather jacket tied around his waist.

Minho's voice, soft and patient: "Relax."

Minho's laughter, bright and sugary-sweet: "Okay, 'Straight and Sixteen.' Noted."

Minho's face, hurt and furious in the light drizzle of rain: "Just 'cause you're dressed in 'fuck-me jeans,' doesn't mean I wanna fuck you."

Memories bleed out the computer screen — 'I'M A F(AI)RY A(ND) I F(UC)KED S.W.B.' — written onto his chest in Sharpie pen. Ink smeared and blurred into his skin, tattooed into Jisung's body despite scrubbing until his skin flushed red with rawness.

("Don't know why we call 'im that, we just do. Pro'lly 'cause he has sex with boys.")

Despite all the red flags screaming within his subconscious, Jisung lingers on the screen. Ice replaces the blood in Jisung's veins. There's a horrible feeling curling its fingers around the meat of his heart. One thought replays like a mantra inside his skull:

'Is it... Is it true?'

'Am I... Am I a...'

("Fag." "Limp-wrist pansy." "Fuckin' queer.")

'...Disappointment?'

Shame burns a hole inside of Jisung's stomach. His teeth clamp down on the inside of his lip until he's drawing blood. Minho Lee has some explaining to do. It's a task made easier by the direct message box at the corner of Minho's MySpace page. So, Jisung clicks it, loads a blank canvas, then types:

　Inbox – MySpace Mail
　Date: June 13, 2006
　From: Jisung H.
　To: minh0 lee ^-^
　Subject: An Uncomfortable Confrontation

　　 I don't know if you remember me. We met at Chris Bahng's party last week.

　　 You gave me a drink. We talked for a bit. I thought you were just being friendly, but later it felt like maybe you were hitting on me. We argued, where I admittedly said some nasty things and made it clear to you I'm only interested in girls. You clarified you weren't considering having s*x with me.

　　 My memory after that is very foggy, but I woke up the next morning with the following sentence on my body:  I'M A F*IRY AND I F*CKED S.W.B.  I know you are called S.W.B because you enjoy having s*x with other boys. You can imagine the horror I felt upon finding out about this.

　　 Please help me fill in the blanks. Whatever the case, I do not want my friends and family finding out about this. I don't even know what "this" is. I don't understand why you would have s*x with me after our conversation, but maybe you're even more disgusting than I thought.

　　 At least tell me you at least used protection. I really don't want AIDS or anything like that.

　　 Sincerely,
　　 Jisung Han

Once it's done, Jisung draws the cursor over the send button. It hovers for several seconds too long. Fear sinks deep into his gut, doubt pools thickly between his temples, and the backspace button tempts Jisung beyond reason. But if he doesn't act now, he might never know what happened at that party. Jisung isn't sure whether ignorance is bliss when he's haunted by the ghost of a memory.

Because Jisung is not gay. He can't be gay. His father would disown him. His mother would refuse to look at him. Soojin would be so, so disappointed. The Han legacy would end with him.

With a shaky exhale, he presses SEND and watches the confirmation banner pop up.

A knock at his door interrupts Jisung's thoughts before they can properly form.

"Jisung?" Ms. Celine pops her head through the door, hands folded neatly in front of her waist. "Your father requests your presence at dinner tonight. Seven o'clock sharp."

Dinner with his father. After more than a week of isolation. After sending that message to Minho. After failing to write a single word of his Harvard essay. After his mother shipped herself off to Hong Kong to work at another branch of the corporation without so much as a goodbye.

'Just the two of us. Alone. For dinner.'

"I'll be there...," Jisung mumbles in acquiescence, forcing a smile when Ms. Celine's eyes meet his own. It takes an extraordinary amount of strength to prevent it from melting into a grimace.

"Proper attire, please," Ms. Celine adds before her footsteps retreat down the hall.

'...Fuck.'

❤︎

Fork. Knife. Napkin. Glass.

A sterling silver fork shines under a brass chandelier, flanked by a butter knife. Both sit atop a red napkin rolled into a funnel-shaped pocket, alongside a glass already half-filled with whiskey (or apple juice for Jisung). The fine-dining experience is complete with the live string quartet music drifting through the speakers.

Jisung used to appreciate the ritzy atmosphere. It reminds him of simpler times, when the whole family gathered at this same oak wood table. His mother would sip wine at the opposite end of the dining room. His father would laugh and smile something genuine, with Soojin and Jisung seated comfortably between them.

Things used to be perfect. But now...

Dinner is a weird affair in the Han household. Usually, meals comprise perfectly portioned plates carried by house staff members and served under the supervision of Ms. Celine. When William isn't loathing his son's presence, Jisung mostly sits in his designated seat at their fancy dining table. It never feels right, but it's even worse when there's that lingering tension left over from the past. Like now.

Forks scrape against fancy china. Ice cubes clink inside half-filled glasses of water and wine. Jisung hasn't taken a bite of food yet. Instead, he has spent dinnertime stirring it around and creating new designs with mashed potatoes and broccoli.

William sets down his knife and fork to address the boy sitting across from him. Rather than meet Jisung's gaze directly, he reaches for a bottle of red wine and fills up his glass.

"What's wrong with you? You're not eating."

William takes a swig of wine. Red liquid threatens to stain his upper lip crimson. He wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin and looks at Jisung. Waiting. Silent. Expectant.

"Uhm... Uh...," Jisung trails off, cutting into a chicken breast to feign interest in it. "...It's nothing. I'm fine."

The sound of silverware clattering to William's plate tells Jisung that his lie failed. Shivers roll down his spine, collecting at the small of his back in a freezing cold puddle.

"I hope you're working on that application essay," William says in that monotone drawl that gets under Jisung's skin and stays there. "It's going to take an entire year to fix whatever you come up with in the first draft."

Jisung keeps his gaze low and focused on the food.

"...Yes, father. Of course."

"Have you finished it?"

"Not...yet."

William sighs. Heavy. Long.

"Well, you're not getting that phone back until you do," William states matter-of-factly. "So I suggest you work faster. Harvard won't tolerate anything less than perfection, and right now, you're very far from it."

Sweat builds along the nape of Jisung's neck. His shoulders ache from holding them so rigidly. He bites his tongue so hard, he expects to taste iron at the tip of his tongue. A migraine throbs behind his eyes and threatens to crack his skull in half.

Still, he forces a smile onto his face. Even if it's one that wobbles at the edges.

"Yes, Father."

Jisung forks a piece of chicken into his mouth. If he were in the mood, Jisung would appreciate the savory flavor of lemon-pepper sauce dripping from each cut. Instead, it tastes bitter and bland against the roof of his mouth.

"By the way..."

Jisung winces at the way his father's tone darkens a fraction.

"Your SAT scores came in the mail. What do you think it showed?"

William waves an envelope between his fingers. Jisung's name is centered and printed in crisp black ink.

"...Well?"

Right away, Jisung knows what's coming. Cold settles heavily in his stomach, spreads up through his chest, and presses around his lungs like a boa constrictor. It's the worst feeling ever: this mix of not knowing what's coming, but somehow knowing exactly what's coming. Because Jisung knows how big of a failure he is. How stupid. How badly he'll disappoint William. Again.

"I'm speaking to you, Jisung," William reminds. "Have some respect and look at me when I ask you questions."

"...Uhm..."

Teeth scrape along the inside of Jisung's cheek, tearing the flesh to shreds.

"I did not pay $40 for mediocre results," William warns. "But it looks like you just can't help it."

William tosses the envelope across the table for Jisung to open with trembling fingers. Nerves eat away at his stomach lining until he feels sick, dizzy, nauseous. His entire life is held captive inside that envelope of paper. Every insecurity exists within those results, because, according to his father, Jisung failed again.

'Failure. Failure. FailureFailureFailure—'

("...it looks like you just can't help it.")

'FailureFailureFailure. Failure. Failure. Always a failure.'

Jisung tries to blink the letters into focus, but ends up watching them swim around on the page. He picks out important information amongst the blurry jumble of text on the score sheet.

　Critical Reading: 710/800
　Math: 760/800
　Writing: 770/800
　Total: 2240/2400

2240. Good. Great. Excellent. Not perfect. Not enough.

"Just sit with that," William commands. "Hold the paper in your hands and get used to disappointing yourself. That. Is. Pathetic. I raised a fool."

Tears sting the corner of Jisung's eyes as William stands from his seat, wipes his mouth clean with a napkin, and calls the house staff to collect his dishes. He pushes in his chair neatly and tucks the stained napkin underneath his plate. By the time Jisung comes to his senses, William is ascending the stairs to his office space, and all Jisung can think is...

'Failure. Failure...'

'I'm a fucking failure.'

If Jisung needed further validation that he's ("...a complete and total waste of air."), here it is. Typed in bold print: 2240. That number burns holes into his retinas until his vision blurs again.

❤︎

Later that night, when dinner is mostly a distant memory and the rest of the household sleeps soundly in their beds, Jisung lies awake beneath the covers. Behind closed doors, he wallows in his misery alone.

2240. 2240 burns in his mind when his eyes are open. But, every time his eyelids fall shut, he's brought back to that awful party: Minho Lee's stupid grin and flushed cheeks as he giggles and giggles—

Minho's laugh bubbles to the surface of his memory like fizz in carbonated soda. 2240. ("But SWB's got a reputation..")... It's sweet in the way honey is, warm in the way hot chocolate is. 2240. ("Those fags try to force themselves on ya', 'n make you gay 'n shit.") 2240. 2240. In between candied giggles are strings of a foreign language rolling off Minho's tongue— ("You're supposed to be the responsible one, Ji-sung Han.")— in the same way syrup dribbles down a stack of pancakes. 2240. 2240. 2. 2. 4. 0. ("You've got a great dad, Jisung."); ("But I have to disagree, Jisung! I think you are pretty fucking stupid!") And—

DING!

Jisung jolts upright in his bed, panting into the almost-darkness. There's a glow emanating from the monitor that pierces through the pitch-black, spilling across his bedroom in uneven, blurry lines. Jisung slides his feet off the bed. Then, he's walking over to the computer desk and collapsing into his seat.

A little pop-up blinks in the corner of Jisung's screen.

New Mail – You have a message from 'minh0 lee ^-^' on MySpace!

Click! Click!

A new MySpace window opens, and Jisung's biggest nightmare arrives in a small rectangular window. It blinks innocently inside his inbox: Re: An Uncomfortable Confrontation.

Deciding that this day can't get much worse and that he deserves answers from Sex With Boys, Jisung opens the response with bated breath.

　Inbox – MySpace Mail
　Date: June 13, 2006
　From: minh0 lee ^-^
　To: Jisung H.
　Subject: Re: An Uncomfortable Confrontation

　　 jisung,

　　 of course i remember who you are, lol. hard to forget a guy who's named 'straight and sixteen.'

　　 i'm going to be as brief as possible because i have no interest in entertaining this.

　　 no. i did not have sex with you.
　　 no. 'SWB' does not stand for 'sex with boys.'
　　 no. i was not trying to hit on you at chris' party.
　　 no. i don't fucking have AIDS.

　　 i didn't fuck you or any of the assholes who insist on spreading dumb rumors, calling me names and treating me like trash. is it illegal to try and make friends with new people who dk who the fuck i am? ykw, whatever. kindly leave me the fuck alone.

　　 bye.
　　 minho

Jisung inhales and holds that breath captive for several seconds. Slowly, it leaves him; oxygen trickles out through slightly parted lips. The exhale lasts an eternity (or maybe just a few seconds) but either way, it's gone.

In its absence, shame floods every corner of Jisung's being. He should feel relieved — thankful, even — that his V-card remains in his possession. It means that he's less pathetic than he initially thought, even if the difference is only in fractions. It means that God isn't entirely disappointed in him and that he'll have fewer sins to repent before Mass on Sunday. Maybe Father won't hate him so much, knowing he's not tainted by another man's touch.

'Nothing happened.'

So, why does Jisung feel like shit?

'Kindly leave me the fuck alone.' Ah, maybe that's why. There's something about Minho's response that reads like a slap to the face. The kind that lingers long after the blow. The kind that leaves a rash behind.

'Kindly leave me the fuck alone.'

That's what he should do. Leave Minho alone. Forget this ever happened. Forget the party, forget the message, forget the way Minho's laugh had sounded like something warm, and sweet, and forbidden. Forget that Minho felt like a gateway to freedom: the kind that allowed Jisung to wear ripped jeans, speak casually, and sip alcohol without caring that his parents hated it.

Jisung didn't have to be...perfect with Minho. He could exist without expectations suffocating his every waking moment. Because...Minho allowed imperfection to exist without judgement.

And Jisung threw that gift away. He smashed it to pieces. Every word from that inbox message cuts deep in the way a serrated edge does; it tears through flesh and rips muscle straight from the bone. Excruciating pain radiates out from where that verbal knife has made its mark.

"I'm...sorry, Minho."

Those words string easily along. It's as easy as breathing, easy as blinking. They belong there because Minho deserves an apology.

Staring down a blank email window leaves Jisung's stomach twisted up into knots. Before logic and reasoning can intervene, he opens a blank inbox to Minho's Myspace account. Words tumble clumsily onto the white page.

　Inbox – MySpace Mail
　Date: June 13, 2006
　From: Jisung H.
　To: minh0 lee ^-^
　Subject: An Apology

　　 Dear Minho.
　　 First, let me say that I'm so sorry...

❤︎

Pearly whites glisten between glossy lips stained bright red. Everything glitters around Mrs. Perfect Han: her shiny, pin-straight hair, the dazzling charm bracelet dangling off her wrist, the twinkling studs fastened to her earlobes, and the rhinestones adorning the frames of her designer sunglasses. Even her nails gleam from beneath their French tips and pink manicure.

Beauty emanates from Narae Han like rays from the sun. She's perfection embodied in human form, staring down at Jisung with her perfect smile as—

"No."

Jisung falters mid-sentence as he holds the landline house phone to his ear. On the other end, his mother's tone betrays no emotion. It's a stark difference from the woman hanging in the middle of their art room.

"Mom, please—"

"Jisung, the answer is no. You should've thought about what your summer would look like if you went and acted out. Your father already told you no. I don't know why you're calling me to rehash old discussions."

Narae's voice comes out stern, hindered only by the Korean accent rounding off consonants and adding vowels where there should be none. Static fuzzes into existence, accompanied by the background noise of honking cars, pedestrians, and a steady stream of Mandarin Chinese chatter. Hong Kong sounds busy. Loud. Narae Han is too busy for her whiny son.

"He's treating me like I killed someone," Jisung huffs, straining (and failing) to keep the petulance from his voice. "I-I was only going to hang out with Felix today. You like Felix—!"

"Like is a strong word, Jisung," Narae notes dryly. "He's your only friend. I've given up on trying to get you to find others. Until now, I thought you knew better than to live your life the way he does."

"But mom..."

"No." Narae snaps, her patience thinning as their conversation leads closer to nowhere. "You'll do nothing but stay at home. It serves you right for running away and sneaking off. You can reflect on how you plan on fixing this attitude issue. Maybe then your father will listen to whatever it is you're saying."

Jisung fumes quietly in his spot on the carpet. Everything seems to add fuel to the fire broiling in his belly: the ticking clock, the humming blades of the fan, his mother's disappointment, even that stupid painting—

"Fine..." Jisung grits out, wishing that Narae could hear the way his teeth grate together. "S-Sorry for bothering you..."

"You should be," Narae sighs, voice drowning in the din of Hong Kong's late-night traffic noises. "Don't call me again unless it's important."

CLICK!

The dial tone drones on for several seconds before Jisung presses the END button and clonks the landline phone against his forehead. Three times. Four. Five. Enough to knock the frustration loose.

There's no point in getting upset. Things like this always happen with his parents. His father is indifferent or furious. His mother is indifferent or irritated.

When he was younger, Jisung tried to change things: earning more awards, taking on more extracurricular activities, wearing neater clothes, getting better grades, playing his piano perfectly — and none of it was enough. Not for them to notice him. Not for them to love him. Not for them to care.

She says: ("Don't call me again unless it's important") because Jisung is ("...a complete and total waste of air") that neither of his parents can be bothered to deal with. Everything has fallen short of the mark: his SAT scores, his admission essays, his achievements, his social skills, his personality...

Stunted. Awkward. Lonely. Anxious. Sad.

There will always be a boy out there with nicer handwriting, higher test scores, better musical capabilities, smoother speech, and more friends. Jisung spends every waking second comparing himself to this other boy, while his parents wish that the other boy was their son instead.

No matter how many papers he hangs on the refrigerator door, how many instruments he learns to play, how many good grades he gets, Jisung will never be more than his flaws. Problem-child. Acts out. Gets drunk at parties. Doesn't listen to his father. Earns subpar SAT scores. Bothers his mother. Hangs out with bad kids. Never enough. Never perfect.

Narae Han stares down at her son from atop her golden pedestal. Glossy, bone-straight black hair cascades past slender shoulders covered in glittering fabric, emblazoned with shining beads and sequins. Her lips twist into that plasticine smile that always graces television screens, business meetings, and local newspaper headlines.

Meanwhile, her son itches to be in the company of a gay boy with brunet hair and a crooked smile.

Two days have passed since Minho's response arrived in his inbox. Unlike Jisung's lengthy, apologetic essay filled with self-deprecation and desperate explanations, Minho's reply was frustratingly brief:

　　ur apology takes 2 many words to say something simple. not reading all that. if ur actually sorry, meet me @ 37 gardenview drive on wednesday @ 3. we can talk like normal ppl instead of writing novels on myspace. or don't show up. whatever.

　　don't waste my time.
　　minho

For two days, Jisung has debated showing up at Minho's arranged meeting.

Anxiety thrives on uncertainties like 'what is there to talk about?', 'what will happen?', or 'does Minho hate me?'. But if Jisung screws this up, he'll only solidify his spot at the top of Minho's 'Asshole' list. That is...if Minho hasn't drawn his name in permanent marker yet.

Wednesday inches closer every second, bringing 3:00 p.m to Jisung like a hurricane storming through Florida. Anxiety winds tighten and build momentum until Jisung thinks he might combust from the nerves alone. He can't do this. He can't—

A mental image of Minho sitting under some street light or next to some random brick building pops into Jisung's head. This fantas--version of Minho taps a foot impatiently, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he checks an imaginary watch for the time. It's five minutes to three. Jisung is still nowhere in sight, and—

("don't waste my time.")

Jisung shouldn't go. He shouldn't make a habit of disobeying his father. He should stay home where there is nothing but the computer and his half-written college essay. Where William spends all day at work and Ms. Celine couldn't be bothered to check up on him unless it's breakfast or dinnertime. Most days, it's just himself, alone, locked inside a prison of expectations and self-pity.

So, naturally, Jisung drags himself from the art room to his bedroom. He finds an old pair of acid wash jeans that Felix left haphazardly during one of his break-ins, and a random band-tee hidden in the depths of his wardrobe.

On Wednesdays, William typically holds biweekly meetings at the corporate office where he works. If Ms. Celine ever asks, Jisung will claim that he stayed locked in his room for several hours to focus on that damned essay. Nobody needs to know he snuck off during lunchtime to make it to Gardenview Drive. This time, he will be back within an hour's time.

Jisung slips on his glasses, runs his fingers through his hair, and stands before the window.

'Dear God,' Jisung prays silently.

'I know we had this conversation before, and I know I'm probably testing your patience, but please don't let me break my neck. And please, please don't let Ms. Celine check my room.'

'I'm hoping that my punishment through grounding has been enough to repent for my sins. I'm sneaking out for a good cause this time!'

'Thank you, Amen.'

The window creak!s as Jisung pushes it openk Outside, sunshine spills across freshly cut grass. Gentle winds rustle oak tree leaves while cotton candy clouds roll by, inching toward some unknown destination. Birds chirp a familiar song amongst their nests, singing notes into the wind.

'Freedom.'

That's the only word floating around in Jisung's mind as he climbs down his window sill and drops onto the ground.

Sunny. Warm. Peaceful.

If freedom feels anything like today, Jisung doesn't want to lose it ever again. Freedom smells like dewy grass, dampened earth, and blossoming flowers. It looks like white picket fences, sidewalk chalk murals, and shiny silver tricycles abandoned near cul-de-sacs.

With butterflies filling his stomach and one last prayer to God, Jisung hops the backyard fence and sets off in search of Gardenview Drive.

❤︎

The entire world transforms on the outskirts of Sunnavelle.

Cramped homes stand side-by-side, each of them deteriorating in their own way: peeling paint, missing bricks, windows patched up with planks of wood. Litter blows down cracked pavement streets in place of tree leaves that lost their way. Weeds sprout in every yard like they do best — wild, untamable, and free to roam wherever they please.

Uneasiness worms its way into Jisung's bones. This is the side of town his parents have warned him about. It's home to delinquents, troublemakers, miscreants. Home to people who get tattoos, smoke marijuana, and end up living in mobile homes well past graduation.

The $1.75 bus fare stings in Jisung's wallet as he steps off the city bus and scans the surroundings.

All around him are empty storefronts, dilapidated houses, and poorly maintained parks that haven't seen attention for years. There are sun-bleached For Sale signs standing in front yards, overturned recycling bins spewing garbage, and rusted cars parked outside of abandoned homes.

There's a lot to take in, so Jisung spends most of his trek gaping at the surrounding buildings. "Shady" Sunnavelle doesn't look like the cookie-cutter suburbia he knows well (with matching lawns, polished SUVs, and expensive furniture purchased from fancy catalogs).

'33... 35...' and... '37!'

Jisung blinks.

A quaint shop sits sandwiched between a Laundromat and a movie theater showcasing out-of-date films. Fading cursive letters read "Blossom Delights" with cartoonish bumble bees pollinating flowers beneath it.

Painted in navy blue with baby pink accents, the little bakery seems to glow amongst its dreary surroundings. Lace curtains hang in its windows, partially obscuring trays full of sweet treats.

("He's a fuckin' queer and works in a gay-ass bakery with his Grams.")

Jisung gulps. This must be it: Minho Lee's 'gay-ass' bakery.

Tiny bells jingle when Jisung pulls the front door open. A welcome mat greets him politely from the doormat. Scented candles flicker along every shelf. Little sugar-dusted sweet treats sit pretty on lace doilies behind clear glass displays. Paper lanterns strung from the ceiling illuminate wooden countertops and tables scattered about the café area. Vintage-style photos of cherry blossom trees, gardens, and flower fields hang in ornately carved frames.

In all his sixteen years, Jisung has never seen something so...

Quaint. Cute. Charming. Lovely.

"You made it."

"Eek!" Jisung nearly jumps out of his skin.

Minho comes into view from behind the countertop. One hand braces him against the wooden counter as he leans forward, and the other is stuffed deep inside his apron pocket. His mouth is set in a thin line. Minho's gaze holds steady upon Jisung's face.

"Uh... Uh... Uhm..." Jisung flushes under the heat of that stare. 'Those eyes...'

Jisung bites the inside of his lip raw. Minho's lips twist into a crooked smirk.

"You gonna speak, Straight-and-Sixteen, or are you just gonna' stand there?"

"...Uh!" Jisung squeaks. "Yes."

"Is that a yes to standing, or yes to speaking?" Minho arches his brow, watching Jisung shift nervously in place.

"I mean... uh, I mean—"

"That was rhetorical. I wasn't actually asking," Minho interrupts before Jisung can embarrass himself further. "Sit down. We're here to talk while the shop's empty."

Rod-stiff, Jisung robot-walks his way to one of the café chairs. As soon as he settles into a chair, Minho is sitting down opposite of him. With folded arms on the tabletop and that intense stare boring holes through Jisung's skin, it suddenly feels like a scene straight from an interrogation room. The only things missing are the metal table and the glowing lamp above his head.

"So. Speak." Minho commands simply. Jisung winces beneath his gaze.

"It's not that simple—"

"Well, it is," Minho shrugs. "This is me telling you to explain yourself 'cause the apology letter you wrote me was literally seventeen paragraphs long. Just spit out whatever you were plannin' to write in paragraph eighteen."

"Just, uh... Forget about that," Jisung whispers, wringing his hands together under the table. "I'm just... I'm...really sorry for being such an asshole. I drank too much alcohol that night, and—"

"Jisung."

"—everything was just really intense, and it wasn't fair for me to blame you when you did nothing wrong. You were really kind to me and I just... I ruined that, and—"

"Jisung."

"—so I get why you would call me a shitty person. Or think I'm stupid, because I guess that's what happens when you act without thinking about other people. So, I understand if you want nothing to do with me and I—"

"Jisung! Jesus Christ, breathe."

Startled out of his frantic rambling, Jisung's mouth shuts with an audible click!. Shaky breaths spill from his lungs while Minho studies him quietly from across the table. Suddenly feeling the need to preoccupy his restless hands, Jisung grabs a nearby napkin dispenser and folds the napkins into triangles.

Minho watches the ritual repeat itself thrice, then clears his throat.

"Look. You don't gotta freak the fuck out and give me a speech about how sorry you are." Minho sighs. "I've heard worse things from assholes who meant each word. I think... You were just raised to be a homophobe. Am I right?"

Napkin number four creases awkwardly along the fold-line. It's a product of Jisung's shaking fingertips.

"I am...not a homophobe," Jisung says pointedly. "My best friend is gay. Felix. And... And he means everything to me."

"Could'a fooled me," Minho remarks dryly, tilting his head sideways in contemplation. "Hm. How are you okay with Lix, but not okay with me?"

Napkin number five tears on contact. The fibers separate between Jisung's trembling thumb and forefinger.

"I am okay...with you," Jisung mumbles, mostly to the floor.

"Doesn't sound very convincing when you won't even look me in the eyes," Minho points out. "You'd rather rip up my napkins and mutter under your breath."

"That's not because..." Jisung's stomach goes all topsy-turvy at the accusation. "It's just..."

"It's just...what?"

"It's..."

Conversation withers on Jisung's tongue. Before he can finish his thought, the sound of china clink!-ing together draws both boys' attention to the beaded curtain behind the counter. An elderly woman with silver-streaked hair steps through the doorway, cradling a tray laden with steaming tea and an assortment of pastries.

"민호야, 좀 살살해," ("Go easy on him, Minho,") she says to Minho — a scold smothering her syllables — before gesturing at Jisung with her chin. "얘 기절하겠다." ("He looks like he's about to pass out.")

"아이, 할머니 진짜..." ("Ah, Grandma, seriously...") Minho rolls his eyes, then turns to Jisung. "Sorry. My grandmother is telling me to be nice, or you'll throw up and shit your pants, apparently."

Jisung nods once, twice. Unsure of how to reply, he glances down at his feet.

Grandma Lee sets down a small assortment of freshly baked scones and cookies, paired with two teacups and a serving of honey.

"잘생겼네," ("He's handsome,") Grandma Lee titters, patting Minho's cheek fondly. "귀여워~" ("Cute~")

Minho chokes on his saliva, hiding his face behind a hand that does very little to hide the rosy bloom of color flushing on his cheeks.

"할머니!" ("Grandma!") Minho's voice cracks just enough to betray how mortified he is. It takes on a whinier tone when he adds: "그만해! 가~!" ("Stop it! Go away~!")

Grandma Lee just laughs a soft, wheezing kind of laughter that humiliates Minho further, and ruffles her grandson's hair in passing. Minho scowls at the doorway long after his grandmother exits into the backroom, looking slightly pinker than he did just moments ago. Jisung almost coos at the flustered expression stuck on Minho's face. He looks...

Cute— 'He's a guy. He's a guy. He'sAGuy.'

Something sticky catches against Jisung's windpipe. Maybe it's the lump of emotions, or maybe it's the crumbs from Grandma Lee's cookies going down the wrong pipe. Whatever the case, Jisung coughs violently to dispel that thought.

'Thinking thoughts about other guys like this is—'

"You don't know Korean, right?" Minho pipes up suddenly, stuffing a chunk of cookie into his mouth.

"I... Uh... No. No, I don't."

"Good." Minho takes another bite off his cookie, humming at the taste. "Because 할머니 can say the worst things sometimes."

"O-Oh... What... What did she say then?"

"Nothin'," Minho mutters, vehemently avoiding Jisung's gaze. "Not important."

"Oh... Okay."

Silence stretches between them, giving Jisung's gaze too much freedom to remain locked on Minho. To keep his mind from wandering into dangerous territory, Jisung reaches for the teacup in front of him, lifting it up carefully by its tiny ceramic handle. Even when his gaze drops to the porcelain, he's acutely aware of Minho's presence just across from him. Fuck.

"So..." Minho drags out the vowel. "Look. Your apologies mean nothing if you'll just say shit like that again. Clearly that's how mommy and daddy raised ya'."

Minho sips his drink: "But. You don't seem too bad. So, I'll forgive you. On one condition. Two, actually."

Hope springs eternal as Jisung looks up to meet Minho's gaze with wide eyes. If he seems overeager to mend the situation, Minho doesn't comment on it.

"Anything. Anything." Jisung promises. "Really, I mean it."

"Promise?"

"I swear."

Something undecipherable twinkles in those catlike eyes as Minho studies Jisung for several long seconds. Silence stretches across their tiny corner of the universe, interrupted by a ticking wall clock and distant traffic noises. Then...

"First, understand that SWB really doesn't mean 'sex with boys'," Minho starts, pressing his index finger up as though tallying conditions. "People just think it does. Don't ask what it actually stands for 'cause I won't tell you. When you pass out at parties, people will write shit like that on you 'cause they know you'll freak out."

"Oh. Okay..."

"I'm serious, Jisung," Minho says, pinning him under the pressure of a single look. "I wouldn't... I wouldn't do that to anyone. You told me you were straight."

"Yeah... I'm... Yeah. Straight." Jisung repeats, doing his best to swallow the strange sensation crawling its way up his esophagus.

"Right. Uh, good." Minho shrugs. He waves his second finger next. "Two. For the love of God, go home and learn somethin' on mommy's big, fancy computer. Gay people don't just automatically have AIDs."

"I—" Heat rushes to Jisung's face. "That's... Okay, yeah. I'm sorry. You're totally right, I didn't think about... About—"

"It's fine," Minho waves Jisung off, stifling a chuckle. "Well, no, it's not 'fine'. But it is what it is. I don't blame you. It's just how you grew up."

Another moment of silence passes between them. Minho picks apart a fresh strawberry scone, and Jisung stirs spoonfuls of honey into his chamomile tea until it feels appropriate to continue the conversation.

"Uhm..." Jisung bites down on his lip. "...Is that all?"

"Well..." Minho cocks a brow, then rests his chin against the palm of his hand. "There is a third ask that I have. Don't worry, 'S easy."

"Uh, huh..."

"Help me and 할머니 clean up? Y'know, her old woman joints can only handle so much," Minho pleads, pointing his thumb at the general direction where Grandma Lee disappeared to. "It won't take long."

"I guess... Sure, why not?" Jisung blinks rapidly. "Is there, uhm, any information on cleaning somewhere? Like an instruction manual or something?"

"An instruction manual." Minho shakes his head and laughs.

"For cleaning." Jisung reiterates. "Like...to help? A training guide?"

Minho doesn't answer with a proper response, instead opting to hide a grin behind the rim of his cup. It takes all of three seconds for Minho to crack; a tiny snort pushes past his lips, followed by choked laughter. Jisung glares at him, flushing crimson as Minho tries to contain himself to no avail.

"Man... I wish I knew what it felt like to be you, Jisung Han." Minho exhales through his grin. "Must be fuckin' hilarious in that brain of yours."

❤︎

Sun sets over Sunnavelle like melting butter, pouring thick gold light through the open windows. Blossom Delights' wooden floors sparkle with a fresh coat of polish and disinfectant spray. Pastel-colored walls and traditional Korean wall art are clean of dust. Spotless window sills glisten beneath the sunlight's gentle kiss.

As it turns out, there isn't a 'training guide' or 'instruction manual' on how to clean up a bakery. So Minho went the extra mile to demonstrate the grueling work that's normally reserved for Ms. Celine and the other cleaning staff at home. Although, it should be said that this experience differs vastly from watching his housekeeper mop marble floors wearing elbow-length yellow rubber gloves.

Minho wears his hair pulled back into two loose pigtails that are tied off with elastic. He wears these flimsy, transparent gloves as he cleans and hums along to Britney Spears songs playing through an old CD player sitting on a shelf in the backroom.

(And Jisung tells himself it's not gay to notice the way another boy's hair falls perfectly in messy pigtails, like it belongs in one of those magazine advertisements where the wind is always blowing gently enough to make the models look perfect.)

"Alrighty, Straight-and-Sixteen, 'S your turn," Minho says, stripping himself of the disposable gloves with creak!s and pop!s along his skin.

"To...clean something else? There's more?"

"The dishes?" Minho blinks at him, brows furrowing. "Have you ever had to do chores before?"

"Sometimes I bring my plates downstairs...for Ms. Celine," Jisung admits quietly, avoiding eye contact as embarrassment colors his cheeks. "And once, I wiped some milk off the table when I spilled it..."

A beat. Then:

"That...doesn't surprise me at all, actually," Minho says in that blunt way of his. "Here. C'mere."

Jisung allows himself to be manhandled into place, boxed in by the countertop and Minho's shoulder brushing close against his own. Once Minho deems the distance acceptable, he places a sponge and crumb-coated plate into each of Jisung's palms. Jisung winces a bit as the batter touches his fingers.

'Ew...'

"Uhm. Ever thought about buying a dishwasher?" Jisung asks timidly. "They're very hygienic."

"You gonna pay for that, sweetheart?" Minho cocks a brow, reaching to settle another stack of plates by Jisung's side. "I'd help you but..."

'Sweetheart. Sweetheart. Sweetheart, Sweetheart, Sweetheart, SweetheartSweetheartSweetheart—'

"...I've been washing all day and my wrist hurts. Poor me. You mind taking over?"

'What?!'

Jisung suppresses a gag. "W–What?"

"Huh? Are you too fragile to wash the plates, Princess Jisung Han?"

"No!" The retort is a knee-jerk reaction and wholly defensive. Jisung's cheeks puff up in a scowl. "I can definitely wash plates!"

"Are you sure you don't need a training guide for that?" Minho taunts, drawing a deeper shade of scarlet out on Jisung's skin. "Step-by-step instructions. Picture guide and everythin'— ACK!"

Jisung aims the sudsy sponge directly at the center of Minho's face.

SPLAT!

Droplets drip down Minho's cheeks, leaving watery trails that follow the cut of his jawbone. Bubbles stick to his chin and cling to his eyelashes — glittering where the sunbeams hit them — and sparkling like stars suspended in the universe's orbit.

It's fucking adorable, and it's totally unfair.

'He's a guy. He's a guy. He'sAGuy.'

"I'm sacrificing my poor, delicate wrist to your cause," Jisung scolds, ignoring the flip-flopping sensations in his belly...or trying to. "Don't push your luck."

"Wow, what a hero you are, Jisung. I'm truly touched by your sacrifice," Minho deadpans, wiping the suds from his cheeks. Then, he makes an exaggerated gesture towards the sink filled with dishes awaiting their wash. "My knight in shining armor. Thank you for volunteering to be my maid~."

Jisung looks at the mountain of dirty dishes with a grimace.

He slips on those transparent gloves he hasn't had to wear since 9th grade science. Back then, it was because he needed protection from harmful chemicals and specimens handled during dissection labs. This time around, it's because of dirty customers and their crumb-covered dishes.

"You good?" Minho asks from somewhere beside him, hip leaning against the countertop edge. "I can look for a dishwashin' guide if you really need it."

"Nope! It's okay. I'm good." Jisung forces a smile that feels like eating glass. "Good as ever."

Jisung positions the first plate beneath the faucet, wincing as water splashes off its surface in varied directions. He adjusts his grip, tilting the plate at various angles until he finds the sweet spot that keeps the spray contained to the sink rather than his clothing.

Of course, Minho mocks him for that as well.

"It's just water!" Minho points out between sunshine-doused giggles, eyes crinkled into those squinting crescents and his smile shaped in that slanted way that Jisung finds so endearing. Wait.

'Quit it, stupid brain!'

'Minho. Is. A. Guy. He'sAGuy.'

"Yeah, I'm aware," Jisung snaps back, a little flustered under the weight of his traitorous thoughts.

'Guys who are straight don't have thoughts about guys who are not. Do you understand?'

With a tentative glance at the sponge, Jisung swipes it across the surface of the plate, soap bubbles oozing from his awkward hand motions as he cleans.

It's so bad, Minho has to step in.

"아이구, ("Oh my...,") you're using too much soap," Minho groans from the side, tossing a dish towel over one shoulder before stepping in Jisung's space. "Do you know how much dish soap costs in today's economy?"

"I... Uh..."

"No? Of course you don't," Minho interrupts. "Here, let me help you out."

Oh. 'Oh.'

Gentle fingers curl around Jisung's, helping him run soapy water along each plate's edge and dry it with the dishcloth. He thinks Minho probably notices how much he jumps at their contact, but neither of them mention it at first. As the world tips and whirls around him, Jisung can barely breathe.

And when a pink flush dusts Jisung's cheeks, Minho just has to coo and point it out.

"Aw~. Is the princess shy from washin' dishes?"

"No!" Jisung huffs, hiding behind a hand in an effort so futile it's even more humiliating. "No! Shut up!"

"My apologies, Your Royal Highness," Minho feigns an apology, dipping into a shallow bow. "I mean no offense. I was simply showin' you that you haf'ta be gentle with 할머니's plates—"

"Ugh...," Jisung grits out. "Fuck off."

"—or you'll break them~," Minho tacks on, batting those long eyelashes with faux innocence. "And you were using too much soap."

Jisung manages a noise somewhere between a scoff and a sigh of frustration. But when he sees Minho looking back at him like that, with his smile quirking and brown eyes glistening, there's no sense of malice behind it.

That makes Jisung feel...
　
Something. Something that causes Jisung's lips to tug up into a helpless grin although he is most decidedly not having fun. That pesky, nagging thought floats back to the forefront of his brain and repeats the same sentiment like a record stuck on replay: ('He's cute. He's so cute. He's cute. He'sCute. He'sSoCute. CuteCuteCute')

"What?" Minho blinks. "Something on my face?"

"I, uh, no..."

God. This boy — the one whose company feels like freedom — will be the death of Jisung Han.

❤︎

Dusk pours orange juice over the horizon by the time Jisung returns home. He's several hours behind schedule.

Clouds disappear beneath his feet as he climbs the trellis, heart pounding in his chest and many prayers being sent to the Lord. He cracks his window open, finding his room exactly the way he left it. Phew. Reality returns, and Jisung crashes from cloud nine with more grace than he imagined.

Carpet brushes against the soles of his shoes. Jisung toes them off and discards them carelessly at the foot of his closet door. His reflection stares back at him from the mirror there — hair messed into wind-blown waves — and yet, he looks happier than he has in years. Free from the confines of ironed shirts and plaid-patterned uniforms. Free from polished leather dress shoes, silk ties, and tight blazers. Free from...

CLICK!

"You're back late."

With a jolt and a gasp, Jisung spins on his heels. Reality crashes down in the way an avalanche rushes down snow-capped mountains. Ice seeps into his bones and freezes the blood in his veins.

'Fuck.'

"Miss... Ms. Celine!" Jisung squeaks. "Wh-What are you doing here?"

Ms. Celine stands in the doorway, dark hair slicked into a neat bun and lips pressed into a thin line. She wears her navy housekeeping uniform with starch-pressed creases folding along the neckline. There's not a wrinkle in sight nor thread out of place. Everything about the woman is unnervingly pristine.

"Waiting for you." She answers in that unblinking way that spikes Jisung's nerves. "You were gone for quite a while. I believe Mr. Han has explicitly forbidden any...outings while grounded."

"I was...!"

"It doesn't matter." Ms. Celine's tone slices through the half-baked excuses resting on Jisung's tongue. "I told your father you were sick in bed with a migraine. I will leave out the details of your outing, whatever they may be, since no harm seems to have come from this."

"Thank you... Thank you, thank you, Ms. Celine, I'm sor—"

"Restrain yourself from these idiotic shenanigans, or I might reconsider telling your parents everything." Ms. Celine's frowns. "You have responsibility, Jisung. There are far better ways to spend your youth."

Jisung deflates, sinking against the closet door and staring blankly at the wall until the door click!s shut again. Seconds slip by until they've turned into minutes.

"Th... Thank God..."

But... All he hears are thoughts and regrets chasing themselves in circles until he's nauseous.

("There are far better ways to spend your youth.")

("You have responsibility, Jisung.")

Responsible Jisung. Obedient Jisung. Jisung with a perfect GPA and college offers lining up his desk. Jisung, who plays classical instruments as a hobby — for "fun" — and is always called to play the piano at high-profile events for guests of importance. Jisung, whose life revolves around grades, student leadership, Sunday Mass, maintaining appearances, and whatever else his parents demand from him.

Not this Jisung, who wears ripped jeans and baggy shirts to hang out with boys named Minho Lee, eat strawberry scones in tiny cafes, wash dishes in a cramped kitchen, and pretend for two hours that he could be anything but an exemplary son.

He's a plasticized doll made to look pretty and spit out Shakespearean sonnets. He's well-behaved and well-read. He's a picture-perfect son. That is who he has always been. That is who he needs to be. Always.

But...

When Jisung closes his eyes, all he hears is Britney Spears crackling from a stereo in the backroom and Minho singing along to her. Thump! Thump!

All he remembers is Minho smiling at him, genuinely smiling, like Jisung is someone worth being around. Ba-Dump! Ba-DUMP!

Butterflies swarm his stomach and nestle in the flowerbeds, sprouting wildly in his chest. Rose-tinted film glosses over Minho's face. Sparkles spark off Minho's skin like in the 90s movies, making Jisung dizzy with an unnameable feeling.

Jisung's eyes fly open. 'No. No, no, no.'

Dizziness spreads up to his brain because there is absolutely nothing about Minho Lee that fits inside of Jisung's reality.

Brown eyes that appear golden beneath the lights— THUMP! THUMP!— accompanied by infectious laughter as sweet as honey dripping from the comb— Ba-Dump! BA-DUMP!— and a sense of company that fills Jisung with dopamine and saccharine candy fluff. Butterflies continue flying freely and multiply in numbers within Jisung's belly.

This feeling is new. It's too big to keep hidden away and too intense to be locked in a cage.

"Stop it," Jisung whispers to himself, pulling hard enough for the pain to ground him. "Stop thinking about... Get the fuck out of my head already."

Jisung lets out a hiss through clenched teeth, eyes squeezing shut. His brain refuses to evict those incessant thoughts of Minho and:

'Sweetheart, Sweetheart, Sweetheart. SweetheartSweetheartSweetheart—'

"Straight." Jisung reminds himself. "You're straight. You like women. You do."

Girls. Women. Jisung likes women. Women have perfectly manicured nails, soft voices, and bright smiles that never seem to falter. They wear floral perfume, pastel nail polish, and dresses that swirl when they walk. Jisung can imagine a hand in his — delicate, dainty, small — as if femininity comes down to something so simple. Pink. Pretty. Picture-perfect.

He thinks that he's supposed to crave this picture. This image is what his life should lead toward: a pretty house, a smiling wife, with children's laughter echoing through neat, sunlit rooms.

But...

Minho.

Minho, with his effortlessly untamed brunet curls and the sweetness of honey swirling in his gaze. Boys. Men. Minho. Jisung definitely likes Min— 'No, I don't. I don't.' Jisung's fingers dig crescent moons into his scalp, nerves fraying. Heart pounding. Breath ragged.

'I am not gay.'

'I can't be.'

The walls of Jisung's bedroom are inching closer with every passing second. 'I am not gay.'

Jisung drags trembling fingers down the sides of his face. His gaze falls to the family photo on his nightstand: his mother's perfect smile, his father's stern gaze, and Soojin's sparkling eyes. 'They will all hate me. I can't be gay.'

"I-I'm... Sorry," Jisung whispers to no one in particular. "I'm sorry that I'm...this. Please... Help me stop..."

This is ridiculous. It's just...admiration. That's it. Minho Lee is confident in a way Jisung has never been. Minho is comfortable in his own skin and doesn't care what people think.

That's all it is. Admiration. Not attraction. Never attraction.

Inhale. Exhale. Jisung draws himself together, pushing these foreign feelings deep into the innermost caverns of his chest. After a few moments of wallowing in a ball intended to make himself small, Jisung pushes up and towards his computer.

He knows that he's not gay, but his traitorous fingers type before his brain can catch up:

　How to know if you're g...|

　How to know if yo...|

　How to...|

Jisung slams his hand on the backspace key before he can finish the thought, erasing it of its existence. Because that's exactly what needs to happen: none of this can exist.

"It's nothing," Jisung whispers to himself, desperately trying to believe it. "It's nothing. I was just lonely. I just wanted a friend. That's all."

'Right. Right?'

But as he sits there, alone in his too-perfect room with its too-perfect decor and the too-perfect life mapped out for him, Jisung can't ignore the sinking feeling that he's lying to himself.

A deep breath may be enough to quell the anxiety on this inside, but Jisung is still haunted by a pair of pretty, cat-like eyes and a slanted smile that's sugary like strawberry scones and sweet like jam-filled rice cakes.

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ JUNE, 2006
The Pilot

New Mail – You have a message from 'minh0 lee ^-^ ' on MySpace!

(June 14, 2006)

　minh0 lee ^-^ : did you get home safely?

　Jisung H.: Yes :)!!! Thank you for today! That was really fun! Like, seriously, really, really fun! If I could pick one day to relive forever, it would be this one. Your grandma makes some killer cookies and stuff [...]

　minh0 lee ^-^ : lol. you're welcome.

　minh0 lee ^-^ : no need to send paragraphical responses btw. we're texting. not writing an essay on Dickens...

-
(June 15, 2006)

　minh0 lee ^-^ : survived cleaning halmeoni's oven. kill me now.

　Jisung H.: Halmeoni???

　minh0 lee ^-^ : my grandma ^-^
　minh0 lee ^-^ : god. u rly are hopeless in korean

　Jisung H.: Last time I checked, we spoke English in America...?

　minh0 lee ^-^ : doesn't matter
　minh0 lee ^-^ : u are so detached from ur culture
　minh0 lee ^-^ : i've gotta teach u a thing or 2

-
(June 15, 2006)

　Jisung H.: My dad is making me redo this entire essay section.

　minh0 lee ^-^ : pls. i don't even want to think about college apps T_T
　minh0 lee ^-^ : that's harsh tho. my grandma made me scrub grout for an hour.

　Jisung H.: Trade?

　 minh0 lee ^-^  :  hell no. grout is the devil. the pretty princess (u) would die.

　Jisung H.: Oh my GOD SHUT UP ABOUT THAT

　minh0 lee ^-^ : hahaha never~ :P

-
(June 16, 2006)

　Jisung H.: Hey. About the research project you gave me...

　minh0 lee ^-^ : what abt it? found porn yet?

　Jisung H.: No...? Gross.
　Jisung H.: Actually... How do guys actually... You know...
　Jisung H.: Minho?

　minh0 lee ^-^ : ...
　minh0 lee ^-^ : aren't you bff4ls with felix? he hasn't told you?

　Jisung H.: No...

　minh0 lee ^-^ : sigh...
　minh0 lee ^-^ : well.
　minh0 lee ^-^ : when gay guys do the birds and the bees, the penis of the one "taking it" actually inverts itself into a vagina. then, the lovers can smash without it being "gay" :o
　minh0 lee ^-^ : pretty neat, right? :o

　Jisung H.: You're fucking with me...
　Jisung H.: Aren't you -__-

　minh0 lee ^-^ : u make it too easy, sweet<3

-
(June 17, 2006)

　Jisung H.: I'm going to the library to learn more about the gay population!

　minh0 lee ^-^ : cool. have fun! ^-^

Dewy grass squelches under the wheels of Jisung's bicycle, leaving tire tracks in its wake as he speeds down the street. Dirt flings from mudguards and wets the sides of his sneakers. Sunshine spills across cobblestone pathways and verdant front yards. Cotton candy clouds drift leisurely across open, blue skies.

It's a lovely June afternoon. Summer is calling for Jisung and inviting him out into the great outdoors.

Yesterday, Jisung showed his father a painstakingly crafted, rough-around-the-edges introductory paragraph. He held his breath when his father looked it over. After reading a mere three lines, Mr. William Han grunted in approval and signed off on his son's library privilege without further inquiry. Strictly for "additional research" to "improve his essay."

Now freedom (or a sliver of it) hinges on this essay.

Jisung plans to use the opportunity wisely. If the word "library" rolls off his tongue just right and leaves an innocent impression on his parents, they'll surely let him continue his trips there over the summer.

After a five-minute bike ride, Jisung skids to a halt, throws down his kickstand, and hops off his bicycle. Wind-tossed hair flops in every direction as soon as he removes his helmet and clips it onto the seat.

Sunnavelle Public Library. Red brick walls hold up dark green roofing, trimmed with white window panes and surrounded by wrought-iron gates. A weeping willow tree stands outside the front doors, swaying softly in the breeze.

'Dear God.'

'Hi, it's me again. Jisung! You know me, you love me, and I love you... Which is why I don't want you to take my sudden curiosity in a particular subject to mean I'm a...'

("Fag." "Limp-wrist pansy." "Fuckin' queer.")

Jisung shudders. A short series of steps brings him to the entrance of the library. The wood-framed door swings open with a quiet screech!. Oak bookcases stand tall throughout the room, spanning across carpeted floors that muffle each footfall.

'...Because I'm not. I just don't want Minho to be angry with me anymore—' Not that Minho seems angry, but Jisung thinks that the excuse is decent enough. '—So, I'm hoping that you can spare me some mercy today. Amen.'

Jisung scours the shelves for appropriate titles, occasionally pulling a book out of its place to flip through its pages. Whenever someone passes him by, he shields the cover title with both arms. It's a safety measure just in case a random stranger notices what he's reading.

When Boys Go Astray.

Jisung pulls the hardback from its shelf and balks at the cover. On the glossy jacket, a silhouette of a man with devil horns sprouting from his forehead sits center-frame. The subtitle reads: Faith, Family, and Understanding Sexual Perversion in Males.

'Am I perverted for...wanting to understand?'

Shame simmers beneath his cheeks, burning them crimson as Jisung snaps the book shut. He claims an empty table in a lonely corner. Curiosity gnaws away at him and turns his stomach topsy-turvy.

'I'm not reading this to satisfy...curious thoughts,' Jisung rationalizes in his head. 'All this is... It's just an attempt to learn more about someone who is different. Right? Right.'

'Okay. Okay, fine, maybe I'm curious, but that's...'

'I'm not gay. So, it doesn't matter. There's nothing wrong with curiosity.'

Nervous jitters travel down Jisung's spine. He shifts uncomfortably in his wooden chair, searching for signs of someone looking over his shoulder. When he determines the coast is clear, he slowly cracks the binding open. Twitchy fingers flip through faded pages and trace the words printed on them.

Homosexual males develop behavioral abnormalities at a young age that diverge from their heterosexual counterparts. These behavioral differences contribute to their inability to fulfill their God-given gender roles.

Pages ruffle under Jisung's hands as he turns them. 'Abnormalities.' 'Differences.' 'Inabilities.'

　　Onset homosexual fantasies begin in pre-pubescence, as early as ten years old. Many homosexual males experience these immoral fantasies before reaching full sexual maturation.

Jisung halts his scanning and swallows around a nervous lump stuck in his esophagus. 'Immoral fantasies.' 'Immature fantasies.' 'Fantasies.'

Jisung wants to stuff those nagging "fantasies" into a box and lock them away for eternity. But, when dreams and memories haunt him even in daylight, it proves to be quite impossible.

Sunlight spotlights wavy brown hair and catlike eyes. Jisung has the phantom sense of fingertips grazing his own. Warm. Electric—

"AH—!" Jisung yelps. "Ahaha... H-Hi..."

A librarian (round-rimmed glasses, stringy blond hair tied off in a ponytail) pauses mid-step to arch her brow at Jisung.

"You alright there, kid?"

Jisung hides behind his palms. "S-Sorry..."

"Keep it down," the librarian chides before she continues pushing her cart of books down the aisle. "This is a library in case you haven't noticed."

Flustered. Mortified. Jisung sinks into his seat as though becoming one with it might transport him somewhere far, far away. To prevent further embarrassment, he keeps his eyes glued firmly to the page and prays that's the last of his human interaction for today.

　　Homosexuality can destroy everything it touches. Marriage, children, and families often cannot survive a single interaction after sexual deviances have afflicted a male. Often, these relationships remain broken and permanently destroyed.

'Deviance.' 'Abnormal.' 'Destroyed.'

　　Not only is homosexuality a destructive force, it is also self-destructive. Many homosexuals die prematurely, plagued by disease (AIDs) and mental instability.

'Destructive.' 'Diseased.' 'Death.'

　　As stated before, the onset of abnormal sexual desires often starts with fantasies during puberty. Fantasizing about such lewd acts leads many impressionable youths to act out on their sinful urges. By doing so, they risk eternal damnation—

Words fade in and out of focus. A drop of water splats onto a yellowed page. Another follows it. And another, and another. Words warp and blur under depressive rainfall.

Jisung is quick to wipe away evidence of the incoming storm, flicking saltwater droplets away with shaky fingertips.

'Stop it. Stupid emotions.'

"I'm...fine..." Jisung whispers hoarsely. "I'm fine... It's not..."

"Not me," he wants to say, but he's not sure he can even trust his own words.

Jisung is the same imperfect boy whose heart beats in abnormal staccato-rhythms whenever he thinks of Minho Lee. Minho Lee. Whose smile feels warmer than the sunshine, so Jisung has been flying way too close just to feel the heat. The brunet boy that fills Jisung's every waking moment with incessant butterflies flitting about restlessly within him.

'What would Father say? What would he think if he knew you were even considering this? Huh?'

'Everyone will fucking hate you, you know. Everyone. Mom, Dad, Soojin, the people at church, Felix, Minho... Everyone.'

Another tear (because Jisung is pathetic and can't stop crying) drips from his nose. It trails along his upper lip before hitting the page.

"Not me... Definitely...not...me..." Jisung mutters, biting the tip of his thumb, knuckles bone-white with pressure. "That's not...me... Definitely...not..."
　
Salt burns lines down the curve of Jisung's cheekbones despite multiple attempts to free himself from melancholia's hold. Those same butterflies curl in on themselves with their wings incinerating into dust. Butterflies turn to charcoal, which then turns to ash. Despair takes their place. Embarrassment. Shame.

'Stop crying.'

'Hans don't cry. Don't do this here. Not now. Not ever.'

'Stop fucking crying.'

The chair scrapes loudly against the floor when Jisung shoves away from it, clutching the hardback tightly between clammy palms. Jisung tucks his head down and ducks between aisles upon aisles of bookshelves, making a beeline for the public computer terminals on the opposite side of the library.

Barely contained sobs threaten to spill over by the time Jisung throws himself into one of the spinning chairs and clutches his knees to his chest. In hushed sniffles and hiccups, he tries to shove a dam over the tsunami of emotions spilling over.

Still shaking violently, Jisung logs onto the aging HP monitor. The Windows XP chime is oddly cheerful and inappropriate in the middle of Jisung's meltdown.

After wiping away the evidence of his patheticness with his shirt sleeve, Jisung double clicks the Internet Explorer icon and holds his breath. One shaky letter types out at a time.

Click. Click! Click!

What did Minho say? ("Educate yourself.")

Is that what he's trying to do here? Educate himself about something that is terrifying him to his core?

He types, deletes, types again:

　Understanding different people...|

Delete. Too vague.

　Feeling weird around your friends...|

Delete. Too specific, too childish, too personal.

　What does it mean if you think about girls AND boys? Hypothetically, of course...|

Jisung should delete that one too. It's too close, too much information, too frightening—

BANG!

With a groan, Jisung's head slams against the keyboard. Plastic clacks beneath the onslaught of blunt trauma. For a long minute, he simply stays in this position, counting the number of seconds until the monitor swims back into view.

Showing Search Results for... 'What does it mean if you think about girls AND boys? Hypothetically, of course...'

　　Are you Bi? Curious? - PFLAG Resources

　　Confused: thinking about guys?? - Yahoo! Answers

　　Wikipedia - Bisexuality

　　Understanding Sexual Orientation - Emory University Health Services

"Bi...sexual?"

A label, but no explanation. Jisung clicks the top result and bites down on his bottom lip when text loads onto the screen.

　　Are You Bi? Curious?
　　Being curious means you're asking questions. Whether you are struggling to determine your own orientation or questioning a loved one's sexual orientation, chances are you have questions.

　　"Do bisexuals actually exist?"

　　"I heard being bi means you'll cheat."

　　"What's it mean if I like the idea of women and men equally? Do I like women more? Men more?"

　　Yes, bisexuals are real. No, we aren't cheaters.

　　If you identify as bisexual, know that it isn't always clear cut. Bisexuality may look different from person-to-person. Even if you share a label, your experiences won't mirror another person's exactly.

　　Our Definition: Someone who is bisexual has emotional and physical attraction to both male and female identities. This attraction exists whether it's acted on or not. [...]

Jisung leans back in his seat, slowly breathing air into oxygen-deprived lungs.

As far as Jisung understands, it's just like being gay except... Not. Or...gay? But different somehow. More flexible. More complex. It's a strange label slapped onto his forehead like a sticky note reminding everyone that something about him isn't the way it should be.

"Bisexuality," Jisung mouths, noticing how the word tastes like ash. Fire. Brimstone.

'This is fine. It's fine.'

Even as he thinks it, he feels worse. His insides feel like they're eating themselves up. Or perhaps being devoured from the inside-out, which is fine. It's all fine. It has to be because Jisung Han can't be anything else. Anything less.

Because Jisung is not...

Not...

'Not. Gay.'

It's just easier this way.

❤︎

New Mail – You have a message from 'minh0 lee ^-^  ' on MySpace!

(June 17, 2006)

　minh0 lee ^-^ : soooo ^-^
　minh0 lee ^-^ : what did you find?

-
(June 17, 2006)

　minh0 lee ^-^ : jisung...?

-
(June 17, 2006)

　minh0 lee ^-^ : still alive over there?
　minh0 lee ^-^ : ok. it's l8 and internet is expensive. gn

-
(June 18, 2006)

　minh0 lee ^-^ : ?

Sunday morning arrives with the familiar weight of expectations.

Ms. Celine adjusts Jisung's collar and brushes invisible dust away from his button-up. Then, she slides a tie between said collar. The black, silken fabric slips into a knot under the housekeeper's fingers, sealing his fate for the next four hours.

Church.

Ivory-colored marble, gothic-styled towers that stretch into the skyline, and stained glass windows bringing colorful sunlight in an otherwise dreary nave.

Everything inside the church is meticulously manicured. Perfect. Rows and columns of pews stretch across the hall. Each row holds matching leather-bound Bibles, polished candleholders, and a crystal-clear vase filled with fragrant lilies.

An organ plays hymns while guests fill up the pews. Sunlight reflects off the floor and gives the illusion that heaven itself could reach down and touch someone.

Jisung dips his finger into the bowl of holy water and makes the sign of the cross on habit. After finding seats near the front of the chapel, Jisung and Ms. Celine take their places beside Mr. Han.

In unison, they stand, sit, bow, and sing. They join the choir in reciting hymns. They join the congregation in praying. Heads lowered, hands clasped in front of them, they give their lives to God.

How can Jisung sit here, praying to the Lord, while harboring these secrets — this...wrongness?

Does anyone see it? That Jisung is a...

("Fag?" "Limp-wrist pansy?" "Fuckin' queer?")

Surely, someone must know. Surely, God knows. Because Jisung isn't the perfect son anymore. He can never be, because perfection demands flawlessness. Demands purity.

And Jisung? Jisung isn't pure.

He's sick. Perverse.

And suddenly, Jisung isn't able to breathe right.

"What is wrong with you?" William snarls through clenched teeth, low enough to not make a scene. His hand clamps around Jisung's wrist in warning. "Quit squirming around. People are looking."

But there's a persistent ringing in his ears, and his face feels numb, and he swears that if he inhales too deeply, his lungs are going to collapse from the strain.

And people are looking. Looking, watching, staring—

Thinking he's pathetic because he is, and everyone can see it because it's impossible to hide. Impossible to ignore. Impossible to live with, suffocating under this scrutiny like an insect pinned beneath a microscope. What must his father think of him? Of his son?

"Jisung."

Jisung's chest hurts. He's drowning without a body of water in sight. He's sinking in it like an anchor in a frigid ocean where no light dares to pervade. Water floods his mouth, his eyes, his nostrils— seeping into his body and soaking every molecule in icy cold liquid. Dragging him down, down, down...

"Jisung."

here are people here. Everyone. Every eye in the entire chapel trains onto him like he's prey for wolves. An outsider. Wrongness. Sickness.

Perversity.

"Jisung fucking Han." William's grip grows painful. "If you don't—"

SLAP!

A red handprint blooms on Jisung's cheek. The pain trickles in after.

No one hears it. The sound of palm-striking-skin is muffled by the choir singing to the organ's instrumental. When his father meets his wide-eyed stare, something angry and terrible swirls inside his irises. Jisung wilts beneath it. He lowers his gaze, stares down at his fiddling hands, and draws his lips into a tight line.

"Enough already," William grits out. "I don't know why you are acting like such an embarrassing little girl, but whatever it is, it better stop right now. Act like you belong here."

Jisung nods because it's all he's been programmed to do.

("Act like you belong here.")

They stand, sit, bow, and sing again. They repeat the same prayers and hymns that have been recited since childhood. Jisung follows instructions. Mindlessly. Unquestionably. Only breathing when he's supposed to and sitting straight in a way that appeases Father. It leaves him choking on anxiety, but plastering a smile over it hides everything.

Then, there's the Eucharist. A bite of bread, representing the body of Christ. A sip of wine from an ivory basin, said to symbolize blood spilled from Jesus' crucifixion.

Jisung tastes it all and still thinks about... About... About—

("You gonna pay for that, sweetheart?")

("You can't look— hic!— hot and not know how to dance.")

("There, looks good on you.")

("Aw~. Is the princess shy from washin' dishes?")

("u make it too easy, sweet<3")

('What does it mean if you think about girls AND boys?...|')

('Are you Bi? Curious?')

—the boy whose company feels like freedom. Minho Lee. Minho, with his messy brown hair and honeycomb voice.

Ba-Dump! Ba-DUMP! BA-DUMP!

Jisung's heart flutters so fast that it's going to soar out of his chest. Panic churns in his gut like butter gone sour, curdling like spoiled milk left to make in the sun. Nausea threatens to expel rainbow-tinted sins upon the entire congregation, along with exposing his inner demons.

Jisung feels dizzy from it. Minho is 'so fucking handsome'— But God is watching— And shameless sinners don't make it to heaven.

Jisung's thoughts are twirling endlessly around the image of a boy. Beautiful. Filled with warm umber that thaws the earth after a cold season. Thawing Jisung's tundra of a mind programmed against being emotional, and blooming flowers inside a body that shouldn't house any of it.

Bloom after bloom after bloom. Vines twist and curl into the veins in his hands, taking hold and refusing to let go. Roses blossom and burst in his chest cavity. It's a garden in his ribcage again, and the butterflies are back.

Jisung stares up at the statue of Christ hanging above the altar. Pain returns where William slapped him.

("Act like you belong here.")

The flowers wilt. Petals shrivel and peel. Roses lose their life. Blooms crinkle when winter returns.

This 'admiration' of Minho Lee is getting out of hand.

❤︎

New Mail – You have a message from 'minh0 lee ^-^  ' on MySpace!

(June 18, 2006)

　minh0 lee ^-^ : hey, you're not responding... so i'm assuming that's a bad sign.
　minh0 lee ^-^ : everything k?

New Mail – You have a message from 'FelixLeeXO' on MySpace!

(June 18, 2006)

　FelixLeeXO: Hey :( havent talked in 4ever...
　FelixLeeXO: U wanna hang out?
　FelixLeeXO: Dad's bday is tmr so we're doing a barbecue. ur welc if u wanna come :)

　Jisung H.: I. Need. To. Get. Out. My. House.
　Jisung H.: I'll be there.

　FelixLeeXO: Cool :D
　FelixLeeXO: Wtf happened to u? Ive txted u on ur phone. No response

　Jisung H.: Grounded :(

　FelixLeeXO:  Ughh... ur dad is so stupid
　FelixLeeXO:  He's gonna let u come tmr?

　Jisung H.: Yeah. Of course.
　Jisung H.: My dad loves your family. :)

❤︎

Mr. Sanghoon Lee is popular in Sunnavelle. That much is clear in the amount of people that turn up for his birthday barbecue.

Most of the guests gather beneath a canvas shade canopy and enjoy each other's presence. Others stroll along the lake's edge, skip stones, or lounge lazily in lawn chairs.

Summer sun shines over green fields and caramelizes pale skin in golden-orange hues. Beef sizzles and pop!s over hot coals, ashen plumes of smoke billow out into the blue skies. An icebox filled with beverages sweats condensation along its plastic sides. Condiments lie scattered across wooden picnic tables alongside plates, napkins, and a dozen burgers yet-to-be-assembled.

Jisung is another $1.75 poorer when he finds Felix in the crowd. Felix sports a stylish blond updo, sunglasses perched atop his head, and a white tank top complementing loose-fitting camo pants.

"Jisung!"

Felix launches himself Jisung's way and tackles him into a bone-crushing hug. He pulls back, holding Jisung by the shoulders with stars twinkling in his eyes. "You're here! And...not grounded still, hopefully?"

'Well, technically I'm supposed to be at the library—'

"Nope!" Jisung answers, wearing his bestest grin. "All clear!"

"Awesome," Felix grins back, giving Jisung's shoulder a hearty pat. "Welcome back to the land of the living~."

Jisung's grin stretches further until it threatens to tear at the seams. It is all glass. Brittle. Easily breakable. Yet, it remains intact because that is what Felix deserves from him. This smile is a good one — the best in Jisung's collection of fake smiles — so it will do.

A gentle gust of wind rolls over, causing tree branches and sunflower stems to sway and dip in tune with the music. Wind combs through pitchy hair like it has hands of its own. The scent of grilling patties and corn on the cob is a sweet relief from a home with its windows closed and the doors locked shut. No amount of perfume can chase out the sour stench of anxiety in a house that's more of a mausoleum.

Sunshine, fresh air, and a little warmth will calm Jisung's nerves with time. At least, he convinces himself of that much when Felix drags him over to the steaming grill. Despite being the birthday boy, Mr. Lee mans the grill and plates styrofoam with fresh beef patties.

"Dad's grillin' is literally the shit," Felix says, holding two buns at the ready.

From beneath a birthday hat (black with silver glitter text reading 'Finally 40!') Mr. Lee's eyes narrow toward his son. He raises a spatula in warning, even if there's no real threat.

"Felix. Language." He clicks his tongue disapprovingly before addressing Jisung. "Hello there, stranger."

A plastic smile that's easily breakable forms once the glass shatters. This is all Jisung is made of: bits of plastic meant to bend when manipulated by each person around him. Mr. Lee deserves someone who won't ruin his birthday. Felix deserves someone who's okay.

"Hi," Jisung says, holding that smile like a shield. "H-Happy Birthday...uh... Mr. Lee."

"You're actin' like I'll bite your head off," Mr. Lee laughs. "Lighten up, Jisung. You look like a the wind could topple you over."

"O-Oh, uh. Sorry..."

Jisung clears his throat to push down that stupid, embarrassing stutter that comes from nowhere. His tongue still feels awkward shaping syllables, but Mr. Lee doesn't seem to mind as he slides a grilled patty onto Jisung's crinkling, styrofoam plate.

"Help yourself to anythin' on the table. Drinks are in the cooler over there, if you want a pop." Mr. Lee nods in its general direction. "And, if you want a drink, I won't snitch on ya'."

Mr. Lee points a finger towards his mouth and makes a motion like a zipper shutting tight. Jisung returns the gesture with a dry, nervous chuckle. Mr. Lee seems content enough to dismiss them in favor of returning to grilling duty.

'Alcohol...would probably help,' Jisung muses, eyes flickering to the cooler Mr. Lee pointed at. 'Maybe. Maybe I need it.'

As a social lubricant, of course.

Jisung follows Felix's example when building his own burger, taking cues on how to apply condiments in proper order. Ketchup, mustard, pickles, a tomato slice, and lettuce. Assembled messily and unlike the meals Ms. Celine arranges alongside the cooking staff. Mr. Lee may not be a trained professional, but at least his food is less soulless than what Jisung eats normally.

After sufficiently smothering the burger in condiments, Felix asks, "You wanna grab a drink?"

The urge to say yes rests on the tip of Jisung's tongue. And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't hurt anything. No one would ever have to know if he had one drink. Just a single beverage to unwind some nerves and silence those nagging memories of church. Or his SAT scores. Or bisexuality. Or Minho. Especially Minho.

Alcohol can chase all of that away. Surely, if he drinks, he won't dream about butterflies or big brown eyes tonight. It'd be a clean slate. An escape.

"—Hellooo? Earth to Jisung..." Felix waves his hand in front of Jisung's face. "Uhh...? Did I lose you?"

"Oh. Uhm. Sorry." Jisung snaps himself out of whatever daze he was falling into. "Y-Yeah, I'd like a beer."

"Really?" Felix beams. "Fuckin' awesome. I thought I would have to force feed it to ya'."

Jisung bites at the inside of his cheek, saying nothing as he watches Felix remove two cans of Bud Light from the ice chest. When Felix hands them over, the condensation drips onto Jisung's fingers with an icy chill—actually welcome in the Georgia heat. Felix snags two more cans for himself, tucks them beneath his armpit, and leads Jisung through the crowd to find somewhere to sit and eat.

A stone's throw from where the lake kisses the rocky shore, Jisung and Felix settle down into lawn chairs and begin the lengthy task of catching up on lost time. Between large mouthfuls of burger and foul-tasting sips of beer, they fall back into an easy, unassuming pattern of conversation.

"Eli and I are going open," Felix says between a bite, cheeks puffing like a chipmunk. He points the end of a ketchup-covered knife in Jisung's general direction. "Just for the summer so we can...I dunno, experience other people."

"Sounds...fun?"

"I just feel like..." Felix pauses, swirling the blunt knife in circles. "Like something is missin', y'know? There's no excitement. Eli's predictable, I guess."

"Sorry, Lix," Jisung murmurs.

"It's fine." Felix shrugs before cutting through his words with another big bite of juicy beef and a fluffy bun. "I'll probably sleep with Chris, like, once. 'Cause Chris is some fun...even if he's undateable."

An ache lances through Jisung's chest. Chris Bahng.

("Chris has fucked more guys than I will in my whole fuckin' lifetime.")

("If there's anyone givin' out STDs like— hic!— Halloween candy, it's that bitch.")

But...maybe none of that matters. Regardless of Chris's status as an out-of-control whore, he's fun. When sunshine kisses everything in its generous glow, 'fun' is all that matters. Alcohol, pleasure, and amusement chases away anxieties about anything that isn't this very moment in time. Nothing else exists.

No SAT scores. No mention of "fag," or "queer," or "bi," or sexuality at all. There's only beer, burgers, sunshine, and hearts in pursuit of boys who are undateable.

Felix has Chris Bahng. Jisung has Minho Lee.

"You're zoning out again...," Felix remarks, snapping his fingers repeatedly. "Earth to Jisung. Again. You're kinda freakin' me out..."

"Sorry. I'm...tired."

Jisung takes another swig of Bud Light, forcing it down his throat like cough medicine or mouthwash from the dentist's office. The carbonation makes Jisung's nostrils burn, so he presses the heel of his palm to his nose to ease the discomfort.

It sucks total ass. Jisung drinks it to numb himself. To feel some semblance of a buzz.

"Y'know what?" Felix asks, but answers the question without input: "I'm gonna gather up some guys our age who crashed this party. You just need somethin' fun to do, and the lake's callin' our names."

"...The lake?"

"Yes, dummy," Felix teases, nudging Jisung playfully. "It's freakin' hot out, and you look miserable enough to need the cool off."

Cool water and sunshine. Sunshine and alcohol. Alcohol and boys. Boys and...boys and...

'Minho.'

Jisung pretends like the world won't explode around him when Minho's face appears in his mind's eye. His father would kill him before those explosions hit — would bury Jisung alive if he knew his son fantasizes about...a boy. That boy. Those fingers. That laugh. Freedom. Fun.

That garden inside his ribcage blooms anew. Flowers flourish and grow lush inside his body. Freedom. Freedom. Freedom. Fun. Fun. Fun.

'I am so double grounded.' But, maybe that wasn't a bad thing if it meant freedom for a few hours.

"L-Let's do it."

❤︎

Inflatable tubes in various colors float along the lake's surface. Water trickles down the nape of Jisung's neck from strands of ebony hair. Sunlight glistens against water droplets running down backs, shoulders, and forearms. Beer cans litter the ground near the shoreline.

In the lake, the water is shockingly cold compared to humid, midday temperatures. Once the initial iciness wears off, though, Jisung becomes accustomed to floating carelessly in a group of teenage boys, bantering and exchanging laughs. The afternoon took on a golden, untethered feeling. It was freedom in how it made him forget he was breaking the rules.

Alcohol has settled into Jisung's bloodstream and it provides some needed reprieve from a world of worries. It doesn't matter that his shirt is off and that his shorts are soaked through. From within an inflatable tube covered in cartoonish pineapples, he watches bubbles erupt when the tab on another beer can is pulled backwards with a PSSH!.

The more alcohol Jisung has swirled in his bloodstream, the easier it is for inhibition to coax him into drinking another can. Drinking more alcohol. Every can get a little easier to swallow.

"...Never have I ever..." Jisung hears Chris Bahng say. "Gotten a blowie."

Around the circle of floats, nearly everyone tips back their can. Jisung's half-empty beer can seems heavier while the others are laughing and guzzling theirs down. He's been drinking in-between rounds so he can still feel somewhat included and get somewhat shitfaced like everyone else. He needs this. To belong somewhere — anywhere — even if not entirely.

"Never have I ever been caught with porn."

Another round of beer tips back, and Jisung drinks out of solidarity. It probably doesn't do much for his reputation. Everyone already knows what he is: virgin. Straight-laced.

Someone adds on: "...Porn on their computer!"

Jisung looks into his can and pretends the beer tastes like juice. That drinking won't make him feel ashamed. After taking another swig, he chases after laughter and pretends he's seen a naked body outside his own. It's a hollow lie.

"Okay, okay, okay!" Another voice rings out from a rubber ring decorated in the shape of a smiley face. "What about..."

It's Felix. Cheeks flushed pink. Eyes brighter than blue sky or clear water.

"...Been kissed?"

Embarrassment flushes Jisung's cheeks as a million "duh"s echo on the lake. Jisung's pride bruises when the other guys in the circle poke fun at his severe lack of action. Some attribute it to his glasses, because girls aren't attracted to nerds. Others chalk it up to an awkwardness he just can't shake. The jokes sting a little less the drunker Jisung gets.

What kind of sixteen-year-old hasn't been kissed yet? Apparently him.

It stings. But... Jisung can hide behind another sip of beer... Or pretend he isn't as uncomfortable as he feels.

❤︎

Eventually, the water falls to temperatures too-cold for lounging. Jisung hobbles onto the shore with his inflatable, shivering against the breeze in the dusk. Pinkish hues stain the sunset and blend into periwinkle—stars beginning to peek through the clouds. Fireflies blink yellow-green specks in the shadows.

Teens migrate from the lakeside like flocks of birds in search of warmth. Music filters through tinny speakers as people pack up. Jisung sings along with what lyrics he can make out, slurring them out in breathless abandon. His hair sticks up in wet tufts and drips lake water down his temples.

"You— hic!— alive?" Felix calls out from behind a pile of folded shirts and discarded shoes.

"Bare... Barely..." Jisung laughs; it's probably inappropriate given the circumstances. "'M so...fuckin' drunk."

"You were actually pretty fun tonight," Felix admits. He passes Jisung's things back one article at a time: socks, sneakers, shirt. "Who knew all you needed was some— hic!— cheap beer?"

The shirt Jisung slips into isn't his own if the stench of cigarette smoke is anything to go by. It's baggy around the shoulders and exposes his clavicles in a deep-cut v-neck. Still, it beats having to dry his bare skin out in the twilight. Jisung's own shirt is nowhere to be found through eyes that swim in-and-out of focus, so he's probably triple grounded now.

Double...triple— whatever. It hardly matters. Not when alcohol still hums through Jisung's veins and burns a dulling flame in the back of his skull. Who cares if the shirt doesn't belong to him? Who cares if he smells like he belongs here in "shady" Sunnavelle?

"Sober up for a minute," Felix instructs, pinching Jisung's cheek. The pain doesn't register. "You'll walk yourself into the— hic!— lake."

"Fun."

"Fun, sure." Felix snorts. "Sure...except— you could drown. Let's not die. Okay? Sit— hic!— sit down."

Sobering up takes time. Jisung slumps in a grassy patch beneath a willow tree. The wind makes the weeping branches dance overhead, hypnotizing as if watching feathers twirling in a breeze. Overhead, the periwinkle darkens. Sun-kissed skin turns colder, and fingertips ache from frigid water. Felix grabs him another grease-drenched burger to chase away the inebriation.

Jisung craves more cans of pisswater beer and more games where he has to drink from it. More freedom to be like the guys around him. Fun. Loose. Uninhibited. Not...pianist, academic, honors student, or 'maybe-I'm-bi' queer boy, sobering up under a weeping willow. Anything but that.

Felix senses Jisung's discontent when he reappears to hand him a cold can of cola. It's not the same, and Jisung doesn't understand why he should settle for anything less than getting blasted to Hell and back. Why can't he be carefree? Is it asking for too much?

"We'll do somethin' fun at my place, okay?" Felix promises, patting Jisung's shoulder. "It's gonna get cold out. I'll hook you up with dry clothes."

"Two more beers," Jisung barters with his fingers held high. "Please~."

"Zero," Felix responds.

"One?"

"I'll think about it," Felix chuckles. "Let's go."

Mr. Lee has started a bonfire down by the lake where adults congregate in the park's parking lot: drinking, eating, and making casual conversation. Flames crackle orange beneath the darkening skyline. They walk past rows of vacant lawn chairs and drained cans; past grills that smell like burnt beef, charcoal briquettes, and lighter fluid. Their steps follow concrete sidewalks and then black asphalt. Luckily, Felix's pie shop apartment isn't too far away from the lakeside area.

"I think your parents would shit bricks if they saw you like this," Felix snickers, tossing an arm around Jisung's shoulders to hold him steady. "Bye-bye Sun'velle, hello Korean military~."

At that, Jisung blinks, sobering up enough to remember why all of this matters. Why he shouldn't come home trashed. What will happen if he doesn't play his part perfectly. His facial expressions must show the sudden shift from foggy-to-sober-to-scared shitless, because Felix cackles uncontrollably.

"Oh, shit! Dude! I'm fuckin' with ya'. You'll be fine! Trust me."

Felix doesn't know that Jisung lied his way into spending time down by the lake. Felix doesn't know Jisung is already grounded indefinitely with a phoneless existence and a teeny window of freedom in research trips to the library.

All Felix sees is Jisung Han: perfect, untouchable, preppy, rich, and maybe an idiot. Jisung Han, who's never faced real discipline a day in his life. Jisung Han, who lives in a mansion and gets whatever he wants. Jisung Han, who doesn't realize how good he has it.

("You'll be fine! Trust me.")

Jisung's brain, albeit soaked through in alcohol, tries to process those four syllables. Fine? Is he fine? What does Felix know?

When Jisung stays silent for too long, Felix draws him closer and explains:

"Listen. Your Mom is in fuckin' Hong Kong, so she's outta your hair for the entire summer," Felix starts, counting off on his fingers. "You'll sober up at my place, so no one back home even has to know you— hic!— we were drinking."

They arrive at the back entrance of Pepper's Pie Shop: a two-story building with an apartment overhead. Felix opens the door and leads them up the stairwell, keeping the chatter flowing the entire time. Felix's house always has that smell of Febreeze covering up cigarette smoke.

"My mom and dad will be out until, like, midnight," Felix continues, flipping lights on in the tiny apartment living room. "Which gives you enough time to sober up. We have—"

Felix pauses mid-sentence to open the mini-fridge, "—a fuckload'a junk food, leftovers from the restaurant, soda... Take your— hic!— pick. I'll get you some clothes."

As Felix vanishes down a narrow hall, Jisung crouches to survey the fridge's contents. The junk food ranges from hot fries, to candy bars, to leftover pizza. Jisung settles for a microwave burrito and some sort of sugary chocolate candy bar.

With the "meal" nestled under his arm, he stumbles downstairs into the kitchen. The microwave hums to life, warming the burrito until it's somewhat edible.

DING— DING! Knock-Knock!

The bell chimes, and then there's a knock at the front door of the restaurant, or maybe it's not a knock. The door swings open so casually that Jisung almost expects it to be someone he knows. Like Felix, or even Eli. However, neither of those options seems plausible, because the door opens to Minho Lee instead. Black leather jacket hanging from broad shoulders.

"삼촌 ("Uncle")—! Oh. Jisung," Minho breathes, halting in the doorway like a deer in headlights. The front door shuts with a gentle thump!. "You're here...?"

The way Minho looks at him makes Jisung's spine turn into some sticky, elastic goo. His heart flip-flops and his head goes a little fuzzy. The floor sways under his feet. And Minho is just standing there looking like he'd stepped right off an album cover or the front page of Rolling Stone magazine.

Jisung's eyes trail after Minho's movements, watching the way he lifts a plastic bag with a pink-azalea-print logo on it.

"I uh... I brought this for my uncle. From the shop," Minho explains, gesturing with the bag. "It's his birthday. He's not here?"

"N-No, uhm..." Jisung takes a deep, steadying breath. His tongue is too heavy and his mouth is too sloppy. "He's... Uhh... Out at a barbecue party...at the l-lake. Sorry."

Minho squints. He steps closer until his waist is flush against the counter separating the dining area from the kitchen. He tilts his head as if to get a better look. Jisung is painfully aware of how he's being watched as if Minho is trying to piece together some kind of puzzle. Jisung stands there and lets Minho study him. It's all he knows to do. It's all he knows how to be. Watched.

"Have you been drinking?"

The question catches Jisung off guard. It sounds like an accusation. Or maybe that's not the right word. It's more like a realization that's coming out as a question. As if Minho is asking himself that question and answering it at the same time.

"Uhm...whaat?"

"Are you drunk?" Minho asks again, this time with more clarity. "Like... Right now?"

Jisung tries to stand straighter to prove he's not drunk, but it has the opposite effect. He loses balance and nearly topples sideways. Luckily, the kitchen countertop is there to save him. Unluckily, it draws an exasperated sigh from between Minho's lips.

"Okay, that's enough of that," Minho says, setting the bag on the countertop. He circles around to the kitchen side and catches Jisung by the wrist. "Felix is a fuckin' horrible influence. We're gonna sober you up. Properly."

"We are?" Jisung asks, stumbling slightly as he's tugged along. Minho sits him down on a barstool. "Why?"

"Because you look a mess, that's why," Minho says, rolling his eyes. "C'mon. I've dealt with enough drunks in my lifetime to know a few tricks."

Jisung watches Minho turn the faucet on, filling a glass with water. He watches how his brunet hair falls into his face and how Minho tucks it behind his ear. Something funny bubbles up from Jisung's gut and escapes as a giggle. Maybe it's the alcohol talking, but he finds himself thinking about how Minho is so damn pretty. Beautiful. Handsome. Cute. Whatever word works. Jisung giggles because Minho doesn't know that he has butterflies in his tummy.

Giggles erupt until his cheeks ache and tears stream down his face. Everything feels a little funnier when you're drunk. The world is a little brighter, too. A little softer. Jisung laughs because Minho is so pretty, and it's making him feel strange inside. He laughs because Minho doesn't understand what Jisung has been researching: bisexuality. Minho is a butterfly. Minho makes Jisung feel like he might be a little bi. Jisung giggles because Minho doesn't know anything at all.

Minho has no idea how fucking miserable it is to live in that giant mausoleum of a house. He doesn't know about William Han's rage or how cold Narae Han is towards her son. Minho doesn't know how terrifying it is to be alone in the world. To have to pretend to be perfect. How much of a struggle it is just to survive in the world you were born into, Minho doesn't know at all.

And...shit, suddenly Jisung's crying to cry and not crying from laughter.

"Are you okay—"

"Did you k-know that— hic!— I've never kissed...anyone before?" Sobs bubble up through the hiccuping giggles. "I'm sixteen, and I've n-never kissed anyone."

Minho blinks. Once. Twice. Three times.

"Oh. Uh. Okay...?"

"And—!" Jisung scrubs his eyes on the back of his hand, but the tears don't stop. "So... So imma big fuckin'— hic!— loser fuckin' nerd... But... B-But I can't even...do that right..."

Jisung closes his eyes, and it all returns to him in the same order: Minho. SPANK ME. Chris Bahng. SWB. His dad. The essay. His SAT scores. The library. The church. The garden. A boy's body against his own. God. It returns to him until there is no order, just an overwhelming flood of confused and confusing emotion. He's a mess. He's such a fucking mess. Therefore, he drinks. Therefore, he wants to forget. Because remembering who he is hurts more than anything.

"I'm— I'm fucked up," Jisung says. "I know. I know I am."

"You're not fucked up. You're drunk," Minho reasons. His voice is gentle. It makes Jisung want to cry harder. "Drink some water, okay?"

Jisung takes the glass of water, sips from it, and then cries a little harder. The tears don't want to stop, and nothing is stopping the avalanche of feelings that make Jisung feel like he's falling apart.

"Hey... Hey, 'S alright," Minho coos, rubbing Jisung's back. The touch feels warm and inviting, so Jisung leans into it. He leans into Minho. "You're a good kid, okay?"

"I'm... I'm fucked up..." Jisung sobs. "I'm sorry— I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

"What are you sorry for—?"

"Everything!" Jisung honk!s into Minho's shirt. Tears and snot soak the fabric. "I was... I was ignorin' you, yknow? All day! 'Cause... 'Cause I was scared of bein' your friend, and I think it's... It's 'cause I think I might be— hic!—"

"Shhh," Minho shushes. "You can tell me all about it later, m'kay? When you're not...totally wasted."

A soft, sugar-sweet, baked bun presses against Jisung's mouth. Strawberry jam oozes between his teeth. Jisung swallows the pastry and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, sniffling. Minho retrieves the heat-up burrito from the microwave, cleaves it in half, and feeds it to Jisung in increments. He gives Jisung a little food, then water, then another bite of burrito, then more water, then a strawberry bun, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat. They fall into a routine of sorts.

Jisung eats, sips water, and hiccups. His body sags against Minho like dead weight and smears a mix of snot and saltwater into his shirt. Minho doesn't seem to mind.

"Feelin' a little better?" Minho asks.

Jisung nods. "Mhmm..."

"Jisung—! Oh, Minho," Felix's voice echoes from the stairwell. He enters the kitchen a moment later. "Well, shit. What'd I miss?"

Once Jisung's brain determines that he no longer needs to focus and make conversation, the surrounding voices fuzzy up into static noise. Jisung's eyelids droop, and he has the faint realization that he's probably falling asleep against Minho's shoulder. His cheek smushes into the leather of Minho's jacket. The jacket smells good. Like...like cinnamon and cigarettes.

"Your best friend is drunk," Minho says matter-of-factly. "Like...wasted, Felix."

"Oh, yeah? No shit." Felix places a messy heap of clothes on the counter. "He'll be fine. Just needs to— hic!— sober up a lil'."

"You should take better care of your friends. You know that, right?" Minho says, tone shifting towards something more icy and scolding. "He's pro'lly only doing all this shit to be more like you."

"Okay... Whatever, Mom." Felix is snappish and irritated. "Ji's not a fuckin' baby. Don't treat him like one. 'S weird. "

Jisung doesn't catch what Minho says in response; the words blur together in Jisung's brain until it all sounds like a hum of white noise. He tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids are too heavy to keep lifted. Sleep beckons him closer, and he's too tired and too drunk to resist.

Once asleep, Jisung dreams of Minho and the garden blooming inside his ribcage all over again.

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ JUNE, 2006
The Pilot

Jisung Han: the perfect embryo for William Han's legacy, born from the womb of the perfect woman.

His name is spoken with perfectly practiced smiles and praise he knows he doesn't deserve. He is a perfect product of a perfect family. A product of his parents' image. And it hurts. It hurts so goddamn much. Because it's a lie.

Fork. Knife. Napkin. Glass. Maple syrup flooding his taste buds. French toast doused in a saccharine taste that makes Jisung want to vomit. Absentee William Han because work is more important than breakfast with his son.

It takes all the strength left in him not to lean over the edge of the table and vomit up Ms. Celine's perfect breakfast. Instead, he chokes down another forkful, savoring the sweetness that burns the bile that bubbles in the back of his throat. He swallows the pain with the syrupy flavor of maple and bites his lip. He does the same for the next bite. Then the next. Then the next. Until—

"I'm sure you know we need to talk about yesterday," Ms. Celine says, sipping her black coffee. "About you sneaking out. Again."

Jisung nods, even though his body flinches at the word. Sneaking. Out. Again. Sneaking. Like he's some juvenile delinquent rather than a suffocated mass of nerves hiding from the emptiness of his room. Jisung sets his fork and knife down, side by side, as if neatness might save him.

"I'm sorry," Jisung whispers.

Ms. Celine sighs. Jisung doesn't have to look up from his plate to see her pinching her forehead until it creases.

"Just... Why? You'll only worry your parents."

He knows 'worried' is just another way to say 'disappointed.' "What happened to our perfect boy?" they'd ask. "What happened to our obedient puppet who did whatever his parents asked without question?"  they'd wonder with a frown deep-set in their mouths. 

"You know, you left your bike here when you left," Ms. Celine says, gesturing to the bicycle parked in the backyard. "That's how I know you didn't go to the library like you said."

Jisung looks out to the back garden and notices his bike resting on its kickstand. His heart plummets into his stomach. Of course she would notice. Of course. That's what William Han pays her for with all those pretty checks: to watch him when his parents are too preoccupied to care.

"Do you realize how that looks? Anyone who cared enough to look just a little deeper would've—"

"That's the thing. They don't care," Jisung blurts before he can think better of it. "They never have. T–They'll never notice."

Jisung realizes too late how his voice wobbles on those closing syllables. He tries to catch the broken pieces and shove them back into place, but he's a little too late.

Ms. Celine frowns.

"Your parents give you anything and everything you could want. Tell me, what do they have to do to make you happy? Other kids would do anything for a fraction of what you have—"

"But they don't love me," Jisung interrupts, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. A tear rolls down his cheek. "They don't love me. They don't know me. They don't even care."

Silence. Long. Opaque. Oppressive. It sits perched precariously like the eggs on the edge of Jisung's plate.

"You know your father doesn't like it when you cry like that," Ms. Celine reminds him. As if that fact alone could soak up all of Jisung's tears. "Dry your face. Please."

"Well, it's his— sniff!— fault," Jisung mumbles, lifting the napkin to blot the moisture away. "H–He never even asks how I am... Or what I like...or...who I really am— I don't even know who I really am!"

When the outburst ends, silence follows once more. Stilted. Stagnant. Broken by occasional sniffling, whimpers, and hiccups. By the time Jisung collects himself, his face is sticky from drying tears and flushed red; salt water drips from his eyelashes.

"Do you feel better now that you've finished saying your piece?" Ms. Celine asks. "Please, stop the crying."

Her posture remains as prim as always. Too perfect. Perfect, like this whole fucking house is perfect.

"Sorry..." Jisung apologizes, wiping his face again. "I'm done."

"Good. Then please hear what I have to say."

Ms. Celine pauses — maybe waiting for a reply, or maybe for the right words. Jisung braces himself for some stern reminder of how easy he has it. How spoiled he is. The thoughts repeat in his mind until he almost believes it: that his parents aren't toxic, that they love him, and that it's all his fault they're always disappointed in him.

Except, that isn't what Ms. Celine says:

"I don't agree with your father's parenting style often. Not at all, actually. He should show you more support. I tell him as much when he'll listen, but... I digress."

Ms. Celine pauses to clear her throat, then continues:

"I think... I think you're just a teenager who's learning who you are. Naturally, you're making mistakes along the way. But in this house, you aren't allowed to ride a bike and fall off it every now and then."

Ms. Celine stops to stare off into the mahogany cabinets of the dining hall. As if there's an answer to it all hidden behind the cabinet doors. For a minute, the clock mounted on the wall counts down the seconds, tick!-ing each of them past with its thin metal arms.

"So...you can understand my point of view, can't you?" Ms. Celine asks. "I need to do my job, Jisung. And part of that job is not letting you sneak out to do...well, whatever it is you were doing yesterday."

Another pause. Another long sip of steaming hot coffee.

"If your father opened the door to Felix Lee and his alleged cousin, with your drunk self slung over their shoulders," Ms. Celine recounts with the shake of her head, "then... Well, imagine how that might've gone."

The mental image sinks through Jisung's skin, muscle, and bones until it rattles around inside his marrow like a parasite. Memories from last night have vanished into a hazy mist, but his imagination does lots with the broken pieces.

Mr. William Han would follow the same format he always does: (1) smile on the surface (2) send Jisung up to bed and (3) make his displeasure known in violent, thunderous ways the next day. Loud, offensive words and thinly veiled threats. Punishments that leave handprints beneath layers of clothes. Being boxed into solitary confinement until William Han deemed him properly rehabilitated.

"I can understand that sometimes—" Ms. Celine pauses to think, "—we can feel trapped here. In this house. In this life. If you're going to keep doing this, you need to tell me beforehand. So we can plan accordingly."

Jisung's pulse thrums loud enough to drown out the clock's incessant tick!-ing. Plan? Is this some kind of trap? He stares at Ms. Celine for any hint that this is a test orchestrated by his father to catch him doing something he shouldn't and— 'Breathe.'— But, she only squeezes his shoulder with a softening glint in her eyes.

"It wouldn't be too difficult to find an excuse to have you gone for an hour or two...," Ms. Celine explains. "But, to pull it off, you have to let me know."

"Really?"

Jisung gawks up at her. It's barely there, but Jisung notices how the corners of Ms. Celine's mouth curl upward.

"Yes." She pushes the breakfast plate back into place. "Now eat your French toast. I won't be catering to your grumbling stomach during your piano lessons later."

Jisung doesn't hesitate. He digs into his breakfast, stabbing bits of French toast, eggs, sausage, and hash browns. Ms. Celine finishes her coffee and goes back into the kitchen. When she leaves through the doorway, Jisung calls after her:

"Thank you!"

Jisung's fingers curl tightly around the fork and knife. The maple syrup tastes sweeter on his tongue. He sips lukewarm tea. Maybe things won't be so bad after all.

❤︎

New Mail – You have a message from 'minh0 lee ^-^ ' on MySpace!

(June 19, 2006)

　minh0 lee ^-^ : hey! drink lots of tea 4 that hangover, ok?
　minh0 lee ^-^ : ...and pls don't drink like that again. seriously.
　minh0 lee ^-^ : u can be pretty embarrassing

-
(June 20, 2006)

　Jisung H.: Hi, Minho! I'm so sorry for causing trouble...
　Jisung H.: Thank you for helping me. Again. T_T

　minh0 lee ^-^ : u owe me ;P
　minh0 lee ^-^ : jk
　minh0 lee ^-^ : it's no problem! anything 4 a friend
　minh0 lee ^-^ : wait
　minh0 lee ^-^ : r we even friends. lol.

　Jisung H.: Aren't we??

　minh0 lee ^-^ : idk.
　minh0 lee ^-^ : do u wanna be friends?

　Jisung H.: Do you?

　minh0 lee ^-^ : yeah?

　Jisung H.: Then I think we are?

　minh0 lee ^-^ : cool :3
　minh0 lee ^-^ : friends of minho lee get amazing perks! like...free treats at blossom delights! plus unlimited access to my beautiful face <3

　Jisung H.:  Am I reading the room wrong, or are you insinuating that you want to hang out?

　minh0 lee ^-^ : u r reading the room wrong

　Jisung H.: :(

　minh0 lee ^-^ : jk
　minh0 lee ^-^ : come over~ :P

From the outside, Blossom Delights appears semi-hidden between busier storefronts. A hand-painted wooden sign hangs above the door. In that fading, curvy script, is the shop's name. A chalkboard is propped on the sidewalk. It shows off today's specials with colorful illustrations and doodles alongside the menu items.

"I didn't know that you like pastries," Ms. Celine comments as the car pulls into a narrow parking spot on the side of the road. "Are you sure this is the right place, Jisung? It looks kind of...rundown."

And... Ms. Celine isn't wrong. Potted azaleas line either side of the entryway, making up for the weeds sprouting in-between the sidewalk bricks. There are millions of cracks in the navy blue, pink-accented paint.

"Uhm... Yes. It's the...right place," Jisung says, already unbuckling his seatbelt and moving to climb out. "Pick me up in an hour?"

"Make it two. I have to run a few errands while we're out," Ms. Celine says. She fluffs her hair and adds, "Don't do anything stupid. I mean it. It will reflect poorly on me. And my job."

Jisung doesn't miss the warning in her tone. ("Don't do anything stupid.") 'Not like you usually do,' she didn't say, but Jisung's brain is good at filling in the gaps.

"Got it. Two hours."

Ms. Celine quirks a brow. "And?"

"...And I won't get myself into trouble. Promise."

'Depending on what you'd consider 'trouble'...'

He's met with an unconvinced hum.

"I'm serious. Behave. Remember that everything you do is a reflection on your family. And, by extension, mine. Don't give me any reason to doubt my choice of leaving you here alone. Understand?"

Jisung nods and offers a small salute. "Understood."

"Good. I'll be back soon. Don't forget the time. Don't break anything that's not yours. And for God's sake, don't run off and get inebriated."

"I won't, I won't."

Ms. Celine's expression betrays her skepticism when she gives Jisung a pointed look. It's fleeting, though, as she leans forward to fix the collar of his shirt, brushing away any invisible wrinkles. She fusses for a little longer over him until Jisung gently guides her away, laughing, assuring her he looks fine and that he will not embarrass her, and that she needn't worry about it.

"Well, I hope you enjoy low-grade pastries in the dump of an area," Ms. Celine mutters. "It certainly is...charming, I guess. I'll see you soon."

"See you."

Jisung waves off the vehicle with a glasslike grin. It doesn't wane until Ms. Celine drives properly out of view. As soon as the car disappears around the corner, the smile falters and wilts like a flower left without water for too long.

("Don't do anything stupid. I mean it.")

A voice that sounds awfully like Ms. Celine's warns Jisung in the back of his mind despite efforts to shove it into the deepest pits of his subconscious. Meeting the (cute) guy he's (sort of) attracted to — but not in that way — hoping it will clarify things for his confusing, chaotic identity crisis definitely qualifies as stupid.

"Quick, 'Felix's Guide to Manliness: 101', rule two," Jisung recites to himself under his breath in a voice he can only pray is quiet enough for the few passersby to ignore. "Real men always trust their first instinct. There is no need to consult their better halves about anything, because the first instinct is the truest and the most genuine one."

A pause.

"First instinct. Let's go." Jisung wrings his hands together and straightens his spine.

'First instinct. First instinct. First—'
　　
Before he can muster the courage to walk inside, the door of the pastry shop swings open. A shrill CHIME! sounds as a familiar head of brown curls appears. Jisung's stomach twists and churns and threatens to expel his breakfast. The Georgian summer heat finally catches up to him and leaves a sweaty sheen rising on his forearms.

Minho greets him with a wave of his arm. Jisung manages an awkwardly delayed wave back.

"Howdy," Minho drawls in some sort of fake Southern accent that makes Jisung giggle and relax against his own volition. "C'mon. 할머니's ("Grandma's,") got some treats with your name on it~."

All Jisung can think about is how warm Minho's fingers are on his wrist as they enter the shop. His cheeks sting like he'd made out with a volcano for ten hours straight, then bathed in lava, and then emerged from the crater with magma dripping from his skin.

But that's not the case at all. No making out. Just a simple, chaste, friendly gesture. No big deal.

"Sit." Minho points to a table for two beside a large window. "I'm still on the clock, but I'll stop by if it's not too busy."

Jisung sits in a spindly chair that creak!s and groans as he moves to get comfortable. As promised, the bell attached to the door of the bakery rings constantly; every few minutes a new customer arrives. Minho goes from table-to-table, carrying trays loaded with steamy sweet buns, cake slices, and other breads and beverages. Sometimes when Minho passes by, his fingers graze Jisung's forearm.

BZZT! Electricity crackles where their skin meets.

During the short breaks between orders and deliveries, Minho stops by Jisung's table to make idle conversation. Sometimes it's questions ("What's your favorite song?") that eventually veer into hypothetical musings about parallel universes, and different planets, and time travel. Other times, it's:

"Wait, you read manga?" Minho blinks incredulously, pausing mid-drag as he wipes off an unused table. "For real?"

"Yeah." Jisung fiddles with his thumbs. "It's no big deal."

Jisung half-expects Minho to poke fun at him the way Felix does, or maybe roll his eyes and call it childish the way his mother does. But Minho does neither. Instead, he lights up, drops the rag on the table, and claps his hands together. His eyes grow wide and sparkle like gold coins.

"No big deal?" Minho scoffs. "Manga is cool. Super cool. Which one's your favorite?"

"Maybe..." Jisung hesitates. "...Death Note...? That one's really cool..."

"Taste." Minho nudges Jisung with his hip and smiles. "Good taste."

Before Jisung can ask Minho for his favorite manga, another customer walks through the door. They lapse back into light-hearted, trivial discussions: the weather ("Goddamned humidity makes me wanna melt into a puddle and die."), whether they're cat or dog people ("Is that even a question? Cats are obviously fuckin' superior."), and which country would be best to escape to if Georgia's humidity scorched it to its core ("France is supposed to be romantic. Prolly there.").

Eventually, the lunch rush dwindles down and Minho takes a break.

Minho drops into the seat opposite Jisung, stretching out his legs beneath the table. He sets a tray of untouched desserts on their table while Grandma Lee pours milk tea into teeny teacups. They situate themselves close enough so that their knees bump together when Jisung fidgets in his seat.

Minho teaches Jisung that Hal-meo-ni is not the birth given name of his grandmother, but the Korean equivalent of the word. Jisung doesn't dare ask about the whereabouts of Minho's parents when Minho candidly reveals that he lives with his 할머니 in the cramped back apartment of the pastry shop. Even if the question lingers on his tongue, Jisung isn't cruel enough to pry.

Minho shares that he's been dancing "since birth" and that he wants to pursue it professionally. His passion burns so brightly that Jisung notices it in the way the stars light up in Minho's eyes as he recounts his favorite moments of his dance career. He gushes about the cat in his MySpace profile picture — Soonie — but doesn't expand much further beyond that.

In turn, Minho learns some facts about Jisung.

"So...you're basically a piano prodigy?"

Jisung chokes a bit on the bittersweet, jasmine milk tea. "I-It's really nothing special. Not compared to dancing or anything..."

"Unh–Unh," Minho counters, wagging a finger in protest. "That's super fucking—"

"민호야! 입 조심해!" ("Minho! Watch your mouth!")

"죄송합니다..." ("Sorry...") Minho rolls his eyes in his grandmother's general direction. He turns back to Jisung."...but it is cool. I've always wanted to play music."

"Oh— Uhm..." Jisung pauses, considering his next words. "Well... If you ever visit, I guess... I could teach you something..."

"Okay." Minho chuckles in that attractive, slanted way. "I'll hold you to it."

They continue in that sequence: light conversation, sharing information, learning things. It's easy. Simple. Uncomplicated. Something about Minho's vibe disarms Jisung in a way he hadn't experienced before now.

The voices inside Jisung's head — telling him to behave, act straight, man up, speak properly — shrink and shrivel until they are so quiet that Jisung hardly hears them. Eventually, being a boy (and not just a product or vessel for good grades) feels normal.

Jisung eats a pastry smothered in sugary red bean paste and whipped cream. The taste of strawberries lingers in his mouth while he licks the residual sweetness from his lips.

"Thank you for inviting me here. This is all..." Jisung struggles to find a good word for what exactly 'this' is. "...Really nice. And— And different! From my house."

Minho wipes sweat off his neck with a napkin.

"Why? 'Cause we've got creaky chairs and shitty air conditioning?"

"What?! N-No!"

Minho snickers. "Relax. 'M kidding. It's 'cause there's more room to breathe here than in your big-ass mansion. Am I wrong?"

"Well... Not really..."

"Mm-hmm. Yeah. Well, anytime you wanna feel like an average, broke kid—" Minho reaches out to flick Jisung's forehead, "—call me up. We could go places besides this shitty bakery, too."

There's no chance for Jisung to process those words. ("Call me.") There isn't time to dissect them, restructure them, then pick them apart again in the safety of his bedroom.  ("Call me." "Anytime.") Because, right now, with Minho sitting right across from him, all Jisung can manage is a quick, shaky nod, and an embarrassed:

"S-Sure..."

❤︎

"I assume you enjoyed your pastries?" Ms. Celine inquires over the soft purr of the car engine. "You are glowing, child. Almost as if you've seen the sun for the first time."

'Glowing.' He's glowing.

Jisung doesn't notice his flushed face — or the gleam in his eyes — until Ms. Celine's observation draws his attention. He pulls down the sun visor, flips open the mirror, and...oh. Yep. He looks stupidly, obnoxiously happy. Too happy. His mouth is stuck in a goofy grin that spans from ear-to-ear.

It takes a moment to school his facial muscles into something less manic. Only then does Jisung snap the visor closed and flop back against the seat, chest deflating like an old balloon.

"It was...a good bakery. Lots of varieties."

"I'll trust your judgment." Ms. Celine spares him a sideward glance. Her expression is hard to read. "And I'm certain it has nothing to do with that boy you were chatting up. The one with the apron and the curls."

Jisung's blood roars in his ears in tandem with the white-hot swell of the lump that catches in the back of his throat. His hands curl into fists.

"He has such a nice smile. I'm sure you've noticed. Very kind," Ms. Celine continues. Her voice sounds faint to Jisung's ears, blotted out by the blood hammering through his veins. "I suppose you wanted to visit him under the guise of 'loving pastries'?"

Jisung finally gets a hold of how words work to ask: "How did you...?"

"Did you seriously think I'd let you go somewhere unknown, unsupervised, and knowing no information about the people you'd be with?"

Ms. Celine taps her fingers against the steering wheel. Click. Click. Click. It feels like the world is ending. Jisung's chest tightens. The breath caught in his throat threatens to suffocate him.

Ms. Celine must notice because her fingers cease their tapping, and her voice drops to a soft murmur. She exhales, and when she speaks, there's no bite or malice. Instead, there's an evenness that borders on exhaustion.

"Jisung, I do not care if you like this boy," Ms. Celine says. She pauses as if she's searching for the right thing to say. "I don't want you to think I'm this...homophobic witch. Your romantic preferences are none of my concern."

"No— N-No, you've got it wrong! It's not like that...," Jisung starts. Stops. Starts. Stops again. "He's my friend. Felix's cousin, like you said. That's how we know each other."

The tension eases out of Jisung's chest slightly when Ms. Celine decides not to challenge him. Phew.

"Alright. I apologize for the misunderstanding." Ms. Celine lets silence fall over them for a few moments before continuing: "Regardless of what he is to you, your parents would not approve of him."

"They don't approve of Felix either—"

"—Well, you never go pink in the face when Felix walks into a room," Ms. Celine points out bluntly. She sighs. "...Look, Jisung. Are you gay?"

Jisung's mouth goes dry as a cotton field under the blistering summer sun. His lips crack and stick together when he attempts to move them. Jisung wants to die on the spot. Actually, scratch that. He needs to evaporate from the universe altogether. Go live in the Amazon rainforest. Never come back.

"W-What?"

"I asked: Are you gay?" Ms. Celine repeats flatly. "I won't tell your parents if you are. I won't treat you any differently if you are. But I am asking so I know where I stand and how I should proceed."

"Please don't..." Jisung sinks further into the seat and groans into his hands. "Please... Please don't talk about this..."

Ms. Celine sighs again as the car slows before a red light. She turns her head just enough so that her face fully faces Jisung. Her lips curve up into a sad smile. It's soothing despite the storm brewing within the pit of Jisung's stomach.

"I'm sure he's a nice boy. I'm sure he's very sweet, and it's easy to see he likes you," Ms. Celine says. "Just don't do anything stupid, alright? You're too young to ruin your life over something as frivolous as teenage hormones. Things like this don't last. Believe me."

"Of course." Jisung's words sound hollow to his own ears. "I... I understand."

"Good. That's all I ask," Ms. Celine hums. "You know it would only hurt him as well. You are a smart boy, Jisung. Do the right thing."

Jisung nods and swallows the lump lodged in his throat. He watches the world pass by in a blur of watercolor paint and tries not to let the crushing weight of the guilt sink him to the bottom of the sea.

One thing's for certain: Jisung cannot want anything to do with Minho Lee.

❤︎

Fucking hell. Jisung wants everything to do with Minho Lee.

At night, Jisung tosses in bed thinking about Minho. In the morning, Jisung stares at Minho's MySpace profile picture for far longer than he should. During the day, Jisung sends brief messages in between piano practice and writing his Harvard essay. Their conversations often involve meaningless babble, but Jisung hangs onto every word.

He pretends not to care. Tries not to wonder about whether his attraction (Nope!) is reciprocated (Absolutely not!). When it becomes hard to push away thoughts about how Minho's hand fits snugly around his wrist, Jisung plays the wrong note for the umpteenth time.

CLAANNGG!

"Stop this," Jisung mutters under his breath. "Stop thinking about him— Ughhh."

CLANG!

Jisung slams his head into the piano. His forehead plays dissonant chords into the keys.

"I need to stop thinking about him."

CLANG!

"I need to stop thinking about him now. Today."

CLANG!

Jisung rubs his forehead and sits back on his heels to check for any swelling. A ruddy welt forms in the center of his forehead. It hurts. It's not enough to murder the thoughts of Minho Lee meandering through Jisung's mind. Ugh. Jisung wants to brainwash himself, but that seems impossible.

Jisung wonders if religion will do it instead. Religion could provide a temporary solution to fix his current predicament. There's power behind prayer, after all.

THUD!

Jisung drops off the piano bench, onto his knees, and then presses his palms together.

'Dear God,' Jisung begins, bowing his head and squeezing his eyes shut. 'If you exist— and I'm pretty sure that you do, because why else would I get sent to Church every weekend— Please help me. Stop these unholy thoughts about that devilishly beautiful man from taking over my life.' Jisung peels one eye open. 'Pretty please.'

Nothing changes. Jisung opens both eyes and peers up at the ceiling.

"Amen...?" Jisung adds, hoping that maybe (just maybe) that extra little part makes God realize this is serious business. '...Still nothing.'

Disappointed, Jisung climbs back onto the piano bench. He settles his feet on the pedals and stretches his fingers over the ivory keys again.

'Focus,' so Jisung forces his concentration onto the black musical print in front of him. He tucks his elbows, raises his chin, and elongates his spine.

Once he's assumed the perfect posture, Jisung picks up where he left off with Frédéric Chopin's Raindrop Prelude. He plucks out notes like raindrops pitter-pattering on the roof during a sun storm. He presses each key to draw out the sound as if it might drown out his thoughts.

Not that anything Jisung does ever brings success anyway, because midway through measure 22, Minho returns in full force. As if he were a picture stapled to the inside of Jisung's eyelids, Minho's face appears when Jisung's eyes close. It's infuriating to have every detail preserved so clearly: the curve of his lips, the color of his eyes, the contour of his cheekbones, and the little scar gracing one side.

What happens in Minho's head? What goes on underneath that mess of wavy brown hair? Does Minho think about Jisung half as much as Jisung thinks about him? Or, is Jisung simply a fleeting thought in between work shifts? To Minho, is Jisung just some kid with "geek glasses" and a stuttering issue? Another preppy, spoiled rich kid?

Jisung cringes and clenches his jaw. 'Shut up, shut up, shut up,' Jisung begs himself. 'Just...stop.'

Raindrop Prelude picks up in tempo as Jisung plays on, reminiscent of the rain when it falls. Music fills the piano room, drowning out Jisung's thundering heartbeat and strained, anxious breathing. It's almost enough to end the whirlpool of 'Minho, Minho, Minho' flooding Jisung's psyche.

The piano is silent for two beats. It's just long enough for a stray tear to leak from Jisung's eye.

('Homosexuality can destroy everything it touches. Not only is homosexuality a destructive force, it is also self-destructive.')

"No..." Jisung mutters under his breath. He drags out another series of painfully slow legato triplets. "No, no, no, no—"

("Those fags try to force themselves on ya', 'n make you gay 'n shit.")

("Don't wantcha' endin' up bent by a limp-wrist pansy.")

"No..."

("If you keep hanging around that crowd, you are going to turn out just like them: a complete and total waste of air.")​​

"What the fuck is wrong with me!?" Jisung shouts through the crescendo and accidentally strikes a jarring note.

CLAAANGGG! The cacophony rings like bells slamming into each other.

Jisung collapses forward against the keyboard. Tears stream down the bridge of his nose and tumble onto the ivory keys. His arms feel limp; his hands are unsteady; his head is pounding. Everything hurts. So badly. All over. 

It's all Minho's fault. But... Minho? Somehow, Minho makes it all better.

Jisung abandons his piano in favor of his computer screen. He click!s out of the Word Document and instead lets his mouse hover on the MySpace tab. His cursor falls on the blue text titled INBOX (4), and he clicks again.

(June 21, 2006)

　minh0 lee ^-^: just realized i never gave u my # yesterday. lol
　minh0 lee ^-^: funny story actually
　minh0 lee ^-^: we're kinda unprofessional and don't get many calls
　minh0 lee ^-^: so the biz phone # is the same as our personal #

　Jisung H.: Don't you have a phone?

　minh0 lee ^-^: i could get 1 if u paid 4 my phone plan <3
　minh0 lee ^-^: for now, u can call (678) 760-1572 & pray halmeoni doesn't pick up

　Jisung H.: Haha, Ok.
　Jisung H.: I'm grounded though, so no phone for me either. :')

　minh0 lee ^-^: u...r?
　minh0 lee ^-^: i kinda thought being grounded means u can't go anywhere

　Jisung H.: You would be right...
　Jisung H.: But my parents don't care about me enough to notice...|
　Jisung H.: But my parents don't c...|
　Jisung H.: But...|
　Jisung H.: I still wanted to see you...|
　Jisung H.: I still wa...|

Jisung erases those words, but it's not enough to erase the feeling.

Something warm and gooey fills Jisung's stomach and spreads up to his chest until he worries he might vomit all over the keyboard. Jisung imagines those cute little crinkle-lines on the edges of Minho's eyes. For a moment, the world feels okay.

　Jisung H.: I still wanted to hang out with you :')

　minh0 lee ^-^: hahaha
　minh0 lee ^-^: look at u, jisung han
　minh0 lee ^-^: breaking the rules for little old me~?

　Jisung H.: Hah... I guess

　minh0 lee ^-^: means i'm a bad influence then ;)
　minh0 lee ^-^: hehe
　minh0 lee ^-^: but, unfortunately ur fav bad influence has 2 get back in the kitchen

　Jisung H.: Oh no :(

　minh0 lee ^-^: yeah :(
　minh0 lee ^-^: don't miss me too much...later~!

The instant their conversation ends, Jisung craves Minho's attention all over again. Jisung stares at the 72x72 picture of Minho and Soonie snuggled together until his eyeballs ache. He bites into his cheek and squeezes his eyes shut, praying that whatever this weird phenomenon is will go away.

God must be deaf, blind, cruel (or all three), because nothing works.

❤︎

The Sunday after, Jisung gets dressed for Church.

Usually, it's easy to wear the mask of a perfect son. But today, it's ten times harder than normal to fit into starch-stiff khakis and cinch a tight belt around his waist. Even with his dress shirt buttoned neatly and a cross necklace clasped around his neck, Jisung feels underprepared to meet God.

Jisung stands in the full-length mirror next to his closet and glares at the reflection staring back. Sin. Sinner.  the eyeshadow and 'SPANK ME' jeans, and plus some bible verses and hymnal music. Right now, he looks more like Jesus Christ than he does Jezebel, but deep down, he knows what lurks within his heart.

("Fag." "Limp-wrist pansy." "Fuckin' queer.")

Jisung swallows down the shame and tells himself to act like the righteous Christian his father pretends to be. He shrugs on his black suit jacket, slips socked feet into leather loafers, and then gives his last farewell to the mirror. 'This'll have to do.'

"Are you ready to go?"

A soft voice snaps Jisung from his reverie. He turns on his heels to find Ms. Celine hovering by the doorway.

"Y-Yeah."

'It's not like I have a choice. I have to be.'

Jisung follows behind Ms. Celine, dragging his feet across the marble flooring to put off meeting his father.

But eventually, the front door comes into view. So too does William Han, clad in a fine suit and deep-set scowl. It's unsettling how easy it is to see past the false pretense of William Han — the charitable donor, the upstanding man of God — and identify the man hidden underneath layers of money and expensive clothing. The man with a heart hardened to stone.

The man who will always see Jisung as a disappointment.

"Don't even think about causing a scene like last week," William snaps the instant he notices Jisung coming down the stairs. "That was humiliating. I'm sure you know that."

"I–I know," Jisung mumbles. "I'm... I'm... I— Sorry, father. It won't happen again."

William stares Jisung down until he forces his gaze onto the ground.

"No, it won't."

Trapped against the sun-toasted leather by a seatbelt, Jisung thumbs through a pocket-sized Bible previously wedged in the seat pocket. It rides shotgun with Jisung's conscience. Jisung drowns himself in scripture until it almost feels like the memory of Minho is burning away.

The Sunday Church service is a bore. It always is. Father Keyes drones on and on about the perseverance of the faithful and the glory of God. Jisung tries his best to suffocate his sinful brain with the service, but it does little to put out the embers of attraction. It doesn't make his heart stop racing every time he remembers the way Minho's eyes lit up in laughter. It doesn't stop the guilt from crushing Jisung's heart into dust.

Jisung is a sinner, a failure.

He knows this. He's lived this for sixteen years.

And so, when Father Keyes closes the service and invites parishioners to the confession booth, Jisung tells him that truth he's held back all week. Confessional settings are bound by sworn secrecy and split by a lattice, making it easier for Jisung to lay his feelings bare.

"I-I'm a major disappointment, Father." Jisung's voice quavers through his confession. "I've... I've been struggling with...uhm...temptation."

Words are hard when they come with the added weight of admitting to your imperfections. Jisung pauses, tries to get a handle on his racing heart, then continues:

"T–Temptation... It's a sin, right? And... Well, I keep having thoughts about things I shouldn't, and I know those things are wrong, but...they feel so good... I feel like a horrible person, like I've already failed, but I... I—"

Jisung clamps his mouth shut and sucks in a deep, steadying breath.

"But I can't stop myself. I'm...trying...but it's...torture. I'm so ashamed of what I am and...what I feel."

"Temptation is part of being alive, Jisung. Our Lord understands this," Father Keyes says in a voice as gentle as morning dew on spring leaves. "God doesn't expect us to be perfect."

Silence stretches between them — sacred and expectant — broken only by the distant chorus of swallows nesting in the church eaves. Jisung's shoulders soften infinitesimally, tears gathering in the same way rainwater does before a storm. He blinks fast to clear them before they spill over his cheeks.

("Don't even think about causing a scene like last week.")

("That was humiliating.")

Jisung clenches his teeth until each individual molar aches. Every fiber of his body tenses to hold himself together, fighting the urge to submit to the flood. Because even if God doesn't expect perfection, William Han does. Jisung can't allow himself to be anything but.

"Righteousness isn't doesn't mean desire is lost," Father Keyes continues.. "We all desire things, so God calls us to reject temptation. Struggling means that your heart is still reaching for goodness. That is far from failure, Jisung."

'You're just tempted,' Jisung repeats to himself. 'It's human nature. It's not who you are.'

"Do you think my feelings about...those things...will ever go away?"

"Well, perhaps not completely." Father Keyes presses his palm to the lattice and invites Jisung to do the same. "But faith will ease that burden. Faith will remind you that you're human. God made us all different. That includes you."

When Jisung lays his hand against the divider, he wonders if the priest can see the tremors running through his palm or hear the unsteadiness in his breathing. Maybe Father Keyes can tell exactly how close Jisung is to drowning in all the parts of himself he hates. Still, Jisung wills himself to believe — just for a second — that Father Keyes's touch truly reaches him and resonates beyond flesh and blood.

("God doesn't expect us to be perfect.")

"God made us all different; that includes you.")

Perhaps the confession does its job, since something inside Jisung starts to mend itself. There's nothing dramatic about it — no divine intervention that makes him suddenly understand the world. Only a slight shift takes place, lifting a little pressure off his chest and returning oxygen to his lungs.

This peace won't last, so Jisung will soak up every ounce before it passes.

❤︎

Later in the afternoon, when Jisung's settled into comfy clothes back home, there's no 'peace' found in the Han mansion.

On the contrary, home is where the anxiety starts anew. A storm brews in the skies above, foreseen by the monotone drawl of the weather forecaster. Lightning forks will strike all throughout the night, but they're still incomparable to the impending storm inside the house.

Jisung should've seen it coming when he peeked into the living room and saw William Han nursing a glass of whiskey. It was half-drained, with another bottle left open nearby: a telltale sign of William's bad mood.

Now, there's a tense silence stretched taut between them as Jisung pokes at his dinner. William takes long swigs of liquor straight from the bottle. Soon, the cord between them will snap—

SLAM!

—and, just like that, it does.

The sound of crystal smashing against the table draws a violent flinch out of Jisung. Shards scatter across the mahogany finish, leaving amber liquid flowing in their wake like spilled blood. When Jisung dares to lift his chin, he finds William's furious face. In the next second, he realizes that William's next victim won't be another bottle of booze — it'll be him.

"No son of mine will bring shame to this family." William's voice comes like a grenade exploding within close range, albeit slathered in whiskey. "I won't allow it."

Jisung blanches. "Wha..."

Dread worms its way into Jisung's system as his mind hurtles towards the worst plausible scenario; it has a tendency to do that. 'Does he know?' William's glare burrows deep beneath Jisung's skin, picking at old wounds, igniting a fresh flare-up of panic in his veins. 'Oh my God, OhMyGod, he knows. He knows. He found out. This is it. This is where it all ends and—'

"...It's pathetic, honestly. Your mother can barely stand the sight of you," William continues, swigging Jack Daniel's straight from the bottle. "She'd rather rot away in fuckin' Hong Kong than come back here. Can you fuckin' blame the bitch?"

Jisung doesn't respond, not immediately.

Instead, he lets the rain outside fill the empty spaces where answers might go. Oxygen becomes scarcer by the second, so Jisung breathes it in as deeply as his lungs will hold. He wishes he could swallow it, hold it there forever, or suffocate beneath it if he has to. Anything to feel something other than William's voice clawing under his skin.

"Well?" William prompts. "I said: Can you fuckin' blame her?"

"...No, fa-father. I can't."

"That's what I fuckin' thought. Fuckin' idiot."

Another swig. A pause. More shattered glass (this time a vase of sunflowers flying from the tabletop and SMASH!-ing against the wall). Hurricane William Han storms over to Jisung's end of the dining table. Then:

"I've given you everything. This house. Your fuckin' future. And this—" he reaches for Jisung's shirt collar, yanking it upward. "—this is how you repay me? By actin' like there's somethin' wrong with the life I gave you?"

William grips tighter. Fabric strains. The words sink in, deeper and deeper until the only thing that fills Jisung's headspace is William Han. Father. Father, who hates him so, so much. Father, who does his best to drink the hatred away, but can't because he's been cursed with a terrible son. Father, who has hit him before. Not often, but enough for Jisung to know when it's coming.

The first time, it was a slap — a backhanded blow that left Jisung's cheek smarting—after he forgot to get his dress wear ironed for Take Your Child To Work Day. Jisung remembers how his ears rang. Jisung remembers thinking it was an accident. That his father hadn't meant to hit him. That his father was sorry.

The next was a smack over the ear after Jisung slept through his piano lesson. It happened so quickly, Jisung didn't even have time to process what happened before William was storming away. He'd been ten then.

Then, there was the time William punched Jisung square in the jaw. He was fourteen, and with some courage from Felix, went to school wearing pink for Breast Cancer Awareness Day. Context didn't matter when William was drunk, and the only thing on his mind was the fact that his son was wearing "the color of the fairies."

The last time it happened, Jisung was sixteen and squirming in a church pew. Last week. Jisung flinches away from the memory like it'll burn him. Like merely recalling it might set off William somehow, bringing forth all that drunken rage locked behind gritted teeth. William Han: Family Man.

Jisung waits for another blow — for the pain he probably deserves — but it doesn't come. Whiskey-soaked saliva takes its place.

"You look always fuckin' ridiculous. Like some pissy, moping girl," William spits. "But I refuse to raise one'a those. Fuckin' pathetic."

Pathetic. Pitiful. Embarrassing. Weak. Disappointment. Words like those and all its synonyms resurface in Jisung's psyche. Every syllable rings clear. William's fists might as well be caving his chest open. It would hurt less.

"I'm sorry...father."

It hurts when Jisung speaks. Hurts when he moves his lips, hurts when he breathes, hurts when he does nothing at all. It hurts so badly that Jisung wants to cry, but—

("You know your father doesn't like it when you cry like that.")

So, Jisung doesn't dare shed any tears, despite the kerosene fluid building behind his eyes. 

"Go to your room," William says with a jerk of his head. "Get out of my sight. I don't wanna fuckin' look at your stupid face right now."

With shaky legs, Jisung complies. Outside, thunder rolls. Inside, Jisung fights himself to keep rainwater from spilling down his cheeks. He doesn't miss the frown weighing down the corners of Ms. Celine's lips when they intercept each other by the staircase.

She doesn't ask what's wrong. She doesn't need to.

"Your father is having a tough time at work," Ms. Celine explains, or tries to. "He doesn't mean any harm, so just...head up to your room and try to calm down. I'll get a bath running for you."

And Jisung considers it: the warm water, the solitude, the momentary reprieve. Considers retreating into the shadows where William's rage wouldn't find him. Considers waiting for the sun to crest the horizon and for William's sobriety to return. Considers being a puppet, strung up by his wrists and ankles, following the suffocating orders of those around him.

Jisung is tired. The kind that doesn't go away with the rise and fall of the sun. The kind that keeps him up at night, staring up at the ceiling, counting the minutes until his eyelids grow too heavy to hold up.

Jisung tolerates his puppeteers for so long. Tolerates his strings being tugged this way and that, forcing his limbs to move. Up the stairs. Into the bedroom.

Puppet strings snap when he pushes open the window to the raging storm. Strings snap when he climbs onto the sill, his arms held out for balance. Strings snap when he takes the escape route down without a prayer to God.

Strings snap when he lands safely. Strings snap when he makes a mad dash for the front gates.

Everywhere, anywhere, is better than the prison he's been conditioned to mistake for a home.

Rain slashes sideways against his skin. It's storming out.

Everywhere, anywhere, is better than the prison.

Water fills his shoes. His socks squish between his toes. He's soaked.

Anything, anything is better than the prison.

A lightning bolt tears apart the sky. Thunder bellows overhead.

Anything, anything, anything.

Anywhere.

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ JUNE, 2006
The Pilot

In hindsight, maybe Jisung should've brought his jacket.

The rain hurls itself from the sky like it, too, has run out of ways to cope. Storm clouds blot out the moon and the stars. Rain batters against the pavement, turning dips in the road into miniature swimming pools.

One block goes by. Then two. Then three. Jisung isn't sure if he's cold. He isn't sure if he's warm. He isn't sure if he's being logical right now as he skids to a stop in front of Blossom Delights. He isn't sure what the fuck he's doing here, really.

With water trailing in beads down his cheeks, Jisung glances up. The cursive 'CLOSED!' sign glares at him in gold-lettering. Sunnavelle approaches midnight, and it shows with the shutters rolled down, the blinds drawn, and the lights turned off.

Jisung's knuckles hover over the door, and he considers encumbering Minho with all his emotional baggage. He couldn't do that, could he? Burden Minho with his sob-story, after only knowing the guy for two weeks? That'd be shitty, even for someone who's an utter failure to themselves and their whole family.

It's late. He shouldn't be here.

When Jisung turns away, lightning slashes against the ground and shows all the imperfections the neighborhood hides at night. Rust stains around a lamppost. Graffiti carved into the cement. A homeless man curled under the overhang of the Chinese restaurant across the street. Broken dreams strewn across wet concrete and littered sidewalks.

The world is so much bigger than Jisung's tiny bubble, and it's filled with suffering so great that it defies repair or understanding. People are complex creatures driven by both the mundane and the monstrous. Life is messy.

Jisung tries his best to contain it. 'Minho doesn't want to deal with your problems,' he tells himself. 'Nobody wants to deal with your problems.'

The thoughts stick like glue, wedged between Jisung's brain hemispheres and intending to stay there. His brain gets used to saying the same old shit: 'you're broken; nobody cares about you; you don't matter.'

Jisung's hands are shaking. Whether it's from fear or the frigid wind whipping at the nape of his neck, he's not sure. Still, somehow, he finds the nerve to knock.

Knock! Knock!

Time stops, the world is motionless, and the universe bides its time. Darkness tucks Jisung into its arms until he becomes shadowed with everything else. The feeling of emptiness doesn't subside, not even when a silhouette materializes behind the glass panel of the bakery door.

Even so, a light switches on in Jisung's mind when the locks rustle. The hinges squeal as the door cracks open. Inferior lights spill out onto the pavement. Blossom Delights is waking up in the middle of a sleepy town.

Minho's sleep-mussed head pokes outside, pillow lines imprinted on his cheek. Jisung still thinks he looks angelic in the way his hair falls across his face and brushes along the tops of his cheeks — disheveled from sleep and haloed by a faint yellow glow. He's in a pair of kitten-print pajama shorts and an oversized hoodie that swallows his frame whole.

Angelic, sleepy Minho. Confused and beautiful Minho.

"Why're you..." Minho trails off, rubbing his eyes to wake himself fully. Autumn eyes widen a margin. "Ji—"

CRASH!

Thunder crackles above, and lightning slices through the dark sky in jagged lines. Minho is quick to grab Jisung's wrist and pull him inside.

"What the hell are you doin' out there? You're soaking!" There's an undercurrent of anger in Minho's words, but his actions betray it. "You're so cold... God, Jisung... What the fuck is wrong with you?"

There are a thousand ways that Jisung can answer the question, and each one of them would lead to the same conclusion: everything.

"Do you know how fuckin' late it is?" Minho scolds him in a whisper. "It's fucking pouring! You could've gotten hurt! Why the hell would you do somethin' so stupid, huh?"

"I–I didn't... I'm sorry," Jisung stammers. It's as if someone's wrapped their hands around his throat and squeezed. "I–I just—"

He can't speak. It's too hard to think, and he's too cold. Tears build along his lash line as the grip grows tighter, making it hard to breathe, let alone speak. He's begging himself not to cry. Begging the tears to remain contained so he can spare himself (and Minho) from how pathetic he is.

Jisung bites hard into his bottom lip, nearly tearing skin. If he's bleeding, he hardly notices the metallic tang of it all. Je's too busy willing himself to stay intact.

"Just...what?" Minho's hands fall to Jisung's shoulders. "Why... Why are you here? What the hell is going on?"

There's panic in Minho's voice that Jisung mistakes for annoyance, sending guilt flaring through every nerve ending. Minho doesn't want him here, right? Especially not after what happened at Chris Bahng's party, and especially because Jisung has been nothing but a harbinger of disaster. All he does is burden people. All he does is ruin everything.

'I shouldn't be here.' Shame makes Jisung shrink within himself. 'Minho doesn't deserve this.'

"I don't—" Jisung gulps back a mouthful of spit. "I'm s-sorry... I didn't know where else to go."

"Jesus, Jisung..." Minho exhales a breath and releases Jisung's shoulders. "Let's get you dried off, okay? And some clothes. Then we'll talk. C'mon."

Wordlessly, Jisung allows himself to be towed into the back of the quiet shop. It's there where the bakery transforms into a cramped apartment home. Minho turns up the thermostat despite the summertime warmth these days. Beneath his breath, he curses the American economy and their "stupid fuckin' energy costs," but leaves it running‌ anyway.

Minho prescribes a hot shower to remedy the shivers wracking Jisung's body.

Eye contact is heavy with something and a tad awkward when it comes time to tear Jisung's waterlogged clothes from his body. They land with a wet squelch! on the bathroom tile tiles, oozing water everywhere and increasing Jisung's guilt tenfold. But Minho handles him tenderly, as if he were kneading dough. As if Jisung would break otherwise. As if saying "it's alright" through actions alone.

Minho averts his gaze once it comes time for Jisung to shed his jeans. It's when the last of his clothes hit the floor that Jisung relaxes a bit.

"I'll... I'll leave some dry clothes outside," Minho says, and his voice is softer now. Softer than earlier. Softer than how it usually is. Sugar-spun and cotton-soft. "You gonna be okay?"

"...Yeah."

"M'kay, good." Minho hums. "Towels are in the cabinet. And, uhm... You can use my stuff if you need. You...should use my stuff unless you wanna smell like an old woman. Just don't use too much, yeah?"

There are two types of silence. The first type is the uncomfortable type: the type that settles like a thick, toxic fume and suffocates everything in its vicinity.

The second type — the one Jisung experiences right now — is the type that falls like wintertime's first snowfall. Just as soft as a cloud, or as gentle as a breeze on a flower. It's the kind that lets the sound of Minho's footsteps fade into the background. It allows Jisung a chance to exhale without anything anchored to his chest.

Jisung steps beneath the spray of the showerhead, and the heat helps soothe him further. It's a welcome rainfall that allows his muscles to slacken and his bones to thaw. As steam billows upwards, curving along the ceiling and fogging the mirror, Jisung closes his eyes. He lets the warmth chase the shivers away, cleansing his skin with Dr. Bronner's 'Almond Pure-Castile Bar Soap' and a washcloth.

Suds trail in streaks with the gentle warmth that lingers after baking almond cookies on a winter afternoon. The fragrance seems so utterly Minho.

Jisung towels off and slips on Minho's clothes. It takes a drawstring to hold the sweatshorts in place, and the 'I'm PAWsome' shirt hangs from his frame a little loose, but it's not terrible. Just different.

Minho Lee and a mug of steaming tea await Jisung in the conjoined living room/dining area. Jisung catches Minho in the middle of a yawn, eyes crinkling at their corners in such a way that makes Jisung's heart stumble.

"Hey." Minho offers the mug with a smile. "Drink."

"You didn't have to—"

"And you didn't have to walk over here," Minho says gently, taking his free hand and guiding Jisung to sit. "Now shut up and drink."

Jisung cradles the mug in his palms, cautiously bringing it to his mouth to avoid burning his tongue off. It's sweet, but not cloyingly so. Ginger and honey warm Jisung's insides, chasing away what's left of the storm chill lingering in his bones.

"Thank you," Jisung says, and it still doesn't feel like enough. "I'm sorry... I didn't— I shouldn't have just barged in like this."

Minho snorts. "Well, you're already here, and I'd be a monster to throw ya' outside... So, I guess that means you get to stay."

Jisung melts a little more into his spot on the futon, drinking Minho's kindness in slow sips. The tea burns through another apology before it can form on his tongue. He focuses on the ground instead, counting the fibers in the carpet so he doesn't have to look at the concern in Minho's pretty eyes. Autumn eyes​​.

"Do you want anything to eat?" Minho asks, breaking the fragile thread of silence stretched thin between them. "I can fix you somethin'. 라면 ("ramen"). Rice. A sandwich, maybe—"

"I don't want to trouble you any more than I have." Jisung winces, but manages a small grin. "But...thank you."

Minho waves Jisung's gratitude away with his fingers. "It's nothin', seriously. I'll go whip you a sandwich. Housewife style."

Minho excuses himself to the kitchenette before Jisung can tell him not to. There, he slathers condiments across slices of thick brown bread and sandwiches honey-baked ham in between slices of gouda cheese. Then, he sticks it in the microwave until the insides are melty and the meat has gone warm. The final touch is a handful of chips.

It's simple. Quick. Perfect, even, because it warms Jisung's belly like those butterflies that refuse to leave.

"I... Thanks," Jisung mutters. "I owe you."

"Jisung. It's fine," Minho reassures for the millionth time. "You wanna talk about it?"

The 'it' Minho refers to feels as unwelcome as an elephant stomping into a cramped room. It's still alive, despite Jisung's efforts to beat it dead and bury it with layers of soil. It's an invasive topic. Something that will spread weeds in Minho's yard and make a mess of his grass if it isn't kept contained. Still, it refuses to die and rots while alive, giving off foul odors that attract pests.

Does he want to talk about it? The aching loneliness that led his feet to Minho's doorstep in the middle of the night?

Yes? No? Maybe? He isn't entirely sure.

Jisung can't even look at Minho. "Not really."

"Jisung..."

Jisung chances a peek at Minho. First mistake. There's something about the way Minho's lips turn down at the corners and the way his brows knit together that drives a sharp twinge in Jisung's chest. Minho doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve Jisung's mess; he doesn't deserve a broken boy who shows up on his doorstep dead of the night, trembling and ruining the entryway with rainwater.

"I'm so—"

"Stop. Don't be." Minho holds a hand up and sighs. "Listen, you're obviously...not okay. And running away is fuckin' dangerous, Jisung. You've gotta talk to me."

"It's complicated." Jisung braces himself against the swell of nausea in his stomach. "Really complicated."

"Okay?" Minho nudges closer on the futon and leans forward. "Complicate it for me."

"But—"

"C'mon—"

"Minho—"

"Jisung," Minho insists with a little bite behind his tone. "Use your big boy words. Talk to me."

Jisung picks at some fuzz sticking out from the fabric on the futon, rolling it between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. There are a few times Jisung catches Minho's face from the corner of his vision, but he can't maintain eye contact long enough to make a cohesive sentence form. Not without getting choked up.

'Minho probably thinks I'm pathetic.' It wouldn't be too far from the truth.

"It's just been a really bad night," Jisung grits out. "I just...needed a friend."

Minho gives Jisung's shoulder a squeeze. "Yeah. And friends help each other. So let me."

"I don't even know where to start."

"The beginning's always a good place," Minho teases. It earns him a weak, semi-watery smile. "What's wrong?"

A breath punches from Jisung's chest before he can catch himself. 'God, why am I such a fucking train wreck? Why am I putting him through this? God...' Another breath, a punchier one. With it goes every thought he wanted to keep trapped behind clenched teeth and glued lips: things better left unsaid, spewing everywhere, staining everything. It's not pretty, nor is it poetic, but the truth rarely is:

"Everything is wrong! Nothing I do is good enough! It never fucking is! No matter how hard I try! My dad hates me. My mom hates me. Everything's just— just wrong!"

It all rushes out. Everything. Like bile racing up the back of Jisung's throat after one too many drinks, but as words rather than vomit. And in Jisung's case, there's lots to share, more than he cares to admit. So he tells Minho every ugly thing — even the parts that bleed and seep pus — because it's too late to sew the wound up now.

He rants and rambles about the pressure building upon his spine and squeezing tight. The fear. The sadness. The anxiety. He talks about William Han, the force of nature who destroys anything standing in the wake of his hurricane. The pressure. The hatred. The pain.

"...I want to make everyone happy. Or, proud. Or something," Jisung croaks miserably. "I just can't. No matter how much I wish I could do it all... I can't."

"But that doesn't mean you should sacrifice yourself for them," Minho argues, then lowers his voice. "Jisung..."

Minho rubs his palms against Jisung's knees, which, until now, had been bobbing wildly. When he stops moving, he scooches forward a margin. Autumn eyes become warmer as he tilts Jisung's chin toward him.

"The right people'll be proud of ya' just the way you are." Minho's sentiment breaks around a yawn. "You can't shape yourself a million different ways to please everyone."

"I know..." Jisung huffs. "I know."

Minho nods, then pulls Jisung against his side in a one-armed hug. At first, Jisung feels compelled to shrink beneath the attention. The walls protecting his castle have come undone, and Jisung realizes that Minho now knows too much. More than Felix. More than anyone. Jisung tries to pull away, but Minho's gaze anchors him in place.

For a few quiet moments, it's just breathing. Inhaling. Exhaling. Hearts beating in tandem as rain pitter-patters on the roof above.

"...And just so y'know," Minho adds quietly. "Not sure it means much to you, but I don't hate you. So, take that as you will, or whatever."

Oh. Oh.

Jisung figures that the redness blossoming in his cheeks has nothing to do with the heat blowing from the vents. Maybe he forgets Minho is a man when his fingers curl tighter into Minho's shirt. Maybe he forgets they've only known each other for two weeks when Minho buries his nose in Jisung's damp hair.

'What if...'

'What if I—' then, more intrusively: 'KISSED HIM.'

Jisung isn't really thinking straight, no pun intended. Everything inside him is screaming—run, hide, don't—but something louder drowns the noise out.

A need.

A want.

A craving for quiet in the only place he's ever found it: here.

And before he can stop himself—

Before he can second-guess—

Before the shame creeps in—

He grabs Minho's jaw and kisses him.

It's quick, barely there, and softer than butterfly wings. Barely a kiss at all, if it can be called that. It's nothing wild. Nothing lustful. Just...something. A seed. Potential growth. A garden of roses on Minho's end. Panic on Jisung's.

"I— Uhm..." Minho mumbles, cheeks kissed by crimson. "Wow. Uh..."

Shaking fingers graze Jisung's mouth, tracing over where Minho's lips met his own. There isn't enough air left in his lungs to scream when he's reeling for oxygen and— CRASH!— someone has knocked over something in the kitchenette. The evidence scatters in broken pieces across the floor.

As quickly as they formed, those red rosebuds drain from Minho's face. His mouth parts in the smallest 'o'-shape and his head swings towards the kitchenette.

"할머니?" ("Grandma?")Minho springs up from the futon faster than Jisung can blink. "괜찮으세요?" ("Are you okay?")

Jisung shrinks back against the cushions, hoping they'd part into a gaping black hole and swallow him up. Shame tastes bitter in the back of his throat and it stings like a snakebite. Involuntary tears burn in Jisung's eyes as he replays the split second where their lips connected over and over. And over, and over, and over again.

In the background, incomprehensible Korean ping-pongs off the walls.

"할머니, 약 드셨어요?" ("Grandma, did you take your medicine?")

"괜찮다, 민호야... 아이고, 너무 걱정하지 마." ("I'm fine, Minho... Don't worry so much.")

Jisung stares ahead, zoning in on a single chip in the paint. A bead of sweat rolls down the length of his nose. What the hell was that? A kiss? 'Did we actually—'

"—걱정 안 할 수 없잖아요!" ("I can't help but worry!") Minho's voice raises an octave. "의사 선생님이 뭐라고 하셨는데? 약을 매일 드셔야 된다고 했잖아요!" ("What did the doctor say? You need to take your medication every day!")

Grandma Lee's syllables come out impossibly frail: "괜찮아, 괜찮아. 지금 할게." ("I'm fine, I'm fine. I'll do it now.")

Jisung tunes out their conversation to ponder what the fuck he just did.  Sweat coats the nape of his neck like syrup, dripping between his shoulder blades as his palms clam up. His fingers tremble as his brain returns to the gentle slope of Minho's cheek curving against his fingertips.

If there weren't people in the next room over, he might be tempted to claw his skin clean off — layer by layer, like onion skin — just to rid himself of the feeling of Minho's lips pressing against his own.

'Fuck. Fuck. Fu—'

"M'sorry 'bout that." Minho slumps against the armrest, but it does little to break Jisung out of his panicked trance. "She's okay... She, uh, she needed a midnight drink."

"Oh, okay..." The sentence trails off into the awkward air. "I'm glad...she's alright..."

Jisung stares straight ahead. He's terrified to look anywhere else, lest he finds Minho's stare and sees something ugly reflected in it.

("Fag." "Limp-wrist pansy." "Fuckin' queer.")

Silence in conversation. Noise everywhere else — in the ticking clocks and Jisung's pulse playing hot potato.

"Uhm." Minho clears his throat and fiddles with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. "It's getting late, yeah? Maybe it's...time I got you to bed?"

"Yeah...sure."

Sleep isn't high on Jisung's list of priorities when Minho leads him into a cramped bedroom. Inside, a twin-sized mattress swallows half of the space. There's a closet bursting with hoodies and sweaters, shoes poking out from underneath the bed frame, and posters slapped on every inch of the wall. Plastic stars decorate the ceiling, but in the darkness they're duller than pencil shavings.

"I...uh... I'll be outside, in case you need anything." Minho points to the door and pauses. "Y'know, just shout."

"You're not staying?" Jisung blurts.

Minho's eyes narrow with skepticism sharp enough to cut. Like he's judging with his eyes alone.

"D'you want me to?"

'No.'

'Yes.'

'Maybe?'

"We won't fit on my bed," Minho reasons after another long silence. "The couch's kinda comfy. I'd get better sleep out there."

"Oh..." Jisung bites down on his bottom lip. "Okay. Yeah. Makes sense."

And so, Jisung lies in the dark with his thoughts and wishes he'd melt through the sheets until he no longer existed.

It'd be a shame to go down like this. Death via embarrassment. Overdose of humiliation. But maybe that'd be the best option right now. It's certainly looking that way. Because, obviously, it isn't easy living with your greatest regret hanging overhead like the goddamn Sword of Damocles.

"Well." Minho shrugs by the doorway, stiff. "G'night, Jisung."

And they don't talk about it. It. The Kiss. The Moment. How Jisung Pressed His Lips Against Minho's In Some Miserable Act Of Selfishness.

Before Jisung loses Minho behind the click of a lock, he returns the sentiment (it's the least he can do):

"Goodnight..."

When Jisung closes his eyes, a thousand questions dance through the darkness. Questions about love, and sexuality, and how he could be so reckless and stupid. There are also a million different fragments of dreams to-be if he allowed himself to sleep.

Dreams. After tossing and turning in bed, Jisung allows himself to dream.

Dreams. That night, Jisung dreams of barely-there kisses that leave the sickly sweet taste of shame lingering on his tongue.

❤︎

Jisung wakes up to all the wrong smells.

Not the sterile lemon cleaner that Ms. Celine uses on the marble floors. No, not even the bergamot from the candles his mother burns in rooms she never visits. This scent is all kinds of foreign; there's cinnamon and sugar from dough baking into a sweet scent. Underneath it all, there's an odd undertone of another man's laundry detergent.

The wrong sheets tangle around his legs. The wrong pillow cradles his cheek as he stirs awake. The walls display posters of bands he doesn't recognize and glow-in-the-dark stars that have lost their charge in the morning light.

Minho's room. Minho's bed. Minho's clothes hanging loose on his body.

Oh. Right.

Jisung's mind wanders back to last night.

("Not sure it means much to you, but I don't hate you. So, take that as you will, or whatever.")

Then, there's a memory: Minho's mouth on his. Their lips touching, just barely. Soft. Real.

And suddenly, Jisung's stumbling out of bed in search of fresh air. It's stuffy. Suffocating. His hands claw at the collar of Minho's 'I'm PAWsome' shirt; his lungs might be closing. Breathing is impossible right now. And why are Minho's walls caving in? Why is everything tilting to one side?

'Breathe, dammit. BREATHE.'

The world flips upside down and sideways. Left and right. Blurring in and out of focus. One hand lands on a chest of drawers while the other fumbles for the doorknob.

Somewhere between trying to catch his breath and making sure his lungs keep pumping oxygen, he throws open the bedroom door. Jisung nearly collides with Minho as soon as he trips into the hallway.

"What's— Whoa! Okay!" Minho steadies Jisung by the waist with alarm written all over his face. "Jesus Christ, you okay?"

But panic only sets in worse after laying his eyes upon his sin. Brunet, bed-headed, and beautiful. Standing there like a fucking crime scene.

'It was barely a kiss,' the demon on Jisung's shoulder tries to reason. 'But it was one, right?' whispers the angel perched on the other.

Jisung's stomach twists like he's swallowed an anchor. He tears himself from Minho's arms, bolts into the bathroom, and SLAM!s the door shut.

But Minho is persistent. Knock! Knock!

"Jisung? You... Alright in there?"

Knock! Knock!

Minho's knocks echo within the small room and send Jisung's racing heart into double-time. Shaky hands twist the sink's tap and, instinctively, Jisung bends to gulp handfuls of cool water. Once somewhat sated, he splashes more across his face to calm down.

Jisung catches sight of his reflection: tired eyes, disheveled hair, pink cheeks. Evidence of guilt. Stupidity. Insanity.

'What were you THINKING?'

Jisung grips the edge of the countertop, digging crescents into his palms as he hangs his head. Shame trickles down his spine with every passing second, and he can't decide whether he wants to run or cry (maybe both). Neither option would fix much, so...maybe he ought to pray?

THUD! Jisung drops to his knees. Hands clasp in prayer. Eyes squeeze shut to block out the rest of the world.

"God... God... God," Jisung begins, because he knows no other words at first. "I am so sorry. Please, please, forgive me. Forgive me, Lord. Amen. Amen. God...please..."

His ramble fades into broken, half-hiccuped whispers. That familiar sensation settles along his cheeks — hot and salty tears, remnants of failure — as the rest of him shakes. Jisung repeats prayers until the words lose their shape, basically morphing into gibberish.

"Uhm..." Minho clears his throat and knock-knock!s again. "Are you...casting spells in there?"

"W-What? No!"

"It sounds like it..."

"No!" Jisung retorts. He hastily wipes the wet streaks off his cheeks. "I'm not! What the fuck?"

"Hey, I won't judge you if you are! Do your witch shit in peace," Minho says through a chuckle, then sobers. "Weirdo."

Silence stretches out between them. Long. Uncomfortable. Taut. Enough to slice through with a pair of sewing scissors. When it gets too tight, too painful to hold, it comes out in one gust of confession:

"Last night was weird, wasn't it? I-I shouldn't have...uhm...kissed you. It was fucked up."

A pause. A breath. Silence stretching thinner than wire.

"It's...okay," Minho answers. He drawls it, hesitantly, cautiously; like speaking around shards of glass. "S'alright. We don't... We don't haf'ta talk about it."

"We...don't?"

"Nope." Minho pops the 'p'. "Consider it forgotten."

Forgotten. As if Minho can so easily sweep such a mess under the rug. As if they can both somehow pretend that the ground hasn't tilted on its axis and created a massive crater where they once stood. As if Jisung wasn't struck with desperate thirst when he laid eyes upon the forbidden fruit. As if he wasn't so desperately dehydrated he couldn't help himself, and drank all its poison.

Poison. Is that what that kiss was? Was it even a kiss...?

Jisung rises on shaky legs. His trembling fingertips skim along the edge of the counter before he finally finds purchase. One deep breath later, he opens the door to face his new nightmare. A different form of Hell. Minho-fucking-Lee.

"Hey, there's—"

And God, does Jisung find himself craving poison all over again.

"—breakfast in the kitchen, if you're hungry and—"

Jisung is selfish. Not even listening. Wanton. Greedy for something that doesn't belong to him.

"—Are you even listening to me?"

The Devil has always been skilled at temptations, hasn't he? It can be a shining piece of fruit dangling before a famished Eve. It can also be a honey-sweet boy who tastes like nectar in summertime — just as succulent as its source, yet ten times more lethal.

"...Jisung?"

How tempting it is: To want more. To take more. To have more.

Jisung succumbs to sin in the same way Eve had, only he isn't searching for apples.

Minho stands in front of him — inviting, innocent, and unaware that he holds the key to Eden's Gates between his fingers. His shirt rides up a little along the side, giving way to smooth skin peeking above the band of his sweatshorts. It's pale, unblemished. Soft. It begs for teeth, craves bruising.

"Uh..."

'Kiss him. Do it. Kiss him!'

And so he does. Again.

Soft lips taste sweeter pressed against parted ones. He grabs Minho by the hips and tugs him closer. Pulls. Presses them together until it becomes impossible to be apart. One heartbeat syncs to another. They're vein to vein, skin to skin, kissing like it's second nature.

Minho sighs into Jisung's mouth, and it's the prettiest sound that Jisung has ever heard. Prettier than the symphonies Beethoven wrote for the stars. More beautiful than every sunrise and sunset combined and— Minho is shaking him out of reverie.

"Jisung?" Minho jostles him again. "Seriously, are you sick or somethin'? You're fuckin' freaking me out."

Jisung snaps back to reality (the one where he and Minho aren't locked at the lips) in time to register what he must look like: red-cheeked, starry-eyed, and dazed by his imagination. He blinks dumbly several times until coherent language returns.

"Uh... No. No, I... I'm not." Jisung flushes all shades of crimson, and, wow, could it possibly be any more obvious? "No. I'm...alright."

'What is wrong with me?'

"Okay." Minho releases Jisung's shoulders and retreats to a safer distance, eyeing him strangely. "Right..."

There's another lull in the conversation. The silence expands, yawns, and stretches itself out as it grows larger than either of them. Longer, wider, deeper—

"Anyway...Breakfast?" Minho motions vaguely toward the kitchenette with a wince-smile. "할머니 ("Grandma") made 미역국 ("seaweed soup") and rice."

"Yeah..." Jisung releases a pent-up breath. "Yeah. Uhm. B-Breakfast sounds nice."

Minho turns on his heel, beckoning Jisung to follow him through the space.

Minho's apartment doesn't hold many secrets. The hallway spills straight into a cramped living room and kitchenette. Two mismatched barstools flank a scratched-up island countertop. Cupboards hang on peeling hinges, an avocado-green refrigerator wheezes in the corner, and the stovetop has only three working coils. Sunlight leaks through lace curtains, striping the cracked tile in pale gold.

Minho's apartment is austere. Lived in. Loved.

Jisung notices photos taped on the refrigerator: (1) a middle-aged couple, (2) three boys grinning toothily at a camera, (3) Minho Lee holding a rainbow flag with windswept hair, and (4) an elderly lady hugging a bright-eyed baby in a hospital bed. Speaking of elderly women...

An apron-clad Grandma Lee hums from her place in front of the stove. Two bowls full of stew await on the nearby countertop.

"먹어. 식기 전에." ("Eat. Before it gets cold.") Grandma Lee sets aside her ladle and gestures to the island.

"잘 먹겠습니다, 할머니." ("Thank you, Grandma."/"I'll eat well.") Minho plants a quick smooch on her cheek as he slides onto the nearest stool. "C'mon Jisung, sit. Eat."

Jisung shuffles into the remaining seat and peers down at the seaweed soup in front of him. Floating bits of green swim alongside beef strips in the broth. Soft mounds of rice accompany chopsticks and sit on a plate between them.

'Just try and eat.'

'Don't think about how much of a freak you are.'

Stomaching the soup is easy enough with the spoon. Conversation, however, proves more difficult. Using chopsticks to pick at the rice? Jisung abandoned that task before even pulling the chopsticks apart. Grandma Lee and Minho converse in Korean around him as Jisung stares at his lap, willing breakfast to hurry and finish.

Then:

"Are you...gonna eat the rice?" Minho asks around his last bite. "You haven't touched it."

"Uh...yeah..." Jisung attempts a smile that ends up like a grimace. "B-But I...can't really use...chopsticks that well."

"You...can't?" Minho's forehead creases. He pokes at Jisung's rice with his chopsticks. "Why didn't ya' ask for another spoon, dummy?"

"I-I dunno." Jisung shrugs. "I didn't want to bother...you...I guess."

"It ain't a bother." Minho's chopsticks lift a mound of rice, which he then waves at Jisung. "Open."

Jisung freezes. "E-Excuse me?"

"It's not gonna eat itself," Minho says with a snicker, inching closer. "C'mon. Open up. Don't be shy~."

'What?!' Jisung's brain panics at the same time as his heart does calisthenics. 'I'm going to DIE. Heart attack. At sixteen.' He squeezes his thighs together and leans away. 'Go fucking figure.'

The rice advances closer. Closer. Closer. Until it kisses the seam of Jisung's closed lips. The traitorous seam splits when Minho's thumb hooks Jisung's chin and gently pries his mouth open. Wide open. Invitation open. 'Here-you-go' open.

In goes the rice. Out come Minho's chopsticks. In goes the rice again with the next bite. Jisung feels his soul leaving his body. By bite number three, Jisung is putty in Minho's hands — molten wax shaped at Minho's fingertips, melting under those autumnal eyes. Jelly replaces Jisung's bone marrow and seeps from every pore.

"You've got some on your mouth." Minho laughs and brushes his thumb over Jisung's lip to wipe it clean. "There."

Stammers are hardly sufficient as a response, so Jisung's squeaks of "T-Thank you..." go mostly unnoticed. Minho feeds Jisung the final few bites of rice, only breaking eye contact to readjust his grip on the wooden chopsticks.

'Stay like this forever,' Jisung wants to beg, but he keeps that plea on the tip of his tongue with the last few grains of rice. 'Keep staring at me like I matter,' Jisung yearns without materializing those words in his mind. 'Like I mean something. Like I'm not disgusting for feeling this way. Like...'

'Like I'm not disgusting for...for wanting you.'

❤︎

Intrusive thoughts about Minho resist Jisung's prayers to get rid of them. They tear apart his inner monologue piece-by-piece and spread themselves throughout his entire being, demanding attention.

Even as Ms. Celine scolds Jisung about his   whereabouts the night prior, Minho Lee creeps into the cracks between each of her sharpened syllables. Minho weasels his way in, infiltrates, occupies. Every consonant becomes Minho. Every vowel. Minho. Minho. 

'Minho, Minho, Minho. I think I like you, Minho, and—'

"I'm sure you already know why I'm frustrated with you right now," Ms. Celine begins, and her voice is tight with the restraint of her patience. "I'm certain it's written all over my face."

Frustrated? Yeah. It's obvious. Frustration is pencil-sketched into every fiber of Ms. Celine's expression.

It's in the way her knuckles pale and strain against her skin around the steering wheel. It's in the way her lips are drawn thin and pinched, and in the creases that have etched themselves into the corners of her eyes. It's in the way her shoulders stiffen stone-solid beneath her cashmere blazer.

It seems like frustration is the only thing Jisung can see on her face. He notices it all after a long while of Minho-consumed thoughts and halfway through a drive to some place Jisung didn't care enough about to listen. Home? Probably. After Ms. Celine came HONK!-ing in front of a quiet Blossom Delights, demanding Jisung's presence, home seems like the logical destination.

"Jisung— and I hate it when your parents say this— but," Ms. Celine draws a breath through her teeth. "You are an idiot. You are acting extremely irresponsibly and it will not go without consequences."

"Okay," Jisung says, detached from the 'now', because Minho's slanted smile is still distracting him. "I'm sorry...?"

"No. Not okay," Ms. Celine spits. Her fingernails leave dents in the leather upholstery. "None of this is 'okay'! Why can't you see I'm trying to protect you?!"

The car comes to a jerking halt at a red light, and the seat belt catches against Jisung's collarbone. It snaps his mouth shut. His lips press thin as a grimace creases his brows, a dull throb beginning to line the bruise in his head that isn't quite visible, but feels all the same.

("I think you are pretty fucking stupid!")

("No son of mine will bring shame to this family.")

("I won't allow it.")

And the image of Minho shatters. Reality slams into Jisung in an aggressive show at taking Minho's place.

'Idiot. Stupid idiot. You've done it again. Fucked up. Again.'

"What is it, Jisung, that makes it so impossible for you to listen to a word I say? Huh?" Ms. Celine rakes her gaze over Jisung's frame. "Am I the idiot here, for trying to protect you, or are you the idiot for being so stubbornly pig-headed that you can't see straight?!"

"...Sorry," Jisung whispers. Even he can't believe the bullshit coming from his mouth.

"I've half a mind to call your parents and tell them what happened! But I won't do that," Ms. Celine cuts herself off with a sharp sigh. "I didn't protect your sister, and look what happened to her! Shipped off to God-knows-where in Korea because she tried to do the exact thing you're doing now!"

Jisung hates this feeling. The guilt. The shame.

("Where...where did Soojin go?")

He tries his hand at breathing, but it hurts. His lungs feel caved in.

("She decided to study abroad in Korea. It was last minute. She could hardly spare your parents a goodbye, let alone you.")

Worthlessness builds along the confines of his ribs.

("For...how long? Is she... Is she ever coming back?")

Soojin Han, who was once a sister, is now the cautionary tale that came before Jisung's story. The what-if scenario. The future consequence if Jisung dares to misstep in the open.

("I don't know, Jisung. Just focus on your schoolwork, okay? I'd forget about her.")

Every crack of his heart bleeds memories of Soojin. All the years spent giggling between twin mattresses and sneaking ice cream after dinner. Years lost to tears shed into separate pillows across hundreds of thousands of miles. Lost in an ocean that separates siblings.

("Oh... O-Okay...")

"Ms. Celine, please." Jisung's voice cracks on the edges. "Please, I didn't—"

"Didn't mean to, right? You never do!" Ms. Celine snaps. Her fingers tap!-tap!-tap! on the steering wheel. "You never mean to. You never think. That's the issue, Jisung. You don't think. You just 'do', and then I have to pick up the pieces!"

The light turns green and the car lurches into motion. Tears roll down the sides of Ms. Celine's cheeks, silent and slick beneath sunlight streaming through the tinted car windows. Her lips press into a quivering line. As quiet as Ms. Celine's tears are, guilt roars in Jisung's ears. It screams. Whines. Wails.

"You are a child, Jisung. And the world has dealt you a pitiful hand." Ms. Celine wipes away the evidence with her index finger. "The world your parents live in is so very unfair. They do not love you. Not properly, at least. I know what they'd do to you. I know how much more they could take away."

"Ms. Celine..."

A hiccup bubbles out from Ms. Celine's chest. "Just let me protect you. Stop making it so hard on us both. If all this is over that boy, just be honest with me."

At first, there's the telltale white-hot panic that shows in hammering heart palpitations. Denial blooms in the gaps between breaths, and he almost forms a lie on his tongue. Almost convinces himself that this period of questioning his sexuality means nothing, and that Minho means nothing, and that kissing him last night meant nothing. It could be another pretty lie. Just like his Harvard essay draft: full of bullshit, no substance, no truth.

But it is about that boy. The boy. The boy Jisung can't stop thinking about, and Ms. Celine already knows because his silence is obvious..

"You're killing me, Jisung..." Ms. Celine's knuckles loosen around the steering wheel. "Just tell me...and be honest. Are you really a...?"

("Fag." "Limp-wrist pansy." "Fuckin' queer.")

"I-I'm sorry," Jisung whispers, eyes swimming with more unshed tears than they can hold. "I... I tried not to be. I tried— I tried so hard."

Ms. Celine pulls off to the side of the road with the engine idling. She twists in her seat and reaches out to pluck Jisung's tear-streaked glasses from his face. They sit folded between her fingertips when she opens her arms wide for him to fall into. Jisung folds easily into her touch and rests his head on her shoulder while tears flow anew.

"I know you did," Ms. Celine soothes, carding a maternal touch through Jisung's hair. "I know you're still trying to break yourself to be what they want. I wish...I wish it were different. I wish this weren't true. I wish none of it mattered. I wish this wouldn't hurt you."

It feels like someone has shoved a knife in his chest, yet twisted it just enough to hurt without killing him.

This pain is worse than any punch his father might throw, and worse than any words his mother might spit. It digs deep, pierces the tenderest parts of him, and drags behind it a blood-soaked path. It has the audacity to keep him alive so he can witness how much of a failure he is to everyone.

"You cannot help your attraction, Jisung... Not even if that attraction happens to be for boys." Ms. Celine hugs him tighter, crushing Jisung's chest against her own. "Listen to me. Listen closely: I will keep you safe. No matter the cost, no matter the risk. But your parents mustn't ever hear of this."

"Th... Thank you," Jisung stutters around the knot lodged in his throat. "Thank you..."

After several moments, Ms. Celine breaks the hug and cradles his cheek in a warm palm. Her thumb brushes below his lashline, tracing the curvature of the swollen skin beneath his eyes. She smiles weakly. Then, Ms. Celine picks up Jisung's glasses and slides them back onto the bridge of his nose. They fit comfortably into place.

"Now," Ms. Celine clears her throat. "I am personally double grounding you."

"What?! But—!"

"No 'but's! Letting you run free will only get us both in trouble," Ms. Celine returns her eyes to the road ahead. "Let that be a lesson learned. If you behave, I'll convince your parents to let you see the fireworks on July 4th."

And maybe that's what freedom looks like for now: a compromise between one rule and the other, and a give-and-take between desire and responsibility. Freedom for a Han lives in bending boundaries instead of breaking them.

Jisung isn't truly free. Not really. Not yet. But if he's lucky, he might see fireworks in July. He might sit beneath the sky, feel the BOOM! of explosions in his ribs, and pretend they're for him. Pretend the world is cheering him and his newfound freedom on.

For one night.

For one spark.

For one small breath where he can just be, even if it's only in secret.

Until then, all he can do is pray for better things and a freer tomorrow.

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ JULY, 2006
How to Be Honest

Fireworks singe the skies with color. Blossoming explosions of reds, whites, and blues shimmer in Jisung's eyes.

With another gulp of bubbling cider to chase off the bitter taste of beer, he turns toward Chris Bahng's crowded living room. Loud music rattles the speakers. Sweaty bodies pack the house shoulder-to-shoulder, and everyone is bumping hips or grinding up against one another.

According to Felix, this is Chris Bahng's hottest party of the summer, and everyone who's anyone will be in attendance. That means free-flowing alcohol, loud music, and lots of fireworks. Felix ensured Jisung that it's better than wasting another summer evening shut inside his bedroom, bemoaning his existence.

The way Felix put it, "it'll be fun."

Ms. Celine hesitantly signed off on Jisung attending after some convincing and promising to behave. He's had his beer. His ear is ringing from the bass pounding in his eardrums. Now, it's time to have "fun." Whatever that is supposed to be.

The summer heat swaddles Jisung like a blanket in his baggy jean shorts and white-collared polo. A sliver of stomach shows whenever he lifts his arms, which is "so slutty, and so perfect," as quoted by his best friend.

It's probably why Tessa Garber keeps trailing her fingertips along the waistband of said jeans, playing a coy little game with herself. She bats her lashes up at Jisung in the hopes of him noticing and giggles at literally everything he says.

"I think I should learn Korean, y'know? I've been— hic!— tryin'," she drawls, batting blonde bangs aside with a flip of her neck. "You're sooo smart, Jisung. Will you teach me? I could use some help..."

"Uhm," Jisung chokes on his drink and avoids staring too low where cleavage swells over a blue bandeau bikini top. "J–Just 'cause I am Korean doesn't mean I know Korean—"

"Oh my Godddd, duh," Tessa laughs. "So, like, what would you say if I told you you're like, so hot tonight?"

Jisung drinks down more of his cider in lieu of an answer. His cheeks tingle as they burn into a scarlet shade. In all sixteen years of living a pathetic existence, no girl has ever found Jisung attractive, let alone "hot". It's foreign, alien. Jisung thinks he may need a crash course on talking to pretty girls he isn't interested in, rather than staring dumbly at them.

"You're so— hic!— shy~." Tessa's fingers wander deeper into his shorts. "I think it's cute. You're so cute, Jisung."

"Oh...ha, ha, uhm," Jisung sputters incoherently and backs away until he bumps into a nearby wall. THUD!

Jisung knows that Tessa is beautiful, and she probably is nice. She has a pretty smile. Pretty eyes. Nice voice. Jisung knows what he should feel when she's pressed against him. What he should say. But her body doesn't fit against his in the same way he imagines Minho's could, and his thoughts don't race the same.

Fuck. Even when mere moments from finally getting laid by a woman, Minho Lee manages to cross his mind. Unbelievable.

"C'mon~," Tessa giggles again. "Don't be scared, silly. You're super fuckable."

Fuckable. Jisung Han? Fuckable ? What kind of pheromonal cologne did Felix douse him in earlier? Or...are these really the miraculous results of ditching the glasses and side-parting his hair?

It shouldn't turn Jisung's stomach to hear those words fall from her mouth, but it does. It makes him queasy, nauseous. Sweat pools in the pits of his polo and glues the cotton fibers to his skin.

Tessa rises to her tip-toes. Their breaths mingle together. Hers reeks of stale liquor, his shakes between unsteady inhales. Another explosion of light BOOM!'s beyond the windowpane and rains multicolored sparks down into the yard.

"Wanna make out?" Tessa's cherry-flavored lip gloss glistens less than ten inches away. "I'll teach ya' proper~."

Jisung gulps down a rock lodged in his throat and screws his eyes shut. Their noses brush. Skin prickles with goosebumps. He swallows again when his pulse hiccups. 'Just relax. Do what she wants. Try to enjoy it. Be normal—'

"Uh," Jisung chuckles weakly. "H–Hah. I..."

'If you don't do this, everyone will think you're gay,' Fear reminds Jisung, squeezing his lungs flat. 'Be fucking normal for once. Just kiss the pretty girl.'

Jisung lifts a clammy hand and cups it awkwardly along Tessa's jaw, intending to pull her closer and force himself into heterosexuality. Sweat traces along the seams between each finger. Heat smolders behind Tessa's stare.

"Actually, I'm sorry. I...I uh..." Jisung tries to find words, though the lump in his throat steals all volume from his voice. "Gotta...go...get some fresh air."

Tessa's pout lasts all but five seconds before Jisung slips from her grasp and dives into the crowd. Partygoers brush by as he carves a path through sweat-slicked bodies. Jisung steps over plastic cups and stumbles all the way toward the sliding glass doors leading out back. Fireworks are pop-pop-POP!- ing at a rate that will probably pop Jisung's eardrums.

Even the backyard is crowded, filled to the brim with people splashing about in the pool or dancing on its outskirts. Not good. Felix, as per usual, is nowhere to be found. Typical.

"Okay," Jisung mumbles aloud to nobody. "This is fine. This is...this is just... It's okay. I'm fine. It's...fine. Everything is fine."

Jisung snags a can of beer to shut his anxiety up. It's gross, tastes like piss and piss-adjacent things, but it's cheap, and Jisung doesn't really care right now. He chugs it down in two gulps and pops the tab on another. Warm carbonation tickles on the way down.

'You are such a loser,' Anxiety cackles between slurps of awful booze. Turns out, it can't easily be silenced with alcohol. 'Nobody's gonna wanna hang out with you, you know. Especially not now, since you can't even kiss a girl. Pathetic.'

Jisung crumples the empty beer can within his fist and tosses it toward a nearby trash bin. He misses by a mile.

'Not even your best friend likes hanging around you,' Anxiety keeps talking, so Jisung cracks open another beer. 'It's not rocket science why he keeps leaving you. You're such a baby. Always needing to hold his hand.'

Jisung spews up half the third beer can. Disgusting.

'Everyone saw you couldn't kiss her. Bet they're laughing at you, the poor faggot who won't even make out with a hot chick,' Anxiety croons. 'What a fucking joke. It's not fair to be stuck being you. All you do is screw up—'

"Shut up..." Jisung whines through a mouthful of frothy beer. "Go away... Just leave me alone. Please."

Anxiety goes silent, thankfully. After downing most of his third helping of alcohol, Jisung teeters a little too far to one side and crashes into one of Chris Bahng's lawn chairs. It skids several feet along the concrete. His knees follow suit, scraping along the gritty ground.

"Fucking... Fuck," Jisung moans, lifting himself to his elbows. "Shit..."

Blood leaks from his busted knee, trailing in a thin river toward the bone of his ankle. Great. There goes Ms. Celine's trust, and any chance he has of ever doing anything unsupervised ever again.

"God. Fuck," Jisung sniffles. His chest tightens. "P-Pathetic..."

Everything hurts. A lot.

Why can't Jisung do anything right? Why is he so fucking helpless all the time? A grown boy can't handle one goddamn party without ruining shit. Ruining a shirt. Ruining relationships. Ruining everything.

Maybe he deserves to be alone.

Jisung finds reprieve in the darkest corner of the yard, leaving a blood spatter trail behind every stumble.

Reprieve looks like a concrete ledge hidden beneath the overhang of a massive oak tree. Moonlight trickles through its branches in silvery stripes that trace down Jisung's thighs when he sits on the concrete slab. Alone. Cradled beneath its bark and leaves, Jisung lets his head hang to hide his tears.

Minutes drip into hours. Time drips itself dry while fireworks whistle, BOOM!, crack, and burst into the night sky. Beer stains the front of Jisung's shirt and joins the growing list of reasons Jisung will spend the next year locked up indoors. Blood crusts at his knees and along his calves.

Silence drags on once Jisung finds his composure. Boredom eats its way through his patience as the fireworks slowly taper off. Jisung picks at a few blades of grass and absentmindedly doodles circles in the dirt with a twig. A spider weaves itself a web over his shoulder while he stares at his sneakers.

BEEP!

Jisung fishes in his pockets for his phone. He finds it tucked in his back pocket and flips it open. Two bars of reception and one unread text message flash on the screen.

　　Felix Lee (11:54 p.m.)
　　Hey. Where are you?? :C

Jisung has shed too many tears and drank too many beers for one evening. His brain can hardly process the words onscreen, so he abandons reading entirely and scrolls through his contact list. With his phone clamped between his cheek and shoulder, Jisung listens to the dial tone drone. He waits.

Ring...

Ring...

Ring...

Click!

　　The first moment between seconds is weird. There isn't the raucous soundscape of  drunken teenagers or blaring rap music. No firecrackers bursting or fizzing explosives screeching their way across the sky. Where is Felix—?

"Hello?"

Oh. Oh. That doesn't sound like Felix.

"...M— hic!— Minho?"

"Yeah," Minho hisses, and there's the clink! of silverware in the background. "Are you...okay? It sounds really fuckin' loud over there."

Jisung bites back a sob. He hides his face behind the palms of his hands and holds his breath in the spaces between his ribs. 'Pathetic, ugly, miserable, disgusting—'

"I'm— I'm okay." Jisung lies with another sip of his beer. It's mostly empty, anyway, so the tinny residue doesn't quench much. He grimaces. "Why? Wh— Why'd you answer?"

"You called me...?"

"Oh. That's...weird." Jisung sniffles, scrubbing his nose along his sleeve. "Sor— Sorry..."

The line crackles. Static-laced silence ticks between them.  Jisung worries his lip raw until it, too, bleeds.

"I— hic!— hurt myself." Jisung winces as he adjusts his leg on the cement slab, and his split kneecap pulls painfully at the effort. "It...hurts rea— really bad, Minho."

"What?!" Minho's voice pitches. "How bad? Where are you? Are you bleeding?"

"Only a— a little." Jisung leans down to scratch around the dried bits of gore lining his shin. "I've ruined my clothes. My mother will be so angry... Everyone always is... I never—"

"Jisung. Stop." Minho cuts him off sternly, then softens in the way ice cream thaws out. "Are you at Chris Bahng's?"

Jisung nods.

"Jisung?"

It takes Jisung several seconds to remember that Minho cannot see him nod. Stupid alcohol.

"Y–Yeah," Jisung agrees, albeit a little belatedly. "Sorry, I'm— I'm... I've drunk a— hic!— a lot. M'sorry."

"Okay. It's fine, I'm not angry with you," Minho says. "Just...stay put. I'm comin' to get you."

What follows is the sound of dead air and the click! of Minho hanging up. Jisung lets the phone fall into his lap. He wraps his arms around himself and presses his forehead to his knees, blood and all. He must look like a complete idiot right now, hunched under a tree with spiderwebs in his hair, snot dribbling down his chin, and tear-stained cheeks to boot.

After what feels like hours (but is probably twenty minutes), Jisung hears footsteps crunch!- ing in the distance.

"Hey," Minho murmurs, soft and sweet. "There you are."

A gray tee pairs nicely with jorts that cinch just below Minho's knees. Mussed hair is shoved beneath a denim bucket hat and honeyed bangs fringe over his forehead. The heavens could not conjure angels with faces as lovely as his.

"Minho... Hi..." Jisung whispers. He sniffles and wipes away more snot. "You— hic!— came..."

"Yeah, yeah. 'Course I came." Minho crouches in the dirt with a grunt, his brows stitched tightly together. "Thought I told you not to drink like this anymore. You're a fuckin' mess."

"I-I'm sorry." Syllables slur together, barely intelligible. "Please...don't be mad at me..."

"'M not mad, Jisung..." Minho sighs. He helps hoist Jisung upright, balancing him around the waist with an arm slung across his back. "C'mon. Let's get you cleaned up."

❤︎

Staggering steps catch on uneven patches in the road; Jisung's limping continues even with Minho's support.

Five minutes ago, Minho crammed his car into a squeezey parallel parking slot (since none of the Gardenview Drive lots believe in driveways, apparently). Now, Minho is dragging  Jisung's heavy-as-shit, "drunk ass" toward a sleepy bakery.

Fireflies twinkle in the balmy heat of a Georgian summer, lighting the way down the street. Lush oaks bend beneath their own weight and curve over the pavement. A chorus of crickets greet them down the long stretch home.

"It's just over here." Minho says, jerking his chin down the sidewalk. "Almost there."

They hobble over a gnarled root poking up between a gap in the pavement, and Minho catches Jisung when he starts to sway dangerously hard toward the curb.

"Easy. Easy." Minho coos. "Take your time, okay? We've got all night. I ain't goin' nowhere."

"Okay," Jisung slurs and wets his bottom lip. "That's good. I like this."

"Being drunk off your ass at one in the morning?" Minho snorts. "Sure you do. Everyone does 'til they wake up the next day with the worst headache of their lives."

There's a freedom here that's a little dangerous, and Jisung lets himself fall into it: the way Minho's bicep steadies his waist, the almost-unbearable closeness. There is such a stark beauty in the intimacy — in the close-up — in the level of detail that only comes from taking risks. From falling without knowing if anyone will be there to catch you. From letting the dark swallow you whole.

Alcohol makes it easier to cope with Minho being a man. It also helps that it's Minho. Minho Lee, who's grinning so lopsidedly it creases the scar on his cheek.

Jisung's stomach fumbles its way through a somersault. Liquid courage makes it easy to say:

"No! No. Not that," he laughs breathlessly. "I like this... Us..."

"Us, huh?"

"Yep. You 'n— hic!— me. Us," Jisung nods. He trips over a chunk of concrete sticking up on one end. "Sh— Shoot..."

Minho pulls Jisung tighter against his side. Heat radiates in waves wherever skin brushes skin, like steam rolling off asphalt after a humid rain shower. It sticks uncomfortably and cloys in the worst places, yet the warmth is welcome here. In this space. In this freedom.

"Mmh," Minho hums in agreement. "I like us too. We make good friends."

"I kissed you." Jisung whispers with all the honesty of 'too-many-beers' worth of confidence. "We can't be friends, stupid."

Minho gapes, fish-faced and wide-eyed. "Is kissing me all it takes for me to not be your friend?"

"No...?"

"Then shush," Minho answers easily. "We're still friends, Jisung. Don't worry 'bout it too much."

"...M'kay."

Blossom Delights comes into view then. Moonlight falls in faint rays over the weathered welcome mat. The bells chime! overhead when Minho shoulders his way into the bakery with Jisung floundering at his hip.

Pastries glisten from behind chilled glass cases and sleep underneath little glass domes. The 'ON SALE!' shelves overflow with pre-packaged loaves, cookies, brownies, cakes, donuts — the list goes on — and wait for tomorrow's shoppers. Chairs sleep upside-down on the tables. Wooden floorboards whine quietly where they're worn.

Minho hauls Jisung through the dining area, past the register, and into the cramped flat that exists behind the store. With a couple more groans, Minho maneuvers them into his bedroom, deposits Jisung onto his mattress, and click!s on the standing lamp.

Honey-hued light spills forth, chasing shadows into their hiding spots. Jisung glances around the bedroom: peeling band posters plastered on the walls, glow-in-the-dark stars, an old TV set resting on milk crates, piles of mangas and textbooks on every conceivable surface. 

What's most important is that, in the light, Jisung sees Minho properly.

Jisung observes Minho through a dreamy haze of drunkenness. Once he's tossed the bucket hat, Minho's hair falls freely across his forehead in messier tufts than before. The gray tee is on inside-out backwards, so the tag is visible from Minho's neckline, and his arms are out for the first time ever, and Jisung almost drunkenly swoons over his biceps if not for—

"Minho..." Jisung reaches out and tugs Minho's hand with what little strength he can muster. "You're hurt too..."

Minho's arm snakes outward, marred with angry slashes and violent red lines that cut and curl deep into his wrist. Fresh wounds and old wounds; new injuries and old injuries. None of them seem cared for, not properly. Instead, they're left opened and let bleed until blood dries over the top.

Minho freezes. His pupils shrink to pinpricks. Muscles twitch beneath his skin.

"What happened?" Jisung presses with all the eloquence of his intoxication. "Did you— did someone— did you— did I..."

"Don't worry 'bout it," Minho deflects, pulling his wrist back. "No big deal."

"Tell me," Jisung insists. "Doesn't it... Doesn't it hurt?"

Something terrible crosses over Minho's expression, like someone turned the lights off inside his heart. His jaw clenches, tightening near the back where his molars meet.

"Of course it fucking hurts. Drop it," Minho snaps. "It doesn't matter."

There isn't enough room in this conversation to breathe. Jisung drops it like Minho asked, but it still stamps all over the place like an unaddressed elephant.

Minho clears his throat, defusing whatever bomb threatens to explode in the space between them. He turns, grabs a first aid kit off his bedside table, and opens it. Its hinges squeal. Blood rolls down Minho's inner elbow, so he bandages it up with a roll of gauze and pretends it doesn't exist.

'Tell me, Minho.'

'Is that... Is that what you hide underneath your sleeves?'

"Alright." Minho forces a smile back on and pats Jisung's calf. "Let's get'cha cleaned up, yeah?"

"N–No." Jisung objects weakly, stopping Minho before the first drop of antiseptic hits his knee. "No. Not un— hic!— unless you let me help you."

Minho sighs. "Jisung..."

"'M serious." Jisung's pouts. "Super serious."

"I don't care. I'm tryin' to help you—"

"Friends help each other," Jisung says stubbornly, even if it's equivalent to walking all over TNT and waiting for Minho to explode. "And you said we're friends. So fuckin' act like it."

"I—" Minho pauses mid-protest. "...Fine. Whatever. Just lemme do you first."

"Swear it!" Jisung demands. "Pinky swear it! Right now."

Minho stares at him. Then, he laughs a fragile laughter full of fractures and fissures. He extends a pinky. Jisung hooks it clumsily with his own.

"I pinky-fuckin'-swear, Jesus," Minho chuckles. He unhooks his finger and rolls the bottle of antiseptic between his hands. "Now. Shut up and lemme help you. This shit's gonna sting."

True to word, the antiseptic stings enough that Jisung yelps at contact. Pain ricochets all the way to his thigh. He screws his eyes shut and bites down on a knuckle until his teeth leave an imprint.

"Hurts—" Jisung hisses. "Motherfucker..."

"Shh, shh, I know," Minho soothes, dabbing along Jisung's knee. "Just a little more. Promise."

When the worst passes, Minho lathers Jisung's wounds in a generous amount of Neosporin and bandages each knee. The smaller cuts enjoy the luxury of Band-Aids with cartoon cats all over them. All in all, Minho's bedroom is a pretty good doctor's office. And Minho Lee is a pretty good nurse. A damn great friend.

Jisung looks down at Minho's arm. "Your turn. You promised."

Minho frowns but obeys with minimal eye-rolling. He lifts his arm for inspection, avoids Jisung's gaze like the plague, and holds his breath as Jisung undoes his bandages. Underneath, the skin is ripped and raw. Red-pink streaks carve into his arm, with some lines spewing up fresh blood. All kinds of patterns mesh and melt together.

Jisung says nothing to avoid setting Minho off. He's holding a match too close to a fuse, and he's so drunk he might accidentally light it. 

With clumsy coordination and a splash of too much antiseptic, Jisung dabs a cotton round along every gouge and slash. Minho sucks a sharp breath, curses colorfully, but holds still regardless. Minho's face flushes strawberry pink and tears gather along his waterlines.

Jisung's gut twists uncomfortably, so he whispers "sorry" over and over again until he finally slathers the last of the antibiotic ointment. When finished, he rounds and smooths the gauze over Minho's wrist.

"Finished," Jisung mumbles, mostly to fill the silence. "Sorry, sorry— Sorry for makin' you cry... M'sorry..."

"It's... Fuck."

Minho shakes his head and stands suddenly, sniffling his tears away. He hides himself by turning his back. From this angle, it's only partially visible that Minho's heart has swollen to where it can only pour, pour, pour out. One palm tries to conceal the evidence, but even it is too little to hold the weight of an incoming flood. A tear traces along the ridge of his cheekbone. Then another. Another.

Even from here, it's easy to hear how Minho's breath hitches — how he breaks, and then shatters. It's impossible to hide.

"Are— Are you okay?" Jisung asks after several beats pass. "Minho..."

Jisung pushes himself off the mattress and hobbles closer. The floorboards creak!. Tears continue falling along Minho's cheeks like the rushing of a river against the rocks. Jisung takes another step toward the shoreline. And another. And another. Until they're facing each other and Jisung can pry Minho's hand from his face.

For a moment, Jisung drowns in the sadness that floods Minho's gaze, losing himself to the current until he can't tell where the surface ends or the riptide begins. 

"You shouldn't—" Minho swallows hard. He sniffles and coughs in his fist. "You shouldn't even wanna look at me right now."

"But I do," Jisung protests with the shake of his head, messily thumbing at Minho's tears. "'Course I wanna...wanna look at you..."

Jisung hesitates. Drunken courage flares, burns, extinguishes, then reignites once more. Jisung lets the tide carry him out to sea, falling into a hug that wraps tightly around Minho's back. Minho stiffens before letting his head loll onto Jisung's shoulder. Arms rise and hook around Jisung's frame.

The fit is awkward — like putting a puzzle piece in the wrong part of the picture — but nobody cares. Eventually, Minho relaxes into it. Eventually, they fit.

"Thank you," Minho sniffles. "Nobody else has ever...'S just... Thank you."

"You're—" Sickness curdles in Jisung's guts like soured milk. "—Welco— OhGod..."

Vomit rises in Jisung's throat until it spills over his lips and spews all over the floor. It sprays in thick, green-ish splashes along the back of Minho's clothes, coating everything in lukewarm beer and bile. Gagging continues even after nothing more will come up. Gross.

"Oh, Jisung..." Minho sighs, though it's hardly annoyed. "What am I gonna do with you?"

"M–Mmmm." Jisung gags again. More vomit crawls up his insides and bubbles forth. "Fuck. I'm so fuckin' gross..."

"It's alright," Minho reassures. He pats circles between Jisung's shoulder blades and grimaces. "That makes two of us."

❤︎

Morning filters in muted beams through Minho's blinds. Arms cling a little tighter around Jisung's frame as he stirs awake, head burrowed beneath Minho's jaw. Their limbs are tangled, and it's a little sticky in the summertime heat, but Jisung doesn't mind burning up if it means being with Minho.

In this lazy moment between waking and dreaming, there's something real. Something precious. Something perfectly imperfect. Something...human.

Jisung entertains the idea of putting this moment into words — into his Harvard essay — but decides against it. This feeling isn't meant for Ivy League admission boards to comb over, pick apart, and scrutinize. What would Harvard know about being bisexual?

Harvard isn't ready to know Jisung Han like this. The world isn't ready to know Jisung Han like this. So, for now, this belongs to him. This precious, imperfect humanity belongs to him.

'God, I know you don't approve of this,' Jisung prays despite the hangover in his head. 'I know you aren't happy with how things are right now. How I am right now.'

An ache throbs between Jisung's temples. The room spins for a moment while the hangover makes itself at home.

'I'm scared to lose you and all the plans you have for me. I feel sick thinking about disappointing my parents. My community. My sister. Myself. God, I am so scared that you'll abandon me for having these feelings.'

Jisung screws his eyes shut, curses Chris Bahng and his unlimited booze, and wills himself to continue prayer.

'I keep running to this boy because he feels like home. It's like...I've just moved in and there are so many things I want to learn and love about this new space.'

Jisung's gaze drifts to the gauze wrapped snugly around Minho's wrist. Hazy memories fill in the blanks of what lies underneath: deep scars, shallow scars, and skin trying its best to heal. Things that must have felt like secrets until Jisung learned them last night.

'Is it so bad that I don't want to run from how I feel?'

Minho shifts to let their legs untangle and nudges his nose along Jisung's collarbone. Intimacy like this doesn't feel like friendship, because friends don't let themselves melt this easily. Friends don't wish for moments to freeze and crystallize so they'll last forever. Friends don't hope that the feeling is mutual.

'I don't know what I'm doing, but I trust you enough to let you show me how to use this new key wisely. Please, please don't take this away.'

Amen.

❤︎

　　When you've barely known yourself your entire life — soul so torn between others' hands — you forget what exists buried beneath. You are essentially a puppet for every will aside from your own.

　　Suddenly, you're sixteen years old and standing half-naked in the mirror, tracing plastic skin that hasn't ever been embraced by anything other than money. You know you aren't meant to complain about the things people would die for.

　　Why are you unhappy? Why are you desperate to feel something beneath this skin other than fingers prodding your ribs apart? Why do you resist the way they pick you into pieces until they've chosen what to keep?

　　It isn't supposed to hurt. For a while, it doesn't hurt. Until it does.|

Jisung's fingers halt mid-thought. His knuckles curl over his keyboard until they turn bone-white with tension. Thoughts buzz through his head like wasps in a disturbed nest.

　　Because then, you remember. You remember that you're human. Or, at least, that you're supposed to be.|

Sometimes, Jisung thinks about collecting every version of himself: the Jisung at church, the Jisung at the piano, the Jisung who overachieves, the Jisung who grinned when Minho waved a chopstick at him and called him "cute". Then, he'd let them fight it out in a locked room. Whoever survives the bloodshed would finally become a person. Human.

　　There's something tragically lovely about missing a thing you didn't realize you lost, and grieving it with your whole heart. Especially when that 'thing' is yourself. 'Han Jisung.'|

Jisung types along with his stream of thought. A mishmash of words fill the screen and create an abomination of an essay. There's no structure, not yet. Ideas vomit all over the page and make sentences that don't belong. Harvard would never accept this.

The cursor settles on the tiny 'X' in the upper-right-hand corner. Maybe Jisung could make this go away. Maybe Jisung should hit delete and forget about this pathetic essay.

Instead, he names it 'Me' and saves it to Windows Explorer. It sits inside the folder and sticks out like a sore thumb among book reports and perfect PowerPoints. Jisung doesn't want to delete it just yet.

Something is still living there. Something worth keeping, even if only for a little longer.

❤︎

July brings sweltering Georgian days, loud cicadas, and a laziness to Sunnavelle.

Summer stretches out its long limbs and makes heatwaves everybody's problem. When the humidity isn't making your sweat roll down your face, it's gluing your hair to your forehead and making shirts stick to your spine.

Hanging out with Minho (with Ms. Celine's reluctant approval) makes things a tad better.

"You look uncomfortable," Minho points out. He has a mini-fan pointed to his neck that does nothing to slow his sweating. "We're only goin' down the street. 할머니 ("Grandma") needs some fruit n' stuff from the market."

"It's like, a million degrees outside," Jisung whines, wiping the sweat gathered at the bridge of his glasses. "How are we getting any shopping done in this?"

"By not being dramatic." Minho snickers and elbows him. "할머니 wants peaches n' mangos for 호떡 ("hotteok"), melons for 멜론빵 ("melon bread"), and berries for jam. You don't wanna keep an old lady waitin', do you?"

"...I guess not."

"Exactly," Minho answers, smiling in that charmingly crooked way. "I promise, we can hang out in the AC after we're done."

Market Avenue lies adjacent to Gardenview Drive, separated by a short stretch of houses. Cars cram along its main strip since today's market is in full swing. Families with carts walk along the pavement and sweat the summer day away. Sunnavelle's biweekly Market hosts a hodgepodge of tents selling anything from fruit to homemade crafts.

Every shade in the rainbow hangs in colored fabrics over food stalls, art galleries, clothing booths, jewelry stands, plant displays — you name it and it probably has a place here.

"How do you find anything?" Jisung blurts, eyeing the throngs of bodies navigating narrow lanes between tables. "It's so crowded..."

Minho waves away the concern. "The sellers usually keep the same spots. So, you kinda learn your way around after a while."

As if to prove his point, Minho strides confidently into the fray and winds his way through various stalls and awnings. He keeps a steady hand around Jisung's wrist whenever the crowd starts swallowing him up. A chasm grows and splits Jisung's ribs, opening a hole where air is sucked, squeezed, and turned into butterflies fluttering madly around his lungs.

Crushing on Minho is easy. Even with a cheap fan dangling out of his pocket, sweaty bangs sticking to his forehead, and a layer of gauze beneath denim sleeves, Minho shines. It hurts to stare, but Jisung's eyes ache to see more. To commit more to memory.

Underneath the pavilion tent, fruit rolls gently along wooden stands. Wafts of tangy-sweet juices catch on the wind. Yellow signs boast discounts, seasonal selections, and deals that come in multiples. Vendors yell themselves hoarse announcing produce.

Minho pauses in front of a table overflowing with summer's harvest.

Plums glisten like amethyst jewels in their crates. Mangos blush in shades of red and orange. Peaches rest on their soft bellies, ripened by the sun. Grapes overflow, dripping from the edges of their containers. Melons, bananas, and more line the shelves.

"Minho! Good to see ya'!" The vendor beams. She's a middle-aged woman with a kinky afro and friendly, brown eyes. "How's your grandmother doin'? Haven't seen her in ages."

"Hi, Ms. Leanne! She's good," Minho replies with a kind smile. His fingers drift along Jisung's wrist and curl around his hand. "This is my friend, Jisung. 'S his first time at Market."

Ms. Leanne cocks a brow, gaze snapping to their tangled fingers. She barks out a laugh. "Y'all two are not friends. Don't even try, you ain't that slick."

Summertime's blaze burns crimson into Jisung's cheeks. His hand twitches in Minho's grip, but he doesn't pull away. Minho squeezes his palm.

"You caught us! We're actually siblings," Minho replies easily, even if his neck flushes faintly pink. "Can't you see the resemblance?"

"Oh, sure. And I'm your momma." Ms. Leanne scoffs and shakes her head, but keeps the humor alive. "Alabama ain't that far, y'know... I've seen all kinds'a things."

Jisung chews the inside of his cheek and tries not to dwell on his heart doing cartwheels inside his chest. It is probably impossible for the color on his cheeks to fluster further, but the feeling happens all the same.

Ms. Leanne's laughter chimes in Jisung's ears and offers them all an easy escape from this conversation thread.

"You boys just be good to eachother, 'kay?" Ms. Leanne winks. "Now, what can I help y'all with?"

Minho lets go of Jisung's hand in favor of grabbing a basket and filling it with ripe fruits. Mangos tumble in, followed by peaches and melons, then a few plums and grapes. Jisung helps where he can, grabbing a few fruits and double-checking to make sure they're okay. Everything fits snugly and ends up costing less than twenty dollars.

"Thanks, Ms. Leanne." Minho hoists the basket against his hip. "Have a good one!"

"You too, sweetie. And you." Ms. Leanne tugs Jisung by the wrist and pats the back of his hand. "Minho's a good kid. Real good. You better be good to him, y'hear?"

Jisung's heart leaps to his mouth, but he manages to stammer a nod. Ms. Leanne laughs again and pats his cheek.

"If you really like 'im, I'll let you in on a secret," she continues. "That boy loves strawberries. I'll bag up some for you, on the house. Just don't tell him, 'kay? I don't wanna hear him complainin' about free fruit."

Ms. Leanne turns to pluck a few of the freshest strawberries from a nearby crate. She slips them into a baggy, twits the plastic closed, and presses them into Jisung's hands.

"Go on, now. Have a nice day, hon."

"T-Thank you," Jisung stammers, nods a bit too much, then hurries after Minho. "Sorry. She, uhm, wanted to talk to me for a second—"

"Fuck. Off."

The expletive tears from Minho's lips before he can catch it. A few stalls down, Minho stands facing a boy with sharp features and a sneer that looks like it never leaves.

"Go be a dick somewhere else, Jett."

The stranger — Jett, presumably — is tall and stocky, wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his biceps. A thick, gold chain circles his neck. Sunglasses perch on his buzzed hair and an unlit cigarette dangles from his lips. He looks like the kind of person who could break Jisung's face without breaking a sweat.

"You still mad 'bout that fight? That shit was forever ago." Jett rolls the cigarette between his teeth. "I thought we were cool or somethin'."

"We're not." Minho's tone ices over and his gaze narrows to a glare. "You should leave. Now."

Jett lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and gestures in Jisung's direction. "Who's this pretty boy? You rentin' 'im out, or what?"

Jisung's stomach twists in on itself. Scripts for situations like these never made it into the Han household curriculum, and Jisung isn't sure how to respond. At the very least, he remembers something his mother once said — "Never let them see you flinch, Jisung" — so he doesn't, except for the trembling in his knuckles where the strawberry bag bruises them white.

"Don't even fuckin' look at him." Minho hisses. "Get lost."

"Hey, I ain't gonna do anything." Jett holds his palms up in faux surrender. "Not tryna go back to the can over some queer bullshit. I was only messin' around with you, anyway."

Minho's jaw clenches until a vein pops against his throat. The basket handle creak! s beneath his curled fingers; the plastic bends, stretches, and threatens to break under pressure. Tension coils along Minho's spine, knotting him up into something that can't bend.

Jett's crocodile smile stretches further across his face, showing off jagged rows of teeth. He reaches out at Minho's hair, twisting a honey brown lock around his finger. This is a game for him. A fun little way to pass the time.

"C'monnnn babe," Jett coos sweetly, tauntingly, "it's fuckin' summer." A tattoo-inked hand slithers down Minho's side, settling at his hip. "We used to have so much fun together, didn't we? What happened to you, hm?"

"Stop fucking touchin' me—"

Market continues around them, oblivious. Vendors call over customers. Families laugh. Music plays and children shriek as they run through the crowds.

The world doesn't pause for Minho, and the world doesn't care what Jett does to him. Not in a town like this. Not when everyone wants to turn a blind eye to the wrong kind of sin. Jisung can't watch another second.

"Leave him alone." Jisung shoves Jett backward. Jett's fingers slip from Minho's waistband and the cigarette falls from his lips. "He doesn't want you anywhere near him, asshole."

"Ooh, the princess has a bite~." Jett's eyes darken and his lips curl into a sneer. "Watch yourself, kid. I'd hate to mess up that face of yours. Wouldn't want you endin' up like Minho."

Jett's gaze settles on the scar along Minho's face before flicking back toward Jisung, daring him to react. Minho's breath hitches, and Jisung doesn't have to look to know he's shaking. Anger rises in Jisung's cheeks like a sunburn, all while fury laces his eyes and makes them gleam like daggers.

"I'm not going to ask you again," Jisung spits, even as fear makes his syllables shiver. "Leave us alone."

Jett hooks his thumbs in his belt loops and steps back to assess the two of them. He spits out his cigarette, then lets his tongue trace the line of his lower lip.

Jett snatches an apple from Minho's basket, sinks his teeth into the ripe skin, and CHOMP!s loudly. Juice drips along his chin. Jett chews slowly, deliberately, then lets the fruit fall from his hand and into the dirt.

"Good luck with that one, twink." Jett wipes the juice from his chin with the back of his hand. "He's a fuckin' handful."

Jett snatches his sunglasses from his buzzed hair and stalks off. The only thing left in Jett's wake is the soiled apple, half-bitten and rotting in the sun.

"I'm—" Minho stops, shakes his head, and tries again. "Thank you. I don't— 'M sorry. You shouldn't have had to do that, or see that. Fuck."

"Hey, it's alright." Jisung bumps Minho's shoulder and tries to coax a smile. "I'm fine, okay? He's a dick. I...uh try not to let dicks bother me."

"Yeah. I just..." A pause, a breath. Minho laughs and the tension deflates from his spine. "'S okay."

A moment passes. Sunlight stretches along the pavement, and the breeze carries the faint scent of fruit and flowers in bloom. Minho's smile is brittle as he watches the crowd, but his expression softens once he meets Jisung's gaze. Something is still hurting beneath, but the surface is starting to heal.

"We should go," Minho says. "할머니 is probably wonderin' where we are."

"Oh, uh. Okay."

Strawberry juice stains the spaces between Jisung's fingers, and it's then that he realizes he smushed the bag to death. Rednees oozes and forms sticky, sweet puddles in the palm of his hand. 'Damn it.'

The walk back to Blossom Delights passes in silence. Somewhere along the way, Jisung tosses the evidence of his strawberry disaster.

Sunnavelle's heat clings to the back of Jisung's neck and makes sweat drip down his temples. The cicadas continue screaming their summertime songs. It isn't enough to drown out the memories that cling like spiderwebs to the corners of Jisung's mind.

("C'monnnn babe. We used to have so much fun together, didn't we? What happened to you, hm?" )

("Stop fucking touchin' me—" )

Minho's world consists of cracked sidewalks and chipped picket fences. The houses are a little less nice and the yards look a little less loved. Bad actors and worse luck live on this side of town. Even if Jisung can't fix anything about this place, he can offer his friendship. Whatever that's worth.

("You better be good to him, y'hear?" )

Minho opens the rear entrance door to the bakery and lets Jisung go first. Inside, the air conditioning hums in the background while Grandma Lee busies herself in the kitchen. Grandma Lee's hair is set in a tidy cloud of gray waves, and a silk scarf holds the silver strands back from her face. She greets them with a wave of her rolling pin and a smile.

"안녕하세요, 할머니~!" ( "Hello, Grandma~!") Minho calls out, setting the basket of fruit on a nearby countertop. "저희가 적어주신 목록에 있는 거 다 사 왔어요." ("We got everything on the list you made.")

Grandma Lee abandons her rolling pin and shuffles over to inspect the basket. Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she sifts through the fruits and sets them aside for washing. A few ripe plums make their way from the sink basin to her mouth, and she smiles at the flavor.

"아, 정말 고맙다, 민호야~." ("Ah, thank you Minho~") Grandma Lee pats Minho's cheek fondly. Her crescent-shaped eyes meet Jisung's. "지성아, thank you~."

"No probl—"

"어?" ("What?" ) Minho gapes at his grandmother. "이제 영어로 말씀하시는 거예요?!" ("You're speaking English now?")

"A little." Grandma Lee's lips twitch into a teasing smirk. "네 남자친구랑 이야기하려면 영어 연습을 좀 해야지~." ("I need to practice so I can talk to your boyfriend~.")

Minho's cheeks burn as brightly as the strawberries Jisung murdered earlier. He hides behind the sleeve of his denim jacket, even though the red tips of his ears poke out and betray him

"할머니..."

Grandma Lee gives Jisung a friendly pat on the wrist before returning to her baking. Bread rolls lie in perfect golden rows beside jam-filled jars with checkered lids. Cookies cool on racks and sweet rice cakes sit in neat squares.

"Uh..." Jisung turns to Minho. "So... What did she say?"

"Hm? Oh." Minho clears his throat, keeping his gaze elsewhere. "할머니 said you should stick around more, 'cause you aren't as bad as everyone else."

"...Really?"

"Yep," Minho pops the 'p' and fishes two aprons from a hook. One of them is flower-print and has frills on the hem; the other one has cute illustrations of bunnies all over it. "She likes you. Kinda weird."

Jisung scoffs as he ties the girliest apron around his waist. "You like me."

"Yeah." Minho bites the corner of his lip and smiles into his next sentence. "Guess I'm kinda weird."

It's strange how suddenly things become so clear. Like when sunlight pierces through fog, or when dust settles on the windowsill. All of a sudden, it makes sense why everything inside Blossom Delights sparkles — because the sun has always been here, with hair the color of roasted chestnuts and eyes shaped like smiling moons.

Jisung chews his cheek and swallows a confession that threatens to burst from his chest. Everything aches at the seams: his ribcage, his veins, his pulse. 

("Good luck with that one, twink. He's a fuckin' handful.")

Maybe Minho Lee is more trouble than he's worth. Maybe there's some part of this puzzle Jisung missed, but he'd like to believe he knows the important parts of Minho best.

Nobody — not Chris, or some jerk that Jisung wishes he could sock in the mouth — nobody will make Jisung change his mind.

Fruit is plucked, peeled, chopped, and cored throughout the next half hour. Berries go into tiny bowls, melons and mangoes get mashed up; peaches get halved, then quartered, and then diced into cubes.

Minho has to help, a lot, because Jisung doesn't know his way around knives too well. Or fruit that hasn't already been sliced to bits.

Thankfully, they manage to survive with all ten fingers.

❤︎

As promised, Jisung and Minho burn the rest of daylight by lounging on the futon under an air-conditioned breeze.

After helping Grandma Lee with chores, they carried Minho's shitty television set into the living area. Ever since, the TV screen has buzzed with vibrant animation and Japanese voice acting that flows into subtitles at the bottom of each frame. Episode numbers tick upward as the DVDs cycle from start to finish.

Sailor Moon fights villains with her magical powers, saves her friends, and ends up falling for Tuxedo Mask.

"I've seen this series, like, over a hundred times." Minho stretches like a cat. A lazy yawn slips past his lips. "This shit was the highlight of middle school."

Jisung snorts. "You're so gay."

"Whatever." Minho rolls his eyes, then returns to nuzzling a pillow against his face. His voice muffles into cotton stuffing. "'S a good show. Stop judgin' me."

"I'm not!" Jisung insists, stifling a giggle behind his palm. "It's okay to be into magical, girly anime. I'm in no position to judge."

"Good." Minho peers past his pillow mound. "Would've hated to kick your ass outta the house."

"As if."

They settle back into a comfortable quiet, broken up only by the occasional sound of shifting bodies and crumpling honey-butter chips. Minho nods off with a bag of chips balanced precariously on his belly. His hair frames his face like an unmade bed.

'Sometimes you meet someone who makes you forget you've ever been alone,' Jisung muses, and he'd probably write it if he were at his computer screen. 'When you're with them, you can finally breathe.'

Sunlight melts into moonbeams and colors the walls in silver instead of gold. Jisung's phone buzzes in the front pocket of his shorts.

　Ms. Celine (08:39 p.m.)
　I'm on my way to pick you up.
　Your father wants you home.

The Han family name hangs heavy off his shoulders, but Jisung thinks this weight feels less painful. It's strawberry syrup instead of rocks, and he finds the bitterness sweet.

'Because, when I'm with you, Minho...it feels like nothing can hurt me anymore.'

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ JULY, 2006
How to Be Honest

"Your father is not in a good mood," Ms. Celine warns. "Please listen to what he says. You've had plenty of freedom lately, and— well... I wouldn't light the fuse."

Jisung picks at his cuticles. "I understand, Ms. Celine."

There is no arguing with her, or Father, or the silent rules that govern their family. Everything is a little more fragile these days — like broken bones encased in fractured glass — so they hold themselves together, desperately, with gritted teeth and strained smiles.

Home rears its ugly head, with its sprawling driveway and monstrous fountain. Columns surround the palatial entryway, stretching up to meet a triangular mantle above the wide oak doors. Ms. Celine's car purrs up the smooth asphalt driveway and idles a few feet away from the house.

"Well." Ms. Celine sighs and shifts the gear into park. "Let's get this over with."

Father sits at the dining table with a tumbler filled with bourbon, almost entirely shrouded in shadow. He swirls the ice cubes inside his drink, listening to them clink!-clink!-clink! against the crystal.

The dining hall door squeals as it shuts, then THUMP!s. Father swivels his head in their direction and waves Ms. Celine off.

"Wait upstairs," Father commands, but he slurs all over his syllables. "My son and I need to talk in private."

"Sir, is it really necessary to do this toni—?"

"Go." William raises his voice until it echoes off the ceiling. "Before I fire you."

Ms. Celine purses her lips, closes her eyes, and retreats until the CLACK!-ing of her heels vanishes from earshot. The silence stretches for minutes, hours — or is it seconds? Jisung isn't sure. Doom coils along his ribs, constricts him like a python and wrings the oxygen from his lungs.

'What did I do this time?'

'Did he find out about Chris's party?'

'Did I get another low mark somewhere? What else could I possibly screw up?'

'What did I do, what did I do, whatdidI—'

CRASH!

Ice splatters in every direction as shards of crystal tumble through the air, skid across marble, and scatter beneath chairs. Bourbon seeps into the carpet alongside fragments of busted glass, spreading across the floor like blood flowing from a dead body.

"I–I'm sorry," Jisung blurts out. Panic takes a pair of scissors and snips holes into his sentences. "For whatever it is— For whatever I did— I don't— I'm—"

"Shut the fuck up."

Jisung flinches. A bead of cold sweat rolls along the curve of his spine. The silence makes room for William's labored breathing; he sucks it all into his lungs and leaves none behind for Jisung.

This is what it means to be William Han's son: you live life drowning on dry land.

"You're a failure, you know." William points a shaky finger in Jisung's direction. "A waste. Everythin' you touch rots—"

Jisung's shoulders cave inward, his joints click out of their sockets, and his ribs bow to accommodate. It's embarrassing that a lifetime of verbal lashings cannot numb the sting.

"I'm— I'm sorry—"

"What the fuck did I just say about talkin'?" William snatches another bourbon glass and sloppily pours himself another glass. "Are you fuckin' stupid?"

'NoYes. Maybe?'

"Stupid piece 'a shit." William's drunken ramblings stumble together, then scatter apart. Liquor spills on his slacks. "Turn on the fucking lights."

Jisung gulps. A current shoots through his fingertips as they search blindly for the switchboard. Lights click! to life overhead and drive the shadows out.

William is red-faced and ruddy with alcohol, dressed down from his usual three-piece work suit. His collar sags open to reveal tufts of salt-and-pepper hair gathered on his chest. When he drinks, liquid dribbles over his lips and down his chin.

William points to the empty crystal ruin lying in pieces on the floor. His knuckles whiten around a new glass of liquor. His nostrils flare.

"Be fuckin' useful for once in your worthless life. Get down and pick all'a that shit up."

Jisung drops to his knees without argument.

Jisung picks out stray shards slicked in amber. His reflection stares back from every jagged surface. Dark hair, doe-eyed, too-round cheeks, too-skinny frame. Broken like the glass littered on the floor — only there's no one out here to pick up the pieces of Jisung.

"No money'll ever buy you a brain," William rambles on, pausing only to guzzle liquor. "The more I look at'cha, the more I realize y'ain't better than that faggot friend of yours."

Another serrated shard joins the growing collection in Jisung's palm. Crystal clink!s as he piles fragments against one another.

'Don't speak. Don't speak. Don'tSpeak.'

Tears collect along the rim of Jisung's lashes. The dam won't crack today, but it does quiver. His jaw clenches until bone threatens to scrape through the muscle. This is another thing Jisung has perfected: swallowing everything down until it sticks to his insides. It makes him sick on the words he won't say and the emotions he refuses to feel, but it prevents the dam from bursting.

'And don't you dare cry. Don't you dare.'

"Only thing you're good for is shuttin' the fuck up and listenin'." William hiccups, burps, then continues. "Dumb, useless bitch. Just like your mother."

When his hand stumbles over a particularly large shard of glass, blood beads bright red and trickles down his palm. William doesn't notice. William doesn't care. William never cares.

Jisung picks himself off the floor, cups the shattered pieces carefully in his hands, and tosses them in the waste bin. Tap water and a few seconds of paper-towel-applied pressure stop the bleeding. A fresh Band-Aid seals up the wound.

The chair wheezes beneath William as he slumps backward, drowning in drink after drink.

"Y'think you're...," William groans, "...smart enough to save a dyin' company? Huh?"

Jisung shakes his head and keeps his lips sealed shut. 'No. Never. Never ever. Because I'm not smart enough. You've said so. We all know it so—'

"Tha's right. Y'ain't. But the company's fuckin' dyin' anyway."

William downs more liquor. Another belch works its way up his throat.

"Can't have a fag runnin' shit." William grumbles. "Fuckin' poofs are takin' over this city. D'ya think the other men'll like dealin' with someone who bends for a fuckin' man?"

Jisung shakes his head again.

"'Course not," William spits, then slams a fist onto the table. BANG! "But ain't that what'cha are?"

Jisung's shoulders ache beneath an invisible weight. His heart threatens to fracture inside his chest. Sweat rushes from his pores and drenches the hair at his neck.

'He knows. HeKnows. But how does he know?'

Every second ticks by at a snail's pace. Dread grows thorns at the roof of his mouth and sprawls down the sides of his throat. Any breath becomes difficult to make beyond the spikes. Jisung nearly chokes on the sensation of panic and fear clawing at his throat.

Jisung shakes his head again.

"Don't lie to me. I've fuckin' seen it!" Spit flies past William's lips. "Who the fuck is Minho Lee? Huh?"

"W–What?"

Panic bursts into the spaces between Jisung's vertebrae, spreads vines along his arteries, and roots him to the earth. Every thought in Jisung's head pinwheels and splinters. It feels as if the entire world has collapsed inside his chest. This is worse than being dead.

'Not this, Dad. Please. Anything else. You can yell at me, tell me I'm dumb, that I'm nothing— that I'll never amount to anything, but— NotMinho.'

'Howdoyouknowabout—'

"Minho Lee," William drawls out. "Does it ring any bells, ya little shit?"

"M–Minho— He's—," Jisung struggles with words. "He's just Felix— He's Felix's cousin—"

CRACK!

"Y'think I'm fuckin' stupid?"

William's anger leaves a burning imprint on Jisung's cheek, where the bones are tender from his father's fist. Tears sting at the edges of Jising's lashes. He bites down on his tongue to stem the tide, tastes iron, and swallows his agony.

"Why the fuck is he callin' you 'sweetheart' and 'princess', huh?" But William doesn't really care for Jisung's answer because he barrels on. "Yeah. I've fuckin' seen those fuckin' messages on MySpace. The fuck d'ya even have MySpace for?"

"Because—"

'Because I thought no one was looking.'

Jisung is greedy for oxygen. The walls are caving in, the ceiling is crashing down, and the whole Han mansion is crumbling around him. Everything is on fire. Every breath burns.

"Because— hic!—"

SLAP!

"You don't get to fuckin' cry y'little faggot bitch," William seethes. His fists remain clenched at his side, ready for round three. "You won't shed a goddamn tear in this house."

A lone, defiant tear rolls down Jisung's swollen cheek.

"I'm—" Jisung chokes on a cry. "I'm sorry."

Lighting strikes in the way William's eyes narrow. It takes only a second for Hurricane William Han to settle in, and so that's what becomes of him; a whirling tornado storm; a tsunami wreaking havoc and drowning everything under. He is destruction and chaos, ripping through anything in his path with no care for who or what he destroys.

William Han is a monster wearing the skin of a man.

Fingers curl into the fabric of Jisung's shirt. The seams threaten to burst and the stitching begins to pop!, but the worst comes from when William uses that hold to drag Jisung through the house. Everything is a haze and the hallways seem to bend. Vertigo makes the floors unstable, and Jisung struggles to find his footing as William forces down the stairs, into the basement, and—

Click!

The lock.

"Y're gonna stay here and think about what the fuck you've been doin' with your life." The key turns in its tumbler and William Han takes Jisung's freedom. Again. "See if that clears your fuckin' mind of all that fairy dust."

"D-Dad..." Jisung hates the sound of his own voice. He's crying. "Please—"

"It ain't my fuckin' fault you became this way."

SLAM!

Soojin used to joke about the Han basement being haunted, back when she still lived here and the two of them still knew laughter.

It's empty, really. The walls are concrete and unpainted. There are no windows, no lights, and barely any furniture. Rusted, old boxes gather in cobwebs. It's cold down here. It's like the ice in Jisung's soul crept out of him is now clinging to the floor, seeping into the carpet, and settling along the concrete walls.

Jisung wipes at the snot trickling down from his nose. Mucus and blood mix in a disgusting iteration of pink that stains his hands.

'Disgusting,' he tells himself. 'You're disgusting. All you fucking had to do was be a decent fucking kid, a good fucking son— then you went and— and—'

Tears continue spilling over Jisung's waterlines and rolling down the sides of his nose. A lump lodges in his throat. Anger festers toward William for beating him, toward Soojin for leaving him here, and toward God for damning him this way. Still, all that rage is no match for Jisung's self loathing. How much more pathetic can he possibly become?

"You did this to— sniff!— yourself," Jisung whispers, as if the words won't hurt if they're quieter. "You fucking deserve this."

'Nobody did this to you. You. Did. This. To. You.'

'It's all your fault. Everything. Everything.'

Jisung eventually cries himself to exhaustion.

Sleeping inside a nightmare is a strange thing because it becomes too hard to tell the difference between dreaming and being awake.

❤︎

Click!

The door swings open, casting light on a set of wooden steps and an empty wine cabinet. Jisung jerks himself upright. His cheek throbs and bruises appear in the vague silhouette of his father's fists. Dark crescent bags settle into the spaces below his eyes.

"Good morning, Jisung."

Ms. Celine stands primly, straight-backed and rigid like her spine is made of steel. Her dark hair remains impeccably pinned against her scalp and a minimalistic cross necklace nestles in the hollow of her throat. She wears her usual starch-pressed ensemble: a white, button-down shirt beneath a navy, knee-length skirt.

She offers Jisung a erfectly white handkerchief. It's only ever been used to pat gently at the beads of sweat on her brow. This seems like a much filthier job, but her smile tells him she doesn't care.

"Your father had much too many drinks last night," Ms. Celine states the obvious, then adds: "He doesn't seem to remember anything of your argument. It would be best if we left it like that."

Jisung lacks a grasp on how words work, so the two of them linger in the quiet.

A part of him still wants to ask about last night — wants to know whether his father means the things he says, or whether it's the bourbon that makes him that way.

There is an appeal to alcoholic men with blood ties that make their deception so irresistibly sinister. William just wants the best for Jisung, doesn't he? If Jisung just works a little harder, tries a little more, then things can be different, right?

Right?

"He left for the airport earlier this morning. Mr. Han has a business trip in New York. I thought I'd let you know."

"Oh..." Jisung blinks a few times. "Okay."

"Come along. I've got waffles, sausages, bacon, and eggs prepared for you in the kitchen. And orange juice." She smiles. "You love orange juice."

Ms. Celine is so patient, and so much kinder than anyone in this family deserves.

Jisung takes a seat in a barstool by the countertop while Ms. Celine pours a tall glass of orange juice. Breakfast food — perfectly arranged, fluffy, and golden — sits in a bowl beside a cluster of fruits. Cherries and plums decorate the edges. Honey dribbles over a trio of buttery waffles, and a mound of whipped cream rises above it.

Jisung pokes at the whipped cream, swirls it into a creamy puddle and drags strips of fruit through it.  Everything is beautiful and perfect in the way it usually is. Jisung doesn't have an appetite.

"I had the chef make them exactly how you like," Ms. Celine hums with an optimism that is starting to get annoying. "Aren't they your favorite?"

"My dad just beat the shit out of me over a MySpace message," Jisung spits, "and you want me to... What? Smile? Eat a fucking waffle?"

The wrinkles around Ms. Celine's mouth crease in a deep grimace. She lets a sigh escape through her nostrils before turning her attention back on him.

"Jisung... I am not attempting to minimize what happened." She sets the carton of orange juice aside. "I was only hoping to comfort you. If you'd prefer to talk about what happened, we can do that."

Jisung stabs his fork through the sausage. Ms. Celine's idea of comfort — this breakfast — is nauseating to look at.

"What happened," STAB! "is that I am a colossal fuck-up," Jisung grumbles, then goes to spear his eggs. "I have a pathetic crush on a guy who doesn't like me like that, and I feel disgusting for it— No, I am disgusting for it."

"Oh, Jisung—"

"—I keep letting myself like him even though I shouldn't— because I know, Ms. Celine, I fucking know. If I could stop it I would, but no matter how many times my brain keeps saying it's gross, and it's wrong, and my family's going to hate me, my heart— it doesn't care, and it's killing me. I can't stop."

Tears well up, and this time, the dam is not so strong. The water rushes to the surface and pours out of him in a steady stream that rolls off the apples of his cheeks. He wipes the heels of his palms furiously at the flood and does everything he can to stop crying, but the dam collapses like cardboard in rain.

"It's wrong and disgusting and— I should feel bad. I know this— I hate what I am. Because what if my mother— what if my dad— If they find out, they're never, ever, ever going to look at me again, and they'll send me away just like Soojin!"

Jisung cries, and it shakes him so badly that he doubles over and sobs into the countertop.

"My family— my family has given me so much and this— and I— and this is the way I pay them back? I deserved everything I got yesterday. Everything."

"Jisung, no one deserves to—"

"I did! I still do! What— What Father doesn't know is that I kissed him, okay? Me." Jisung hiccups. "I've thought about kissing him again, and again, and again— and when I–I— when I pray to God, I ask Him to let it be okay, like any of this is 'okay'. I am so fucked-up."

Ms. Celine sighs. A heavy breath strung with equal parts empathy and worry shows itself as a crease through her brow. Her eyes are gentle, yet still marred with sorrow when she looks at Jisung. She offers another handkerchief to soak up the riverbeds of his sadness.

Tears tumble Jisung's eyes, salted with melancholy and brimming with an emotion Jisung doesn't want (but deserves) to feel.

"I think that God wants you to be kinder to yourself," Ms. Celine begins, then takes his cheeks in her hands. Her palm caresses his bruised skin. "And I think it's okay that you have a crush on a boy."

Jisung buries his face into Ms. Celine's arms and cries into her. Eventually, all the hurt he's been carrying floods onto her clothing.

"I feel like a freak," he chokes. "I wish I weren't like this..."

"You're human." Ms. Celine massages circles into Jisung's spine. "And you have a heart. You know, some of the most successful people in the world were told they were weirdos once."

Jisung snorts, and the skies clear a little after the hurricane. "I don't think that being gay is the ticket to getting me into the CEO's chair, Ms. Celine."

Ms. Celine pulls away to brush the tears from Jisung's eyes. The skin is sensitive there. It's tender, and reddened, and damp with sadness.

"There are other ways to be successful, Jisung Han." Ms. Celine smiles, soft. "Just be the best that you can be, freak or not. The world needs some of that right now."

❤︎

The sun bleeds itself dry beyond a row of flowers.

Mosquitoes buzz around their prey, occasionally diving to feed off exposed skin. Sun-baked soil clutches desperately at the moisture from last week's rain. The garden staff mill about the Han backyard, clipping at the pushes, pulling weeds from the ground, and cleaning out the chlorine pool. The clouds laze through cerulean blue and cotton clouds. It's the quintessential, summer day in Sunnavelle.

"Mom doesn't know a single thing about you."

Soojin sat beneath the canopy, wearing her oversized sunglasses, straight jeans, and an orange shirt. Her fingers mindlessly tugged at the loose strings spindling off her clothing. She had her hair cropped shorter since the last time Jisung saw her.

She looked angry, like if she scowled for too long, the frown lines might've carved permanent canals along her skin.

"What?" Jisung blinked. Acne riddled the surface of his skin. "That's...a weird thing to tell me."

"Just saying." Soojin paused, as if debating on elaborating, then caved to the pull of the silence and sighed. "You're killing yourself trying to make them see you. They don't care. And that's just the truth."

Soojin spent the weekend in the basement after Father found her rolling on ecstasy. Narae had her bags all packed, plane ticket prepared, and passport in her hand before Father was halfway sober enough to yell.

"That's not...." Jisung faltered. "No, it's— it's not like that. Mom cares. She always tries to buy me the best. I'm really grateful, honestly. Mom and Dad are— I know they care."

"Then you're an idiot." Soojin snorted, then lifted her sunglasses so her eyeroll was visible. "Gifts don't make up for our parents being shitty people."

"They're not...that bad..."

"Dad is an asshole. Mom is fake and stupid." Soojin crossed her arms over her chest. "They have no idea how to be your family, and they have never taken the time to try."

Jiisung lingers on the patio in his denim shorts, letting the faintest breeze comb through his hair.

There are bruises beneath his clothes — purpled imprints in shapes of William Han's knuckles — and the memory of his father's hands is hard to forget.

The patio furniture consists of two matching loveseats and an outdoor wicker couch, with plush seating to soften its design. The glass table has a round shape. A sunbrella sits perched in the center and shades the stone floor.

Ms. Celine lays out a cup of cold orange juice and a tray of lemon squares. Jisung sinks himself onto the cushions and breathes easier in the Georgia breeze. The citrus smells waft into the summer sky.

"I— Soojin! That's not true!"

"Jisung." Soojin shot him a glare. "Open your fucking eyes."

Ms. Celine's fingers are soft around Jisung's cheeks. She runs a gentle thumb along the bruises beneath Jisung's eyes. They've begun to darken and bloat. Ms. Celine did her best to treat the swelling with a medkit, but everything is still sore.

"How do they feel?" Ms. Celine asks. "They look terrible. I should get you some ice."

"You're the one who doesn't try. Maybe if you stopped drinking so much, stopped sneaking out, and taking drugs—"

"Oh, come the fuck on!" Soojin snarled, anger biting on each edge of her sentences. "I drink, yeah. I go to a lot of parties, so fucking what. I didn't ask to be our father's fucking punching bag."

"I never wanted for—"

"No, you just bend the fuck over, do whatever he says, and let him take it out on me. Like a fucking good boy." Soojin's smile was sardonic beneath those sunglasses. "God. You're such a doormat."

Jisung bit on his tongue until it bled iron and balled his fists in the seats of his sweatpants. There was an ice tower building itself around Jisung's spine. Glaciers spiked through his pores and drove him deep inside himself. This is how Jisung survived. He shut the door, wrapped himself in walls, and hid within the cold.

Soojin saw his walls for the bullshit that they were, grabbed a flamethrower, and torched right through them.

"Jisung, deep down, you're just as bad as Felix. He is your best friend after all." Soojin sighed. "You're just more willing to lie about it."

"I'm nothing— I'm nothing like Felix."

"You go on and think what you need to." Soojin stood, then took a long sip from the tea glass at the tableside. "Tell yourself that this house will be good for you when I'm gone."

"I—"

"But let's be honest: the second that you're the only one here, this house will crush you like a goddamn soda can. It already is."

With an ice pack pressed to the worst of his swelling, Jisung flips through a family photo album. Most of them show a version of himself where the bruises haven't bloomed from their bud, and the cuts in his skin are too far under to bleed on the camera lens.

These memories shine with false happiness, topped off with a glossy finish.

But Jisung can barely see it now: the happiness.

With his index finger, he traces the last photo of them all together. The Han Industries Legacy Gala (2005).

Soojin's hair was in that awful bowlcut bob she always hated. Mom's face was rife with the lines of her latest surgery. Dad had that stiff-pressed suit and his usual five-martini blush. Everyone smiled on command, like the perfect American family they pretended to be.

It hurts that he once believed in this illusion. Because once Soojin left, the walls caved, the pillars crumbled, and the Han mansion began crushing him like a goddamn soda can.

❤︎

(July 11th, 2006)

　minh0 lee ^-^ : halmeoni loves u more than her own grandson
　minh0 lee ^-^ : "where is jisung-ah?" "when is jisung going to come over 4 dinner?"
　minh0 lee ^-^ : lol

Ignoring Minho becomes Jisung's new normal. It has to.

Jisung no longer gets to be that boy in the bakery, goofing off with a mop he hardly knows how to use and secretly hoping Minho would come around and correct his form.

Jisung no longer gets to be that boy in his bedroom, curled up by his desk and smiling like an idiot at his MySpace inbox. That boy is the one who got his ass beat and earned a black eye for his efforts.

He's not allowed to like Minho anymore. He's not allowed to like any boys like that anymore. Jisung is a freak and even if he wasn't, William Han will not tolerate a faggot son.

(July 12th, 2006)

　　minh0 lee ^-^ : r u alive
　　minh0 lee ^-^ : helloooo???

Boredom and isolation sometimes lead Jisung to playing crosswords in the weekly newspaper. The puzzles are always too simple to be fun, but it makes a lonely breakfast a tad more bearable.

With a chunk of apple flesh grinding against his molars, Jisung settles at the kitchen island and reaches for the local paper.

The black, thick-inked headline catches Jisung's eye before he can reach for his trusted ballpoint pen. He nearly chokes on the next bite of Red Delicious as he traces the letters.

　The Sunnavelle Times-Gazette
　Monday, July 10, 2006

Supreme Court Upholds Gay Marriage Ban
Ruling Draws Mixed Reactions in Statewide

By Denise D'Arcy
Senior Reporter

ATLANTA — The Georgia Supreme Court on Thursday unanimously upheld the state constitutional ban on same-sex marriage. This ends several months of uncertainty after a lower court found the 2004 amendment was improperly presented to voters.

Georgia voters approved the same-sex marriage ban in a 2004 referendum, passing with 76% in favor statewide.

Thursday's ruling means that same-sex couples will remain unable to legally marry in the state. Sunnavelle locals reacted strongly to the news [...]

The apple lodges somewhere between Jisung's throat and his chest. It sits there in a stubborn lump—refusing to cooperate with the natural mechanics of swallowing.

'Why are you even reading this?' Jisung's inner voice hisses. 'It's not like it affects you. You're not gay, or getting married anytime soon— You're just—'

But the voice falters, because even his own brain can't maintain the lie anymore. Not after Minho. Not after the butterflies that refuse to die no matter how many times Jisung tries to bury them in shame. Not after the dreams that have kept Jisung from sleeping, or the thoughts of 'what if', or the feelings that linger no matter how many times he tries to convince himself that they don't exist.

Jisung forces himself to read more:

"I've got three kids," Sunnavelle resident, Matt Moreau, said outside his suburban home. "My children are old enough to use the Internet now. They're old enough to go online and see all this filth being promoted as normal."

Moreau's sentiments echo that of many local families. "I don't hate gay people," Moreau added. "I pity them. They're sick, they need help. This is a great way for us as a state to tell them that."

[...]

"This is exactly what our community needed. Marriage is between a man and a woman, period. The court made the right decision." — Kelly-Ann Garber, stay-at-home mother and wife.

[...]

"My son says that there are students at Sunnavelle High School leading a deviant lifestyle. I'm thankful that we have a court system in place to protect our youth from such immorality." — James Anderson, father of rising-senior and star athlete Eliezer Anderson.

[...]

"I'm confident the state will continue to uphold biblical values." — William Han, CEO of Han Industries, a biotech giant and subsidiary of Lockwell-Han Corporation.

However, not all reactions were positive.

"It's heartbreaking," said Leanne Beauchamp, a fruit vendor who opposed the ban. "Love is love. These are our neighbors, our friends, and our family members. They deserve the same d*mn rights as everyone else."

Jisung can't read anymore, so he abandons the crossword and tosses the newspaper in the trash. His chest constricts until breathing becomes a conscious effort. In. Out. In. Out.

Jisung's reflection stares back at him from the glossy black screen of the microwave across the kitchen. He's pale, wide-eyed, pathetic. He looks exactly like what his father would expect from a disappointment of a son. Someone weak enough to catch feelings for another boy.

("Fag." "Limp-wrist pansy." "Fuckin' queer.")

("No money'll ever buy you a brain.")

(July 14th, 2006)

　minh0 lee ^-^ : r u ignoring me?? >:(
　minh0 lee ^-^ : fine, fine!! do ur thing
　minh0 lee ^-^ : i totally don't care or anything

The Sunday Mass brings monotony, stained glass, and uncomfortable wooden pews.

Church welcomes the same people dressed in Sunday finery: suits, blouses, dresses, pearl necklaces, and polished cufflinks. Candle smoke and frankincense scent the air. A baby fusses in his mother's arms, probably because the hymns are too long and too boring to listen to.

William still isn't here. Neither is Narae.

It falls upon Jisung to take a pew at the very front and pretend there isn't a bruise healing beneath Maybelline concealer. When Jisung greets the people with polite conversation and friendly banter, it all tastes a little like bullshit. They think he is perfect because his parents told them so.

Mrs. Reynolds cooes at Jisung. She reminds Jisung a bit like a raisin left in the sun — all dried out with wrinkled skin. Her lipstick stains her teeth red, and Jisung wonders why no one ever tells her.

"You're growing to be a very handsome young man!" Mrs. Reynolds fiddles with her pearl necklace. "Are you seeing any young women in school yet? They oughta be beating your door down!"

Mrs. Reynolds means well. Mrs. Reynolds knows very little.

"Not yet, Mrs. Reynolds. I'm focusing on my studies," Jisung answers politely, then adds a bit more to substantiate the lie: "My family always taught me to prioritize my future."

"Your parents really did such a good job with you, didn't they?" Mrs. Reynolds smiles.

("You don't get to fuckin' cry y'little faggot bitch.")

Sweat beads along Jisung's hairline despite the church's cool air. 'Shit.'

(SLAP!)

("You're a failure, you know.")

"—I wish my Margot wasn't so shy. She's such a pretty, quiet girl! If only I could find a young man like you for her...someone reliable, and smart, and respectable—!"

("If you keep hanging around that crowd, you are going to turn out just like them: a complete and total waste of air.")​​

(SLAP!)

"—But she is such a shy girl, and you know the good boys never go for that, do they? But she is such a sweetheart, Jisung. If you are ever free on a Thursday morning, you should swing by our place. I always make a wonderful banana pudding and—"

Mrs. Reynolds is shameless about pimping out her daughter, but Jisung isn't really listening to her anymore. His mind is miles away, trapped in a dark basement where his dad is shouting at him, throwing him down the stairs and locking the door.

("It ain't my fuckin' fault you became this way.")

(SLAM!)

Jisung flinches when Mrs. Reynolds places a firm hand on his arm. He swallows the anxiety and tries his best not to play into the paranoia shouting at him to flee, because Mrs. Reynolds's hand will somehow shapeshift into William Han's fist any second now.

The panic sets in like a crescendo in a Sergei Rachmaninoff piece.

Mrs. Reynolds's lips are moving, but Jisung is deaf to his surroundings and mute in his terror. Someone's lacing a corset around his chest — they must be — because his ribs are compressed and his lungs are about to burst. The floor pitches itself sideways.

'Act like you belong here. Don't be pathetic.' 

Jisung forces himself to swallow a mouthful of oxygen and hopes he sounds somewhat stable:

"S-Sorry. What were you saying?"

"I asked whether you were alright, darling." Mrs. Reynolds's voice is muddled and distorted beneath Jisung's heartbeat. THUMP! THUMP! "You look very pale. Are you feeling well?"

"I'm—" 'Breathe.' "I'm fine, thank you."

Father Keyes sets up at the podium, which prompts Mrs. Reynolds to stop droning on about how well her daughter can iron men's suits and put together sandwiches. Jisung slides into the pew as Mass begins. Decorum forces all the right joints to lock in place. He sits up straight, shoulders back, with his eyes fixed three degrees above the altar so it looks like he's paying attention.

Jiisung is suffocating — drowning in frankincense — while his face remains carved in pleasant marble. He has to be fine. He has mastered the art of dying quietly.

(July 17th, 2006)

　minh0 lee ^-^ : what did i do </3
　minh0 lee ^-^ : u aren't talking to me anymore
　minh0 lee ^-^ : i have a feeling this is my fault
　minh0 lee ^-^ : idk

When Felix suggested a catch-up evening with Jisung, he hadn't anticipated being the focal point of conversation. Felix leans back against the booth, and his freckled cheeks are stuffed with a quarter mouthful of a hamburger.

(In spite of its eponymous name, Pepper's Pie Shop is not solely known for its pies. It's evident in Felix's serving of waffle fries nestled in a red-and-white checkered box.)

Felix's eyes narrow at Jisung. "What's up with you, Ji?"

Jisung is too busy picking out the pickles on his burger to respond. The burger is the size of Jupiter and twice as girthy; the beef patties taste like they've been soaked in a vat of salt overnight; the grease pools in the box and leaves an oil-sheen behind; the pickles are slimy.

An old song drifts from some vintage record player, worn from years and decades past, yet it still sings that tune of mellow bliss. Ms. Pepper has a love for the classics. The sound of vinyl spinning in the background is the only thing keeping Jisung's nerves calm. Felix lets an 8-count pass before his patience wears thin.

"Jisung."

"What?" Jisung mumbles through a mouthful of burger and grease. "Nothing's wrong."

Felix scoffs and flicks a pickle slice at him. The pickle lands in Jisung's hair. It stays there like a misplaced barrette until Jisung shakes his head and it tumbles to the checkered laminate tabletop.

"C'mon. I know when something's up," Felix presses. "We're barely hanging out. 'S like you have a secret girlfriend or something...and you're ditching me."

'Funny. A girlfriend would solve most of my problems.'

Felix buys into the same propaganda as everyone in this town. He's convinced that the Hans are a model of perfection and that Jisung is the crown jewel of their empire. Like the rest, he'd sooner swallow lies and sugarcoated pills than to ever fathom that things aren't quite what they seem behind closed doors.

"I'm not hiding a girlfriend," Jisung sighs. He takes a sip from his cola. "You'd be the first to know if I started dating someone."

"Fair." Felix shrugs and reaches into the carton of fries. "Plus, 'S gonna be seventeen years and you've never done...anything. If you got a girlfriend, we'd have to make it a national holiday."

Something about that sentence doesn't sit right with Jisung. There is a sinking feeling in his stomach, and it makes him queasy.

Felix's jabs at Jisung's inexperience are never subtle, and they always have a way of getting under his skin. But, he reminds himself that he's a loser virgin and doesn't know anything, so he shouldn't say anything. He tries to brush it aside. Tries to swallow the uneasiness in favor of keeping Felix unaware of all that festers beneath the surface.

'Hah. If only you knew that I kissed your cousin. Barely. But still.'

"I mean, you know, I've done...stuff," Jisung counters lamely; cue the eye roll from Felix. "Like, I've done, uh—"

"Kissing your own hand doesn't count," Felix teases, then takes a long swig of his cherry Coke. "Don't worry, I love you anyway. Loser, or not."

When Felix says it, it's less like a slap to the face and more like a caress along his cheek. Felix's words are usually soft around the edges, and they never sink their fangs in deep. It's Jisung who twists them into a serrated knife and drives the blade deep into his gut.

Felix says "I love you," but Jisung is as sensitive as a toddler in a toy store, so he only hears "loser." And it stings.

(July 21st, 2006)

　minh0 lee ^-^ : did u know that death note is becoming an anime :o
　minh0 lee ^-^ : i think we should learn japanese lol

　Jisung H.: Hi. Please don't message me anymore.

　minh0 lee ^-^ : ...what?
　minh0 lee ^-^ : is everything okay?

　Jisung H.: We can't be friends anymore. Don't respond.

The sun dies a beautiful death beyond the skyline. Fireflies flicker over the flower garden and hover over the dimly-lit pool. Ms. Celine retreats into the staff's quarters, so Jisung steals the chance to be alone in the garden.

There, by the edge of the pool water, he dangles his feet in the chlorine water, letting ripples travel outward to kiss the edges of the basin. He mourns a short-lived friendship with Minho Lee and thinks of the boy that lies on the opposite side of town.

'Don't think about him,' Jisung reminds himself. 'Don't.'

Easier said than done. A few bottles of Smirnoff Ice by the poolside ease the guilt, making it all float away on a fizzy stream of booze and bubbles.

Jisung's legs are a pendulum for a time. Back-and-forth, side to side. Another bottle of Smirnoff Ice tastes sour. Jisung licks the excess alcohol from the edge of the tin and snap!s at his band again.

'It's better this way,' Jisung tries telling himself. It isn't. 'The best thing to do is cut off contact. It would never have worked.'

On a whim — one of the mean, self-destructive kinds — Jisung pushes his weight forward, then lets his body crash into chlorine.

Pool water slaps Jisung across the face and brings his father's presence from New York, all the way back home. Chlorine stings his eyes; it rushes in through his nose, and his mouth; it burns lava through his throat. Water rushes past his earlobes and makes every sound feel distant and distorted. All he can feel is his chest screaming for air, aching to expand and be filled, as if Jisung has been drowning this entire time and never realized.

When his lungs feel close to collapse, Jisung bursts from the water's surface and coughs up a mess of pool water. Jisung's lungs rejoice and swell as they inflate.

Oxygen feels like God. Breathing feels like God.

The water settles as a gentle current around his shoulders. Jisung's clothes cling heavy to his body, and his sneakers fill up with fluid.

Dizzy from the lack of air and slightly tipsy from alcohol, he moves on his back to float. Arms drift out and away. Jisung stares into the sky, where there are stars too small to notice properly. This is what God is: infinity.

'Dear God, I'm fucking terrified.' Jisung lets his emotions swell up. 'I won't ask you for anything because I have no idea what I want. I have no idea if I hate or accept myself for my...You-Know-What.'

One moment, Jisung is limp-wristed and a disgrace to the Han family name. In this moment, there's something so achingly tragic about Jisung finding a boy who makes life seem so impossibly ethereal, but knowing this boy has no rightful space in his heart.

In an alternative moment, Jisung wants nothing more than to let Minho Lee in and allow his heart to take a shape that fits them better. Jisung yearns to let himself want, and crave, and dream, and ache the way someone is supposed to when a crush forms. Irrelevant is the idea of sin in a glass house that embraces many other forms of it.

'I'm sure you saw Dad hit me over this,' Jisung carries on. 'That means that this thing... It's become dangerous now. Minho deserves better than what being friends with me could give. It doesn't change that I care. A lot. I think about him constantly. Sometimes I imagine him as my...you know...'

Jisung shakes his head. He's not going there with God. Not yet. Plus; 'It doesn't change that I think he hates me now.'

If God has a reply for any of this, Jisung does not get the message.

Instead, a chilling breeze reminds Jisung of his waterlogged clothes and the goosebumps rising on his skin. Lovely.

Jisung dips out of his backfloat and paddles over to the shallower end of the pool. BZZT! BZZT! sounds off from the ledge.

Jisung squeegees the water from his face and squints down at the glow of his phone screen.

INCOMING CALL: MINHO LEE

'Shit.'

Jisung's stomach drops into the deep end. A panicked breath fills his chest and escapes on the tail of a sigh. BZZT! BZZT! The urge to let his phone ring out is overwhelming, and Jisung's finger hovers over the 'decline' button. He imagines a future version of himself with enough discipline to say no. That version doesn't exist tonight.

Jisung pulls himself out of the pool. He pops open the cap on another Smirnoff Ice, lets it hiss! and takes a sip, bracing for a bad idea that tastes a little too good. Jisung's hand shakes a little when he accepts the call.

"...Hi—"

"Jisung?"

The way Minho says Jisung's name has him reeling for air again. Jisung's tongue ties itself into a double knot. There's gravel at the end of Minho's greeting; his voice drags in the way that happens after a sleepless night or too many tears.

"I— Is it okay to— that I called you?"

"...I don't care..." Jisung whispers, but the alcohol and adrenaline have taken the reins of the vehicle and thrown the safety manual away. "I uh... I missed you. I was just— fuck— fucking thinking about you."

Minho doesn't answer right away. Jisung hears a shaky inhale, then a wet, half-hiccuped laugh.

"Don't tell me that."

Minho sounds pained in a way that makes the world hurt more than it usually does.

Something breaks within Jisung. He wants to crawl through the receiver, find Minho among his bakery clutter, and tell Minho that he didn't mean to upset him so much.

"Okay." Jisung winces, straining to keep his voice steady. "...It's— I'm sorry. For all of it."

"No. M'sorry," Minho rasps. Jisung's throat knots up. "For botherin' you. 'S hard to be my friend. I make things harder for everyone. It doesn't— It's not a bad thing to— you know— hate people who fuck with your head— like me. S'fair."

Minho without his armor is startingly fragile, like he's no more than a pile of sad parts stuck together. It's unlike the angered Minho who stood up for himself in the face of Jisung's ignorance, or the confident Minho from the dancefloor who knew exactly how he affected people.

The words that should follow refuse to leave Jisung's lips: "I could never hate you." But, his voice catches in the cage of his throat, held prisoner to anxiety that has always been there and has no desire to let up anytime soon.

"I've done lots'a bad things. That time at Chris Bahng's? I lied to you, y'know?" Minho rambles. "You told me you were straight and— I wanted you. I wanted you so badly, and you kept starin' at me like— like, maybe, you wanted me too."

Jisung's mind races backward until images rise from the cemetery where he buries his memories.

Minho is dancing in Jisung's head with a smile too pretty to exist, and hands so confident they knew how to move Jisung without any effort. Minho's leather jacket, his honey-hair, and intoxicating cologne — Jisung has buried all this in a tomb of his favorite things. Not so favorable is the memory after. It's Minho, under the street lights on Chris's front lawn (a little more drunk on alcohol) doused in PURPLE PaSsIoN!, and justifiably angry.

("Just 'cause you're dressed in 'fuck-me jeans,' doesn't mean I wanna fuck you.")

("'Cause, newsflash, I don't.")

A tiny needle stabs through Jisung's heart. "Minho..."

"And you— you were so disgusted at the idea of doin' anythin' with me," Minho continues, even if his syllables keep splitting in halves. "So I've been pushin' it all away. For you. Deep— Deep down, I really am the slut everyone fuckin' says I am. A-And I don't deserve to be your friend."

The mental dam Jisung has is a pitiful attempt at stopping a tsunami. It gives up and lets the levees rise and burst. Jisung's cheeks grow hotter, his nose starts running, and there are salty drops of water collecting on the tops of his lips. Fucking pathetic.

"I hate— M'sorry, I hate being gay," Minho sniffles. "I slit my fuckin' wrists so that I can forget it for a while. I'll...fuck off and die so y'don't haf'ta deal with me anymore."

"I... I don't want you to hurt yourself," Jisung tries, but he is a helpless creature with a mouth that hardly works. He is useless. "I don't fucking care about— I don't care about the party! I was fucked-up for that, not you. Okay?"

"...Jisung—" is on his feet before he's even conscious of standing.

"I fucking...care about you. I like— hic!— I like being with you!" 'I need to see him now. Rightnow.' "Me feeling gross about myself isn't your fault."

"Jisung—" isn't really listening to Minho anymore. Not over the buzzing of adrenaline in his chest and the panic welling up in his veins.

The shed by the garage is supposed to be locked after dark, but the latch is a joke. Jisung shimmies his bike free, swings his leg over the top, and springs onto the pedals without much regard for anything else.

❤︎

Biking in the dark is not the safest, and the last thing Jisung needs is to end up as a roadkill pancake on the side of the road.

Luckily, the moon is merciful and lights the path in a milky shine. Jisung peddles past the gates, over the main road, and through the central drag of Sunnavelle. His thighs are burning when he arrives on the front stoop of Blossom Delights.

Jisung tries to look presentable for Minho, but he is still soaked from the pool and there's a sour smell coming from his clothes.

It's a little too late to worry about it, because his knuckles are rapping against the bakery's front door, and there is no going back.

Knock! Knock! KNOCK!

Jisung waits outside for a few minutes before the locks click! undone. The door opens a crack, and Minho pokes his head out. Disheveled brunet waves tumble into his swollen, umber eyes, and he sports the appearance of someone who's been hurting for too long.

"What the hell...," Minho mutters as his face twists up. "What the fuck are you doin' here, Jisung?"

Minho's voice is worse in person; it's raw and stripped bare; it's a honeycomb rotting out. Jisung's heart sinks into his stomach as if it's dropped from the top of the world's tallest building. It's an unpleasant ride to the bottom.

"I wanted to see you." Jisung sounds pathetic: a tiny, shrivelled, wilted flower. "No... No, I had to see you. In person. I needed to."

The wrinkles between Minho's brows relax, but his frown sinks lower. Jisung tries not to linger too long on the way Minho's eyes glisten like the last few stars before dawn chases them away.

Jisung tries not to stare at the pink-red skin flushing the tip of Minho's nose, or the way his lips are puffy from being chewed and bitten too long.

'You did this. You hurt him.'

"I... I don't get you," Minho whispers, and his voice splinters down the middle. "You tell me to stay away from you, then you show up at my door. 'M not even sure if you fuckin' like me or not, or if you think— oof!"

Pruny, chlorine-soaked fingers tangle within the knots of brown hair on Minho's head. Jisung collides into Minho with the grace of a wrecking ball, and he holds him close in a desperate attempt to fix something that feels broken.

A war wages within Jisung. Holding a boy feels like glass shards in his palms and a bruise around his eye, but it also feels like holding the most valuable thing in the world.

It's terrifying. It's everything.

"I–I'm sorry." Jisung swallows back a sob and rambles: "Please don't say that you're gonna hurt yourself. Don't ever say that."

"Jisung—"

"I'm so sorry for everything. I've been so, so terrible to you. I'm an asshole, and I don't deserve to have you as a friend. I don't hate you, and I don't—"

"Jisung—"

"I can't stop thinking about you, and it's terrifying. It's been driving me crazy, but I don't want to ignore it anymore. I can't. I have to see you. I need to see you. I— I don't care if it's dangerous. I don't care. I don't fucking care. Okay?"

"Jisung!"

The hug breaks; Minho has tears running down his cheeks in two symmetrical streams. Minho's face is contorted and his chest heaves with every breath he takes. Sadness has taken Minho's heart hostage. It's a pain that Jisung can hardly bear to watch.

'Youdidthis. Thisisallyourfault. Fixitfixitfixit.'

Minho lifts his arm and denies Jisung's gaze. There, on the canvas of Minho's wrist, are a series of deep, dark lines carved into skin. All are angry, pulsing, and weeping little red rivers.

"I'm not a good person," Minho croaks. "I'm a fuckin' mess. I've fucked up. I've fucked around— and I can't stop cutting myself, and...and...m'sorry. I'm not okay."

Jisung wishes he were more equipped to handle this, but he is a novice to the human heart.

'What do I do? What do I fucking do?'

Liquid courage makes Jisung a little braver. His hands act on their own accord and find Minho's wounded wrist. His fingers skip over the valleys and ridges of the lacerated skin.

"Can you... Can I...?" Jisung's throat feels constricted and tight. "Can I help you stop the bleeding?"

The question hangs in the air for longer than it should. Jisung's heart threatens to detach itself and make an escape from his chest. The seconds stretch into hours before Minho speaks again.

"...Okay."

Minho's arm droops and settles by his hip. Jisung can finally breathe.

"I have a first aid kit in the bathroom. For shit like this," Minho mumbles, then looks down at his feet. He looks so small. Jisung's heart aches. "You can patch me up."

The first-aid kit is a white box covered in a thin layer of dust. Jisung finds it hidden behind a stack of toilet paper rolls and plastic prescription bottles he pretends don't exist. Minho sits on the lip of the bathtub with a blank expression and an arm extended toward Jisung.

Butterfly bandages seal the worst of the slashes, and an antiseptic ointment staves off infection. A large Band-Aid with cartoon dinosaurs goes on top. Jisung hopes it might make Minho laugh, but it hardly gets a smile. A gauze wrap and medical tape finish the job.

The end result is far from perfect, but for his second time wrapping a wrist, it's not half bad.

"Thank you," Minho mutters. His eyes are still puffy and bloodshot. Jisung wonders what it's going to take to get a genuine smile out of him. "For the...you know. And for coming to see me."

"Don't thank me." Jisung sighs, then sits down beside Minho. "I'm sorry I made you feel so shitty about everything. It wasn't fair."

"It's fine—"

"It's not fine. I made you think I hate you. And I don't." The alcohol is starting to wear off and Jisung is starting to feel a little too sober for this. "The way that I feel around you is fucking scary. But I don't hate it. I don't hate you."

"...The way that you feel about me?"

'This is it. Say something. Anything.'

Jisung's heart could win a gold medal at the Olympic games for the way it races in his chest. Anxiety is a fist around his neck, and it tightens with every second that passes. Jisung's voice refuses to leave the cage of his throat.

He has to say it. He has to say it. He has to say it.

"Minho..." Jisung whispers, but still, the words won't come out. "I think I might— I... Fuck..."

Jisung can't find the courage. Not yet.

"...'S okay. We can just sit here," Minho reassures gently, and the knot in Jisung's throat eases. "You don't haf'ta say anything. I get it. I think."

But Jisung wants to. Needs to.

"I like you," he says, and there it is: ugly and enormous in the open. "I like you and it scares the shit out of me because—" Jisung's voice cracks. He swallows, "—because of my dad, and because of what people will think. I'm a coward for that."

"Coward...?" Minho blinks. "You mean... You're afraid?"

"No— well yes— but I mean to say I'm a pussy," Jisung clarifies, and the corner of Minho's mouth twitches up. 'There he is.' "That's what being a coward is."

Minho's expression softens and the crease between his eyebrows fades. Crescent moons form where swollen, red eyes once were. Jisung has never been so relieved to see a smile, or hear laughter in his entire life.

"겁쟁이," Minho muses softly, then translates: "'S 'coward' in Korean, I think."

"Well, then I'm the biggest geop-jae-gi in the world." Jisung lets his head fall onto Minho's shoulder. "But I want to try. I want to try liking you. I'm not good at it, but..."

"'S not easy being gay, or bi, in a town like this," Minho explains. "I'm not gonna ask you to come out. Or be my boyfriend. We can just be...bad at bein' freaks...together."

"Bad at being freaks together," Jisung repeats. "I can do that."

"Good," Minho says, and there's a hint of a smile in his voice. 'Cause you're kinda stuck with me now."

Chapter Text

❥ ❥ JULY, 2006
How to Be Honest

Sunnavelle’s days are warmer now. The skies seem a little bluer as July eases into August, and the leaves on the trees grow full and green. William returns to town, but with Q2 earnings due, he’s far too busy to worry about his disappointment of a son.

DING!

Sunshine slants through the blinds and traces prison bars across Jisung’s legs. An errant fly hurls itself against the glass in search of freedom; Jisung swats it away, then rolls over and buries his face in the pillow. If he holds still enough, maybe the world will let him lapse back into sleep. Or maybe Ms. Celine will burst in with a schedule of tasks to do (which is more likely).

DING! 

But instead, his computer screen flashes. Again, and again, and again. DING! DING! DING!

"Good God..." Jisung moans into the mattress. ‘Fuck…’

One bleary eye struggles open and reads:

New Mail – You have a message from 'minh0 lee ^-^' on MySpace!

Jisung scrambles over his blanket cocoon and throws his body off the mattress. Blindly, he gropes along the desk until he finds his mouse. His inbox loads up with a click!.

　minh0 lee ^-^: wake up

　minh0 lee ^-^: u promised to come today

　minh0 lee ^-^: i miss u :3

These days, afternoons spend themselves on the back stoop of Blossom Delights. 

With his father's return, Jisung has gotten better at lying about needing a “change of scenery” to finish his essay. (In truth, he bikes out to Gardenview Drive and knocks at the back door. These days, William is too busy to notice.) Jisung has also gotten better at deleting his MySpace history. (But damn, deleting that i miss u :3 is going to hurt.)

　Jisung H.: I’ll be there in 30 :)

　minh0 lee ^-^: liar. u are slow. see u in 1 hour

　Jisung H.: See you

　Jisung H.: <3

It takes two pumps of shaving cream and fifteen minutes of primping to make Jisung feel halfway decent about himself. He combs his hair into place, and “borrows” (i.e., steals) Narae’s jewelry because she isn’t around to notice. With a pinch of the cheeks and one last check-in-the-mirror, Jisung grabs his wallet and races downstairs.

Ms. Celine spots him right away. “On your way out, I presume?”

“Uh…” 

"Go, go!" Ms. Celine shoos him away. "Be back by 7:30. You have to get started on your summer reading. Oh, and tell apron boy I said hello!"

‘How does she always know?’ Jisung doesn't ask. 

“Sure... Uh… Bye…!"

A bike ride through a Georgia summer is like swimming in the mouth of a dragon. Jisung sweats bullets through his polo shirt, but it helps that it’s two sizes larger than normal. Thick, blue stripes alternate in shades of navy and cyan as they run horizontally down his torso; Jisung thinks Minho might like it.

By the time he pedals down the back road toward Blossom Delights, Jisung's bangs stick to his forehead in a sweaty mess. His calves cramp from the amount of biking he’s done lately, but the work pays off. Seeing Minho at the bottom of the stoop and squinting in the sunlight is worth every ache and sweat droplet.

“Took you 59 minutes.” Minho holds out a chilled bottle of lemonade. “Was worth it, though. You look nice.”

Jisung gulps down the entire bottle and hides his flushed face behind its emptiness. He decides that Minho doesn't need to know how hard that comment makes his heart race.

"Yeah?" Jisung snorts. "Well, I didn’t have time to put on my contacts—”

“‘S okay. Don’t.” Minho toys with Narae Han’s hundred-dollar necklace. “Glasses suit you, Jisung. I love ‘em.”

Jisung melts a little bit. "...Thanks."

When Jisung is with Minho, every part of himself hushes. The anxiety bundled in his chest quiets to something gentler. It helps that conversations never dig deep enough for Jisung to feel forced into talking about William, or the basement, or the bruises. Minho doesn’t seem eager to talk about his scars, or wanting to kill himself, so Jisung doesn’t steer the conversation in that direction either. It seems safer to fall into their new routine: listening to music.

A pair of earbuds dangle between Jisung and Minho. One bud is tucked into Jisung’s right ear, the other into Minho’s left. Music piracy is yet another talent of Minho’s, so his MP3 is constantly filled with new tracks. Jisung is learning that he’s not picky as long as Minho is the one sharing the songs with him.

‘Yeah. That’s pretty gay.’

Jisung doesn’t fight the fact anymore. 

Nothing much is planned. Sometimes they share a sleeve of peanut butter crackers from the dollar store, and other times, Minho takes a treat from the bakery’s day-old pile and they salvage the softer pieces together. 

"So, I had this crazy thought.” Minho grins around a bite of pastry. “What if we…went somewhere?”

Jisung perks up, curious. “Somewhere? Like…now?”

"Yeah. We could take the car and just...go wherever," Minho says, and his excitement is infectious. “There’s a fair down in Pepperton. If the shop’s not busy, we could check it out.”

“Like…a date?” 

"Do you want it to be?" Minho asks with a sly smile. "It can be a date."

Pinker than a Georgia peach and hotter than the sun-baked sidewalks, Jisung’s face feels ready to melt off his skull. A date. A date. Jisung’s brain stuffs itself sick with cotton candy-colored thoughts. A date. With a boy. With Minho Lee. The boy.

“Sure,” Jisung squeaks. He clears his throat to sound a little less like a prepubescent boy. “Yeah. Okay. I— Uh, I’d like that.”

“Then, that settles it.” Minho hops up to his feet, tugging Jisung up after him. "Once the shop’s empty, it’s just you, me, n’ a date at the fair. Sound good?”

‘We’re going on a date. Oh my god. Oh. My. God. What the hell am I going to do?’

Going on a date sounds lovely in the way winterberries look sweet before you discover they're drenched in poison. On paper, dates are star-strewn fields with rose petal paths, candlelit dinners, and a drive-in film. But this is hardly a 90s romcom. 

When reality crashes down, Jisung’s anxiety starts playing hopscotch on his ribs. Real life doesn’t allow for teenage boys on a date, not without consequences. Jisung's reality is as bitter as black coffee and just as dark. Romance in Sunnavelle is a death trap waiting to spring shut. Still…

"Good, I think," Jisung answers despite it all. "Let’s— Let’s give it a shot. Just… We have to be careful."

“Yeah. ‘Course.” Minho smiles in that sweet, slanted way. “We’ll take it easy.”

And, just like that, Jisung has a date. ‘Holy shit.’ A real life date-date, with none other than the cutest boy in all of Sunnavelle (and likely the whole state). ‘Holyshit, holy shit…’

‘HOLY SHIT.’

Half an hour later, Minho’s car bumps down the highway. The radio hums a melody that seems to be all but lost in the car beneath their conversation. The midday marmalade sun makes the horizon wavy with heat. Wind from an open window rustles through Jisung’s hair, whipping across his cheeks and soothing the sticky, southern air. 

A map crinkles between Jisung’s knuckles as he rattles off directions downstate, the afternoon now drawing closer to dusk. Minho peeks over in the moments where Jisung’s navigational skills are particularly questionable, but gives an encouraging smile in spite of each misstep. 

“We’re gonna wind up stuck in fuckin’ Alabama with no gas money if you keep givin’ shitty directions.”

Jisung balks. “You asked me to do this! And it’s not like I’m an expert on Georgia geography, or maps, or driving, or—!”

“Excuses, excuses…” Crescent-moon eyes focus on Jisung, then back to the road. "Just don't get us killed."

"No promises, asshole.”

The road narrows. Asphalt gives way to faded gravel. Tilting sideways and bleached by sunshine, a signpost welcomes them into town. 

Pepperton, Georgia is smaller than a shoebox. It exists as a teeny, blink-and-you-might-miss-it dot on the map. Pepperton is a quieter area compared to the busy strip of tourist traps that made up Atlanta, and decidedly less picturesque than Sunnavelle. Faded farmhouses line the outskirts of town while rickety wooden structures stand tall over rolling acres of green. Not a single piece of property exists without an American flag waving proudly on a pole in the front yard.

Jisung watches an old woman water her hydrangeas next to a poster with bold, black font.

TRADITION IS DISCIPLINE / THE LEECH FAMILY / VOTE RED FOR AMERICAN VALUES

“Most'a these little towns are hotspots for conservative shitheels and closet cases,” Minho snorts, following Jisung’s gaze. “You haven’t really lived until you’ve been picked up by a middle-aged Republican daddy at a truck stop.”

Jisung winces. “Very specific.”

“Very true. I’ll tell ya’ the whole story one day.” Minho steers them towards a modest patch of land. “But we have better things to do, yeah?”

A left turn lets the road spill into a parking lot for the local park, packed with weathered trucks and RVs. Music pumps from a small fairground that smells distinctly of corn dogs and motor oil. Families buzz around the place, most clad in denim shorts and Leech family merchandise. Bumper stickers on the backs of trucks are a dead giveaway: 

Vote Red! Save America!

Guns Are the American Way! 

Defend Traditional Marriage!

God Bless America! 

Each booth is decorated with red-white-and-blue bunting and decorated with paper flags and eagles. The fair even has a Ferris wheel and an oddly menacing clown handing out funnel cakes. A banjo stutters through a loudspeaker. 

Minho reaches for Jisung’s hand. He threads their fingers together.

“Loosen up~,” Minho laughs. "Nobody knows you here. Nobody gives a fuck what two guys are doin' together."

Jisung stares down at their clasped hands. ‘It looks so…unnatural.’

"We’re supposed to be…careful, Minho. We talked about this. I can’t—”

Minho slaps a VOTE 4 LEECH cap on Jisung’s head, then complements it with an identical campaign button pinned to his own shirt. A cocksure grin finishes the ensemble. 

“Better? Now we’re two dapper young gents goin’ out on the town…in a very normal, non-gay way. I’m your little brother who doesn’t speak English and has attachment issues.”

"No fucking way you're pulling off little brother."  

“Try me.” Minho tugs on Jisung’s hand. “Now c’mon. They have turkey legs~!”

There isn’t much resistance left in Jisung after that. They zigzag through throngs of families in line to toss rings around the neck of a Coke bottle or launch water balloons at targets. Carnival games are impossible to win; Minho proves that much with a failed $10 investment in balloon darts. A shooting game has similar results, but Jisung holds the honor of hitting three moving ducks, earning himself an ugly stuffed frog.

“Kinda looks like you, no?” Minho elbows Jisung’s side. “Look at those big alien eyes. ‘S a spittin’ image!”

“Bullshit! I—” Jisung’s face smushes between Minho’s palms. “Mmpf—” 

"Aw, 귀여워~." (“Cute~”) 

“I have no idea what that means—”

“WAAAHHH!”

Minho and Jisung jump apart in an instant.

Across the grassy path, a toddler with strawberry blonde braids and a pink-checkered dress cries big, hiccupy tears in front of the ring toss. One tiny hand clutches at the hem of her mother's skirt while another points up at the oversized rainbow teddy bear hanging from the booth.

“Mommy!” The girl sniffles again. Her nose bubbles with snot. "I want that. I wan' that fluffy one!”

Her mother sighs.

“Darling, only winners get prizes that big. Remember? Did you win that one?"

The little girl stomps her sneakers. More tears erupt. “N-No, but—”

Minho digs a five dollar bill out of his pocket and approaches the carnival game like a superhero arriving to the scene. Jisung watches with wide eyes and his jaw slightly parted. 

The vendor offers Minho five chances to land a ring around the neck of any bottle. There’s a caveat though; to win the grand prize, at least one toss must land around the centermost bottle at the back. 

Rings go veering off-course and skipping uselessly past the Coca-Cola targets. Two rings tosses seem promising, only to pop off and settle into the dirt. 

“Thought you said this shit was rigged.” Jisung hisses behind his hand. “What are you doing?”

Minho turns toward Jisung and tosses the final ring, blind. A smirk spreads across his lips and the afternoon light makes his eyes glitter.

“Winning.”

The final ring sails through the sky and lands neatly on the bottle. A perfect bullseye. 

“Lucky toss, son!” The vendor whistles. “Was wonderin’ how far you’d get with that limp wrist.”

Minho’s smile falters, just barely. His eyes narrow for a fraction of a second before bouncing back to sunny grins and crescent-shaped sweetness. 

“Gotta put your heart in the game, sir.” Minho is a little too polite for it to be genuine. “Mind grabbing that bear for me? Rainbow one.”

The vendor yanks the rainbow bear down — a grotesque, tie-dye monstrosity nearly as tall as the toddler — and thrusts it over the counter with a mocking little bow. The animal has pearly, silver eyes, rosy cheeks, and a happy smile stitched on its face. A threadbare ribbon wraps around its neck.

“Careful there, son.” The vendor drops the bear into Minho’s arms. “That big ol’ bear won’t make ya’ very popular with the ladies.”

“That’s okay. Wasn’t trying to impress anybody,” Minho rolls his tongue. He brings his voice low. “Your mom certainly ain't lookin’.”

Jisung stifles a gasp behind his palm, but his heart pounds so loudly it feels like the whole carnival must hear it. Minho Lee can be such an unapologetic jerk, but…God, it’s attractive.

"For you, superstar,” Minho kneels down and plants the bear beside the little girl. “Give him lots of love and hugs, mmkay?”

Jisung can hardly hear what Minho says to her next over all the fairground noise. There’s the vague, coaxing lilt of Minho’s voice, laced with a lisping babytalk that would make Jisung vomit in any other setting. In the context of giving away a massive teddy bear, however, it's weirdly sweet. The toddler's tears stutter to a halt. 

By the time her mother bends down, her bafflement melts into gratitude (or maybe just relief at the cessation of screaming). The little girl clings to the bear’s neck like it’s a lifeline and Minho grins as though the last thirty seconds might have saved the world.

Jisung stands there, holding his ugly little frog, feeling the weirdest collision of embarrassment and something in his gut. Something dangerously big and gooey that has no name.

A short whistle catches his attention and snaps him out of it. Minho gestures to him.

“C’mon,” Minho nudges Jisung with an elbow and makes a peace sign at the toddler waving behind them. "Wanna grab a bite?"

At a nearby food stall, they split a stack of fried Oreos drizzled in syrup and powdered sugar. The breaded dessert treats come with napkins bearing the visage of a creepy clown. They hold onto their appetites for a messy helping of corn on the cob coated in cotija cheese and chili powder. Each cob comes with a toothpick skewer meant to help minimize the mess. By the time Jisung has finished licking spicy sauce from each finger, he finds his eyes wandering back to Minho.

“That was…really nice of you Minho.” Jisung hides his doltish smile behind a sip of cola. “What you did for that girl back there. I liked it.”

“Was nothin’,” Minho shrug murmurs through a bite of corn. His cheeks turn faintly rosy under the weight of Jisung's stare. "...S-Seriously, Jisung. 'S just a bear."

“It wasn’t nothing,” Jisung argues. "It was really sweet… Dumbass."

A honey-sweet smile spills over Minho's face. Pink dusts across the bridge of his nose and collects along his cheeks. When Jisung curls Minho’s hand within his own, Minho doesn't hesitate to return the squeeze.

“아이씨 (“Aish”)—  Jisung. C’mon…” Minho groans, turning the shade of strawberry preserves. “I’m fuckin’ shy now. Quit starin’ at me.”

“Can’t help it. You… You’re kind of my favorite view right now.”

“Sounds like the work of brain damage. Better see someone 'bout that.” 

Jisung clicks his tongue. “Oh, shut up. Like you don’t know how good-looking you are."

It's a fair point, but Minho chokes on a piece of corn and spends half a minute recovering. By the end of it, Minho’s face is redder than a tomato fresh off the vine. He hides it against the shoulder of Jisung’s t-shirt and mutters:

"One more word and I’ll fuckin’ kill you… Seriously.”

"No, you won’t," Jisung's words are braver when there is no threat. His fingers tangle amongst soft strands of brown waves. "You like me too much~.”

"I like you slightly," Minho corrects, a grudging pout in his voice. "If you were on fire, I'd maybe consider calling the fire department for you. That’s how much I like you. Slightly."

"Slightly?" Jisung arches a brow. "I don't do 'slightly'."

"So...you don't want me to call the fire department?" Minho feigns confusion with a deceptively innocent blink of his eyes. "Are you gonna put yourself out then?"

"Fuck off.” Jisung scoffs. “You like me, dude. Just admit it."

"Slightly," Minho repeats. For emphasis. "And did you just fuckin' 'dude' me?"

“Would you prefer ‘pal’? Or ‘homie’? Or…maybe ‘bro’—”

A pinch to the thigh is a response in lieu of words. Jisung yelps and pulls away. Minho sticks his tongue out in response.

With their bellies full and a head start on a sunburn, Minho and Jisung amble through the rest of the park. It’s hard to walk around without noticing red-white-and-blue paraphernalia, or being mocked by giant, plastic eagle displays. Someone tries to push leaflets in their hands about Ronald Leech’s rally later in the evening. They politely decline.

“We should get matching ‘Traditional Man’ shirts,” Minho snickers and points to a red stall selling conservative apparel. Two ranchers have matching caps on and try to hawk free pens to everyone who passes by.

Jisung makes a face.

“C’mon Ji. Do it for the memories. Please?”

Minho cups both palms below his chin, a plush pout protruding from his lips as his eyes beg. He blinks at Jisung — lashes batting ever-so sweetly — and it leaves Jisung feeling like he could never deny Minho anything.

“Stop with the face,” Jisung groans. "Stop. Your answer is—" Pause. Sigh. "...Yes, fine. Fuck. Fine. Let's go."

The twin sellers at the merch booth call them "good Christian boys" while handing them their free pens. Minho's grin makes Jisung want to slap him. After ten minutes of perusing the booth, they purchase tacky, crimson-red T-shirts emblazoned with white font: TRADITIONAL MAN, and LEECH FOR GEORGIA. Minho insists they wear the shirts out. 

(“It’s part of the fun,” Minho said. Jisung couldn’t disagree with those puppy-dog eyes.)

“Since you forced me to buy this awful shirt, I get to pick the next activity,” Jisung declares once they’re a healthy distance away from the stand. 

“Whatever you want, sweetheart~.” 

“Good. Because I want to ride the Ferris Wheel.”

The Ferris Wheel stands tall on the fairground. It ferries passengers to and fro in a circular pattern. Screams erupt from the cart at the highest point, where it pauses for just a moment before continuing its journey. 

“...Seriously?” Minho balks. “Oh, no. No. No, we are not riding—“

“I thought it was ‘whatever I wanted’,” Jisung reminds him. “I’ve never been on a Ferris Wheel. Please?”

Jisung takes a page out of Minho Lee’s Playbook of Manipulation Tactics. He lets his eyelashes flutter with theatrical innocence, knowing full well he lacks Minho's natural magnetism, but banking on effort over execution. He even adds a little lip wobble and a quiver to his voice. It's a performance that would put his elementary school drama teacher to shame.

"We’re on a date, aren’t we? So be my boyfriend and hold my hand at the top. Please?"

"Fuck you," Minho hisses. "You're evil, Jisung Han. That’s evil and you know it.”

“Is that a yes?” 

Minho loops their elbows together and decides not to ditch that stupid grin. “...Whatever. Let’s go.”

The sun continues its descent and the sky dims a touch. As the fair winds down, so too does the intensity of the queues waiting for the rides to end. There's a gentle breeze that pricks gooseflesh at the skin as the sun dips behind a blanket of clouds, and the temperature cools down.

Jisung buys them tickets at the booth, then drags Minho toward a vacant cart. A rickety safety bar locks them in place. There’s a lull before the wheel starts up again; the Ferris Wheel groans as the cogs click!, and clack!, and begin to rotate. As the carriage rises, the carnival shrinks beneath them.

The sunset paints a picture of pinks and yellows, with the clouds bearing a rosy tint as the day dwindles. Sunshine melts into the horizon the way a candle does when left burning for too long. Pepperton stretches out in emerald-green fields, inhabited by wildlife and the occasional farmhouse.

Something about this feels…romantic? Or at least, it feels like something out of one of those cheesy rom-coms Jisung catches on cable and—

 “God. Oh fuck.”

Reality has a talent for spoiling romantic daydreams. Jisung looks away from the view to find Minho pressed against the far corner of their cart, knuckles paling against the safety bar.

“...Min—”

“I’m fine,” Minho wheezes, so he doesn’t sound fine at all. His breathing is shallow. A bead of sweat forms at his temple and slides down his jaw. “No worries, no worries. I’m…fine.”

The cart rocks as the ride continues. Minho makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a curse. He screws his eyes shut and contorts his mouth into a tight grimace.

"You’re scared of heights, arent you?" Jisung frowns. “Shit… Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you looked so excited about it, and you did that stupid face thing, and—" Minho's voice cracks slightly. "아이구, (“Oh my God,”) we're so fuckin’ high up. How are we this high up?"

Jisung leans forward and slots a hand into one of Minho's trembling ones.

"Hey, hey. I’m so sorry, I’m the worst date ever. Don't look down, okay? Squeeze my hand if you get scared— OW!”

“미안— (“Sorry,”) S-Sorry.” Minho seems anything but when he clamps down on Jisung’s fingers again. “Sorry, I— You’re not the worst date. Just… Fuck. I’m a…coward?”

“You’re not,” Jisung assures him, even as Minho’s fingernails stab his palm. “But I am a dumbass. Just try not to focus on it, okay?”

“Easier said then— fuckin’, fuck— done.”  Minho whimpers. “엄마…” (“Mom…”)

“Look at me.” Jisung coaxes. His free hand cradles the scarred side of Minho's face. "Not down, not anywhere else. Just me, alright?” 

Jisung watches a shudder wrack its way down Minho's spine. Tentatively, brown eyes crack open. They're the first hint of spring when the winter's thaw makes way for crocuses to grow. Sunbeams soar into Minho’s beautiful, beautiful eyes and turn his irises honey-gold. Fear makes a bed in the furrow of his brows, and panic takes over his trembling pupils.

“Hey there…” Jisung tries, thumb tracing circles along Minho’s cheek. “I, uh… I think we’re almost at the top. You’re doing good, Minho.”

Minho gives an imperceptibly small nod.

"Are you…like…going to make it? Can I do anything?" Jisung bites the inside of his cheek, then adds: "I feel really bad right now, so...like, if you wanna break my hand, it's okay. I’ll buy you a churro on the way down.”

"You're fuckin’ stupid... But thank you.”

They sit together, fingers intertwined, as the Ferris Wheel carries on. Jisung is painfully aware of each place where their hands connect. He traces constellations from the ridges of Minho’s knuckles, then down the veins of his wrists, past his elbow, and finally up to the face of a terrified boy with the world's prettiest brown eyes.

“What’cha thinkin’ about?” Minho asks. “Might make me feel better if you tell me a story.”

Jisung blinks. His stomach somersaults. “I was…thinking about how…pretty…you are. Sorry—”

“No, I…” A shy smile forms on Minho's lips. "I think I’ll like it more when death is on the table. Tell me how pretty I am."

“I don’t know. It sounds dumb out loud,” Jisung groans. "Like, your eyes are really nice. And you have a nice face. And your eyelashes are long. That's all… That's all I've got."

“C’mon, sweetheart.” Minho pouts, leaning closer as he does. “You can think of one more thing...right? Or maybe two? Just for your poor, traumatized date?”

Jisung swallows a lump in his throat.

“I— Uh, hm…”

Jisung’s brain fumbles to string something coherent together, but his thoughts are a little more scrambled than eggs, so every attempt fails. It doesn't help that Minho's face is mere inches away. Jisung kind of wants to grab Minho by the collar and pull him closer until there's no space left, and—

"Give up already?" Minho tilts his head to the side. "I can think of a lot of nice things to say about you, and English is my second language—"

“—Do you want to know what I’m thinking about?” Jisung blurts out before he can stop himself. "Like, do you really want to know?"

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't," Minho laughs. The sound is a bit breathy with nerves, but Jisung is thrilled it exists at all. "So tell me, Jisung. What are you thinking about?"

“I think I’ll just…uh, show you.”

It begins in the tiniest furrow of Minho’s brows and a tender tug at his shirt, courtesy of Jisung’s nervous fingers. Then, Jisung learns what it feels like to properly kiss a boy.

Kissing Minho isn’t like anything Jisung imagined in his fevered fantasies moments before bed. Minho’s mouth is soft. It’s gentle as the budding bloom of daffodils in the springtime, and soft like silk to the touch. There’s none of the tongue, or the teeth, or the hands slipping into places they aren’t ready for. Kissing Minho is simple, shy, and delicate in all the ways Jisung thought it wouldn’t be.

Jisung is terrified that someone from far below — one of those Ronald Leech voters with their American flags, and their bumper stickers, and their homophobia — might see. Up here, no one sits in the adjacent carts to bear witness. Viewership consists of gnats orbiting the lights and the lazy, morose clouds rolling past a dimming sun.

“You can breathe, you know,” Minho mumbles. “You’re gonna pass out otherwise.”

“Oh…” Jisung sucks in a gasp of air. “S-Sorry.”

Reality is that Jisung is nervous, and clumsy, and inexperienced at kissing people. In Jisungland, he’s the most amazing kisser and this is the best feeling in the world. 

A quiet hitch of Minho’s breath sends a shiver down Jisung's spine. Minho's hand climbs up Jisung’s shirt. His palm settles over the space where Jisung’s heart beats and presses in like he's searching for the rhythm. As if to answer, Jisung's hands tangle in brunet waves, coaxing a tiny, breathy sound from the back of Minho's throat.

“Jisung…” Minho whispers when their lips part. “You’re perfect, sweetheart. You're so fuckin' perfect. Just try and open up a lil’, yeah?"

Jisung blinks. "Open…up?"

"Your mouth, 자기야," Minho says. Jisung thinks he could melt. He has no idea what the fuck ja-gi-ya means, but it sounds lovely. "Just do it with me, okay? Do it like this."

Minho’s thumb traces the seam of Jisung's lips, and it feels natural to part them for him. When Minho pulls him in for another kiss, Jisung really learns how it feels to kiss a boy. Properly.

Jisung melts into Minho like chocolate left out on a summer day, malleable and sweet in equal measure. It’s easy to surrender to the onslaught of kisses and soft, honeyed moans. Minho bites down at Jisung's lips, drawing them pink and swollen, before laving over them with his tongue. Jisung didn't know it could feel like this: like an electrical current hooked directly into his soul. Like every cliché romance script written into existence.

Minho is patient, letting Jisung decide how much he wants, and for once, the idea doesn't paralyze him. Nothing ever seems easier when Jisung cards his fingers through Minho's hair and urges him into kiss after kiss. It tastes like fried Oreos, Coca Cola, and then, right at the center, the boy he’s crushed on all summer. The latter is a flavor that has Jisung wanting more, so he tilts his head and welcomes Minho in a way that he's never done before.

‘Oh my God. Oh my God. OhMyGod, I’m kissing him.’

It’s supposed to feel disgusting. The Bible said so. His father said so. Chris Bahng said so. Pepperton says so. But Jisung is so weak in the knees that even if he wanted to pull back and run, he isn’t sure his body would listen. 

This is the kind of kiss that will break Jisung's heart later. Because this is his first kiss, and he likes Minho so much, and Jisung knows he's going to be ruined for anyone else. 

“Now you’ve kissed someone~.” Minho’s face is the color of pink lemonade. “‘M honored to have your mouth virginity~.”

“How’d you know…?”

“One time, you got shitfaced and cried about bein’ an 'everything virgin.' You were all like—” Minho puts on a mock-crying voice.  “—Oh, M-Minho! I’m such a loser. I never got my first kiss. No one could ever want me— And you were like, sobbing your eyes out."

Jisung’s face is on fire. “I did not sound like that.”

"Fine, you didn't. But you did cry.” Minho laughs at the look of mortification on Jisung's face. "Aww, c'mere~. ‘S okay. You have no idea how cute ‘n pathetic you were."

The moment is ruined when a loud buzzer announces the ride coming to an end. Minho lets out a whine and holds onto the safety bar with renewed fear.

“Aw, look how cute and pathetic you are,” Jisung teases. “Don’t worry, we’re almost at the bottom.”

“Almost as in five minutes or— 아이구— almost as in five seconds?”

“How does one minute sound? Will you survive?”

Minho mutters something under his breath and squeezes his eyes shut again. Jisung stifles a laugh against his palm, and his heart swells up into something fond. Fond for a boy he just kissed. A boy that he just kissed. That is a problem, right? He kissed a boy, and his first instinct was to kiss harder. He wanted more of it. More of Minho. That’s the part that terrifies him: the wanting.

The Ferris Wheel lets out a final clack!, clack!, clack! before shuddering to a stop. When the attendant unlocks the door, Minho practically sprints out.

“I am not riding that ever again,” Minho declares. “I’m banning all Ferris Wheels from the country and replacing them with giant, bouncy castles instead.”

But Jisung isn’t really listening to Minho, because it hits him the second they’re away from the Ferris wheel. It’s as if some tether’s been cut and now he’s free-falling straight through his own body.

‘I just kissed a boy.’ 

“I’ll win the lottery and fund the project myself! Then we’ll change the whole damn fair by puttin’ bouncy castles everywhere.”

‘I kissed a boy. I just kissed Minho.’ 

“And there will be no heights, and no screaming, and no— Jisung?”

It's the law of gravity. No matter how badly you want some things to stay afloat, they inevitably come to land. They always do. And so the guilt comes rushing down, crashing into Jisung’s chest like an avalanche.

'I just kissed a boy. I kissed a boy. Dad was right. Dad was right about me.'

A living nightmare returns to haunt his memories, where William Han’s fist cracks hard against his face and an angry contusion forms in its wake.

(SLAP!)

(“You don’t get to fuckin’ cry y’little faggot bitch.”)

Homosexuality can destroy everything it touches. 

Homosexuality is a known disease that infects a family’s pride and legacy. It is a sin. It is the work of the devil. It is perverse, and disgusting, and an abomination, and it is going to get Jisung sent away to Korea. Jisung's father will disown him. Jisung's father will hurt him. Jisung's father will tell everyone what a disgusting pervert he is, and Jisung's mother will never want to look at him, and he will have nothing, nothing, nothing—

Jisung can’t do this. He can’t. No boy is worth losing the tenuous hold Jisung has on a normal life. 

Panic kicks adrenaline through every artery and vessel that snakes through Jisung’s body, chasing itself through his veins until all Jisung feels is his heart slamming against his sternum. Shame leads to desperate begging for a meteor to strike the Earth, strike the fair, or simply strike him.

"Jisung? Is…everything okay?" Minho asks, reaching out. "You're shaking—“

“Don’t touch me,” Jisung snaps. “Don’t… Don’t fucking touch me."

The hand stops in its tracks. Minho looks like he’s just been slapped across the face and then some.

"I’m a good person, I'm a good son," Jisung mutters, unsure of who he's talking to. "I am a good son. I'm going to be a good person. I'm going to Harvard. This...all of this...it was a really stupid mistake.”

“A mistake?” Minho scoffs. “The fuck does that mean?”

Jisung’s fingers tangle themselves in his hair, pulling on the roots until they sting.

“It means it’s a mistake! All of this is a mistake. I-I shouldn’t have ever gone to that party. I shouldn't have ever talked to you, Minho! I should have stayed home, and studied for the SATs, and done exactly what my father wanted.”

Minho tries again. “Jisung—”

“How can I be this fucking— this fucking— shameless?!” 

Shameless.

The word ricochets violently around inside the confines of Jisung’s skull. Shameless, shameless, shameless.  The shamelessness of what they are; what they’ve done; who they’re with; how far it’s gone.

A thousand ugly faces laugh and jeer in Jisung’s head like they have for weeks, and it's all so painfully loud.

("Fag." "Limp-wrist pansy." "Fuckin' queer.")

“Being gay it’s…it’s a sickness. Surely you know that,” Jisung spits. “I-I mean you cut yourself. That’s not normal. And you’ll never, ever, ever be normal unless you fix this. You have to fix this—”

Minho flinches. Good. Jisung hopes it stings. Jisung hopes Minho feels every inch of pain that's currently spearing through his chest.

“I have to fix—? What the fuck, Jisung.” Minho scowls. “What the fuck. Are you listening to yourself? You kissed me!”

A few people in line for the Ferris Wheel look over at the commotion: parents holding dripping ice creams, a couple of surly teens with campaign buttons, a sunburned man in a camo cap who narrows his eyes and whispers to the woman by his side. 

Jisung feels like he could crawl out of his skin and leave it behind. Alongside the feeling is…anger. It boils up from somewhere dark inside of him — a place he can’t touch, or change, or understand — and he hates how good it feels to let go and scream.

“You don’t even like being gay!” Jisung shouts, shoving a finger against Minho’s chest. “You hate it so much you hurt yourself. Everyone talks shit about you. You have no friends. And where the fuck is your family, huh? I bet your parents are ashamed of you, and they should be. They should be ashamed. Because their son is a—”

("Fag." "Limp-wrist pansy." "Fuckin' queer.")

Jisung bites down on his tongue and swallows the rest of the words, but he can feel them burning a hole in his throat, and he can see the way they’re reflected on Minho’s face, as if to say: Their son is a what? Say it. Go ahead, finish the sentence. 

But Jisung doesn’t have to, because they both know where his words were headed. Minho looks at him like he's a stranger.

“You’re a fuckin' coward, Jisung Han.”

Minho storms off without another word. Pepperton locals and other fairgoers part to let him pass, gawking at his back and gossiping among each other. One lady points at the Traditional Man T-shirt and rolls her eyes. The little girl from earlier abandons her rainbow bear in the dirt. 

Jisung stands alone by the Ferris Wheel, tears invasively streaming down his cheeks, trembling from head-to-toe. There are at least five texts from Ms. Celine, all asking when he’ll be home. Jisung dials a number, and the call connects after four rings.

“Ms. Celine? C-Can you pick me up?”

❤︎

It's a long, quiet ride home.

Jisung hugs the frog plushie to his chest and tries not to cry the whole way. He never dropped it, not even when he wanted to throw himself off the fucking Ferris Wheel. Thankfully, Ms. Celine doesn’t bother with small talk. She doesn’t ask why he needed the ride, or what happened to apron boy. She just sets the AC higher, slides a teeny box of tissues to the passenger’s seat, and turns on an oldies radio channel to fill in the silence.

‘Stop thinking about it. Stop.’

But Jisung’s brain is a traitor, and his heart is a masochist, because it’s impossible to stop replaying every little memory. It’s like rewinding the tape of your favorite movie scene over and over until the cassette wears out. 

Jisung could’ve gotten lost in Minho’s mouth with no map to escape the budding swell of affection that took root in his heart. Unfortunately, memories don't come with an easy, fast-forward button. Jisung is doomed to relive the moment butterflies invaded his stomach, and then the moment he burned them all.

("You're perfect, sweetheart. You're so fuckin' perfect.”)

Jisung can still feel the way Minho's tongue slid into his mouth, and he wants to scream until the feelings are exorcised from his body. Jisung can still hear every soft sigh and every hitch of breath, and it makes him want to rip out the cassette inside his brain and smash it to bits.

(“You’re a fuckin’ coward, Jisung Han.”)

Then, there’s the way Minho's face twisted into an ugly expression and how he stormed away without so much as a goodbye. 

It's a terrible feeling to know you've ruined everything. Jisung wants to crawl into a deep, dark hole and never come out. 

“So...” Ms. Celine clears her throat. Her eyes are glued to the road. “Do you want to talk? Or should we pick up a pizza and call it a night?”

Jisung's head rests against the window, staring out at the blur of the roadside scenery. They've been on this long, empty stretch of highway for what feels like hours. 

The last thing on Jisung’s mind is eating pizza and talking through his feelings with Ms. Celine. 

“Pizza it is,” Ms. Celine decides when Jisung doesn’t answer. "Hawaiian or pepperoni?"

"I don't care."

"Hawaiian, then. You need the vitamin C."

The pizza place is a local chain on the “shady” side of Sunnavelle, with a glowing sign that reads Paesano’s Pizza: Open 24hrs. 

Cigarette smoke wafts from a cluster of men on the back patio and trickles into the parlor. Red vinyl booths, glass shakers of chili flakes and parmesan, a dusty jukebox that blares old songs from the 70s. The place looks exactly the way Jisung thought it would, down to the overzealous mural of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Jisung finds a booth and swipes crumbs off the table. His feet kick at a crumpled Pepsi cup beneath the chair. It’s not Ms. Celine’s scene, judging from her pinched expression when she returns to the table.

“Two Hawaiian slices, extra pineapples, and one large fountain drink. For you.” Ms. Celine slides a tray over. “Eat. Then you can sulk some more.”

There's something about pizza (particularly crappy, greasy pizza with too much cheese and too little quality control) that makes Jisung feel a bit better. 

"You know," Ms. Celine says after they've both had a few bites to eat. “This was Soojin’s favorite place to eat. You never have to ‘dress up’ to eat at a stingy pizza parlor, you know? But, I reckon Soojin favored it because of the unlimited soda refills.”

"Soda," Jisung laughs dryly. “Mom and Dad hate soda.”

“And your sister loved it.” Ms. Celine takes a sip of Pepsi. “Sometimes we’d drive down here, share a pizza and a pitcher, and talk shit. It was our little secret. Now I’m sharing the tradition with you.”

"Share a pizza, share a pitcher. Talk shit?” Jisung raises a brow. “Who are you and what have you done with Ms. Celine?”

“Hah, very funny, Jisung. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a robot programmed to raise Han children and make them eat their vegetables. I also happen to enjoy low-budget horror films and crappy pizza.”

Jisung makes a meal of his plastic straw, waiting for the familiar clearing of a throat and Ms. Celine’s signature speech about responsibility. It doesn’t come. Ms. Celine has her blazer sleeves pushed up to her elbows, a smear of sauce on her thumb, and her phone face-down beside the sweating Pepsi pitcher. 

Sitting across from Jisung isn’t the woman who looks at the world like it’s a checklist to complete. This version of Ms. Celine seems like a person he could be friends with (if Jisung didn’t destroy every relationship in his life by virtue of being an idiot).

"When I was about your age, I had a friend named Diane. Beautiful girl. Looked like Elizabeth Taylor, if Elizabeth Taylor had grown up in rural Alabama."

The conversation changes course fast enough to give Jisung whiplash. He has no idea who Elizabeth Taylor is, but nods along anyway. 

"We were...close. Very close. We spent every weekend together, shared clothes, and did each other's makeup.” Ms. Celine chuckles at the memory. “You know what the problem was?"

"Uh…your makeup palettes clashed?"

"Yes, well that was also a problem, but..." Ms. Celine shakes her head and sips her soda. "Diane was the daughter of the town priest, and I was his assistant's daughter. We attended church thrice a week. We'd pray together before class, before lunch, and before dinner. The whole kit n' caboodle."

“Church three times a week?” Jisung feels something uneasy settle into his gut. "Yikes."

“Yikes indeed. Our whole lives, we were raised on 'God loves everyone, and Jesus forgives' ...so naturally, my first act of teenage exploration was sleeping with the pastor's daughter.”

Jisung nearly spits out his soda. 

“Huh?!” 

‘How do two women even— No. No. Get that image OUT of your head.’

"Oh, hush. Don't act so scandalized,” Ms. Celine clicks her tongue. "We were young, we were hormonal. Sex is a natural part of growing up, Jisung. You'll learn about it eventually.”

“And how do you know I’m not already having sex?” Jisung counters. “I am sixteen. A-And I go to parties!”

Ms. Celine levels a flat look his way. She delegates the rest of the work to the ensuing silence. After a handful of skeptical seconds, she breaks the quiet to add: 

“I doubt you’ve even had sex with the palm of your hand.” 

And Jisung folds in on himself like a napkin at a formal dinner.

“Have so.” Jisung has no idea what ‘fucking your hand’ entails, but he thinks he sounds believable. “Lots of times. At night. L-Like a man...”

“Of course, of course…” Ms. Celine hums with an indulgent smile. “In any case, the point of this story was not to discuss either of our sex lives. The story is really about Diane, and how the real problem is that we weren’t in love with each other.”

“What? But you said—”

“Sex? Yes,” Ms. Celine nods. “But as much as my teenage self hated to admit it, there's a huge difference between sharing a bed and sharing your heart.”

Ms. Celine and Diane, Jisung learns, were two confused girls with nowhere else to turn in a town where even thinking certain thoughts felt like a sin. They became the other’s safe space to figure out what their bodies were telling them, but it was never about romance or some grand love affair. Pure, unadulterated teenage lust led them to believe they should have been in love, when really, they had no idea what love was. Not with each other.

One summer evening, Ms. Celine and Diane were caught having sex in the church attic. Diane’s family shipped her off to a Christian boarding school before the week was out, and Ms. Celine’s parents pulled every bit of support they promised. She planned to study literature, maybe become a teacher, but those dreams dried up fast when the money disappeared. 

“Cleaning houses was the only work I could find that paid enough to keep me fed,” Ms. Celine explains. “After years of being told I was going to Hell, scrubbing other people's floors felt like what I deserved.”

“I’m sorry,” Jisung whispers, lowering his gaze to the sticky tabletop. “That’s awful.”

“Don’t be,” Ms. Celine shrugs. “Only, if I had loved Diane, I think I would’ve fought to stay by her side regardless of what the rest of town believed.”

Jisung frowns. “Not sure it would’ve made a difference. Her dad was the preacher. That's rough.”

“That may be true, but we certainly never tried to make a difference. We knew we could love women, just not each other. People love nothing more than gays acting debauched and sinful. Makes them feel better about trying to erase our existence. Diane and I did just that."

Ms. Celine pours herself another glass of Pepsi while she gathers her thoughts. She settles with:

“From what I gather, you and apron boy are not having sex. Unlike my more…frivolous time with Diane, something tells me that you actually care quite deeply about him.”

There must be a sticker pasted on Jisung’s forehead that reads: 10/10, WOULD KISS A BOY AGAIN. It’s an innocent observation from Ms. Celine, and perhaps a little inevitable thanks to the nature of their conversation. Still, ivy vines scale the length of Jisung's throat and make it impossible to breathe. 

“I’ve…” Jisung croaks out. “I’ve never been treated better by anyone else in my entire life. Minho is smart and kind, and he likes music, and he listens to me, like really listens… And he’s patient with me, even when I mess everything up.”

Ms. Celine quirks a brow. “Is this one of those times where you’ve ‘messed everything up’?”

“Colossally. What I said to Minho earlier…” Jisung winces. “If you heard… If you heard what I said, you’d know it's unforgivable.”

Jisung already wants to write a fifty-page dissertation about regret, calligraphy it by hand, and send it to Minho’s house with a strawberry shortcake attached. Ugh, why does he have to be such a serial fuck-up?

Ms. Celine watches as Jisung buries his face into his forearms with a frustrated groan. Nina Simone croons through the jukebox, her voice laden with longing and the ache of forbidden love. Jazz fills up the spaces Jisung left silent, and the music gives voice to emotions he can barely understand. Feelings. Stupid, useless feelings.

“Well. Whatever you said that you wish you didn’t, the English language has this wonderful technology called an apology. It goes something like: ‘I’m sorry.’ And it works better if you mean it.”

❤︎

Minho probably needs space, so a week passes before Jisung can even consider acting on the idea. 

Jisung spends the duration moping around the Han estate, trapped in perpetual existential agony. Every day, the sky molests the town with sun and humidity so intense the air feels like boiling cream. Piano lessons are a chore, SAT prepwork is a bore, and Jisung is so behind on his summer assignments that Harvard is a joke at this point. 

Minho lives in Jisung’s mind for seven consecutive days, three hours, and forty minutes. That includes the nightly bouts of insomnia where the kiss plays on loop until Jisung can’t breathe. Jisung speaks to God every morning and every evening, praying that Minho isn’t cutting himself to hell on the other side of Sunnavelle.

Me.docx is the perfect outlet for all these messy feelings: 

　　A strange person kisses you back one summer day in July. Your lips have never touched anyone else’s before, so it takes a moment to adjust to how tender they can become. 

　　What scares you the most is the fact that you’ve wanted this for so long, and now you’re being offered something beautiful but you’re too terrified to accept it.

　　There is a saying that goes: ‘hurt people hurt people.’ When the anger is red-hot and your cheeks feel like firestarters, it’s easy to say and do horrible things. 

　　You know that this makes you no better than the people who’ve hurt you. You know that you’ll spend the next few days agonizing over every word. But in this moment nothing matters more than the fear of becoming your father’s nightmare. So, you carve your words into weapons and keep stabbing until you’ve killed something. Friendships. Happine|

Knocking at the window interrupts Jisung’s stream of thought, his head craning to find a familiar face peeking through the glass. Blond hair, a sunlit smile, and freckles scattered like stardust: it’s Felix Lee.

SHHK-KT! Jisung lifts the screen open and helps Felix through the window.

"What are you doing here?" Jisung hisses under his breath. "It's nearly midnight."

"Don't give me that attitude. I haven't heard from you in, like, forever. Where the hell have you been?!"

“...Nowhere.”

“Yeah, obviously.” Felix pulls Jisung in for a quick hug and snorts a laugh. “If I don’t swoop in and take you out, you’ll just fuckin’ rot away in here, or something.”

Jisung scoffs. “Dramatic, much?”

“Not dramatic,” Felix protests with his hands on his hips. “I’m your best friend and it’s my sworn duty to not let you wither away into some depressed, sad sack.”

"Depressed, sad sack…?” Jisung mutters beneath his breath. "What the fuck..."

Felix eases into the space with the kind of confidence usually reserved for someone who isn’t committing a felony (breaking and entering, a.k.a. burglary). After a thorough survey of the room, Felix hops onto Jisung's desk chair and wheels around a few laps. Eventually, he stops in front of the computer.

The screen is still open, and the cursor is blinking like a ticking bomb on the essay. ‘Shit.’  

“Felix—”

“Oou~, what’s this?” Felix taps at the monitor with an annoying grin. “Is this what you’ve been up to lately?”

Jisung wants to die. 

“Felix—”

“A strange person kisses you back one summer day in July,” Felix recites in a mocking, faux-romantic voice. “Your lips have never touched anyone else’s before, so it takes a moment to adjust— Holy shit, Ji. You got your first kiss?!”

There is a reason Jisung hates people reading his unfinished work. All stories deserve the luxury of proper structure. Without it, writing is nothing more than messy thoughts vomited onto the page. And Jisung… He writes unabridged, with his entire soul bared open. 

Watching Felix read 'Me.docx' feels like standing naked before a firing squad and waiting for bullets to bite his skin. It’s excruciating. Humiliating.

“What scares you the most is the fact that you’ve wanted this for so long, and—”

Jisung shuts off the computer with the slam of the power button. The screen cuts to black and puts Felix’s narration to an end, but the damage has already been done. 

“Tell. Me. Everything.”

“It’s not— It wasn’t— Can you not? It just…happened, okay?”

Felix folds his arms. “Jisung Han. I have watched you live vicariously through rom-coms for literal years. I need…no, I demand to know the specifics. You can’t just drop this in a document and not elaborate.”

Felix stares at him with those expectant eyes that usually make Jisung spill every secret he's ever had.  It works for a split second before Jisung remembers this is one instance where it absolutely cannot. 

How is Jisung supposed to explain that the kiss happened with Felix's own cousin? How is Jisung supposed to tell his best friend — his gay best friend who's been out and proud since forever — about all the homophobia he’s harbored inside? 

‘A coward. That's what Minho called you.’ Because it's true.

"I can't.” 

"What do you mean you can't?" Felix presses. "Dude, you literally wrote poetry about it. You don't write like that about someone who doesn't mean anything."

Of course. Minho Lee means more to Jisung than words could ever truly explain on a page. Jisung wouldn’t dare allege that Minho means nothing. Minho almost means too much, which is the entire problem. Boys like Jisung aren’t meant to have their hearts carved into by boys like Minho. Felix couldn’t possibly understand.

How does Jisung describe the crushing guilt of betraying the one person who accepted every imperfection he had? What words suffice to express the pain of hurting someone who's already broken? 

"Hey, c’mon…it's me,” Felix says, like that gives him the right to Jisung’s privacy. “You're seriously keeping things from me now? We never do that. We never keep secrets.”

"No. You never keep secrets. I do,” Jisung bites out. "All the time."

Secrets are a means to self-preservation.

We all have secrets. From the harmless lies we tell to keep someone's feelings from being hurt, to the skeletons we bury and hope that no one uncovers. Secrets are the glue that hold the darker pieces of us together, and it's in our nature to guard them. Some secrets are so deeply ingrained in us, we've forgotten what it's like to live without the burden of carrying them.

Felix could never understand that. His life is an open book, with every page written in permanent ink. There are no unsavory chapters ripped from the manuscript and tucked somewhere sacred. Felix Lee lives in a perfect world with parents who accept him and love him unconditionally. Felix Lee doesn’t know how it feels to have no choice but to hide.

"Wow," Felix mutters. "Okay. I get it now."

"Felix, it's not—"

"No, I think I understand perfectly.” Felix spits out a bitter laugh. “You don't trust me. After all these years, after everything we've been through together, you don't actually trust me."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Felix stands up and leaves the chair spinning behind him. "Because from where I'm standin’, it looks like my best friend has been hiding shit from me. And he doesn’t even care that he’s doin’ it.” 

Jisung's chest feels like it's caving in.

"Felix, please—"

"I tell you everything, Jisung." Felix shoves Jisung square in the chest. "Every stupid crush, every family fight, every time I feel like the world is ending. I thought we were… I thought we were the same. I thought we didn't do this to each other."

Unshed tears burn Jisung’s eyes and blur his vision. ‘If you don't say something right now, you will lose your best friend.'

Words clamor to escape Jisung’s mouth, but it's impossible to say them now. Too many thoughts; not enough time. Everything is happening at once. The kiss with Minho. The screaming match in the middle of Pepperton. The romance of Ms. Celine and Diane. The argument with Felix, right now.

"We. Don't. Keep. Secrets." Felix shoves again, harder. "That's not who we are. That's not who you are. Or at least, I thought it wasn't. Do I even know who you are?" 

"I don't even know who I am!" Jisung cries, but Felix is already halfway out the window. "Felix, please—"

"Forget it.” Felix spits. "Don't talk to me until you’re ready to be honest about what the hell is going on with you."

Felix’s voice is within earshot long after he’s gone to the chorus of katydids outside. (“We don’t keep secrets.”) (“We don’t keep secrets.”) ("Do I even know who you are?")

Honesty is a wrecking ball aimed at the Han foundation. There is no way to explain the kiss with Minho without ruining everything. It would all be destroyed: his image, his family's expectations, his own desperate hope that maybe he's just confused, and that maybe this is all just teenage hormones running amok. 

It's easy to live a life filled with secrets when you don't know how to be anything but duplicitous. 

The truth is, Jisung is a coward. He doesn’t know how to be honest.