“Can I ask you a favour?”

There is no way he will refuse, he knows, he has always known it. For him, he would do anything, everything and it wouldn’t be enough. He can’t say no, he is always willing, always open for him, to let him ride him as he wants, as he desires. He can’t resist him, he can’t neglect him, he can’t ignore his voice, his eyes, the way he makes him feel weak and compiled. His heart belongs to him, after all, he has it since long before it started, since the first time he heard his name, when he was nothing but a picture on his mind.

Minho is looking at him, seeing him as he is: sincere and kind and shaking in front of him as if winter is holding him. He smiles and the light hits him, Jinwoo trembles contemplating the art that he is, all that he means to him, all the stars lingering, tilting on his eyes made of interstellar dust and comets and everything that shines and brights in the world.

Jinwoo bows to him like everything else does, he falls for him like leaves on autumn, following his lead, he would walk miles to be with him, just to be there, to see him smiling like this like he is doing right now. How could he refuse or scorn him? Not in this life, not in a thousand more; he is tide to Minho, bounded; his soul will find him wherever he goes and in the afterlife, he is going to be next to him again, doesn’t matter how long it will take. He was born to love him and there is no end to his feelings. There is no end, not even death, nothing can part him from Minho, not even knowing that what he feels will never be restored (that Minho is indifferent towards him, that there is no way he will love him back because there is nothing for him to offer - Minho has it all and Jinwoo isn’t strong enough to compete with others, to expose his emotions, throwing them away).

He nods.

“Kiss me,” he says, staring at him intently.

His mind spins at 300 revolutions per second and he feels so dizzy, head foggy and cloudy and it has to be a misunderstanding; he has heard it all wrong. But Minho is still looking at him, all serious, daring.

“Hyung, kiss me,” he repeats, speaking every word carefully. This has been his dream, the music of his ears and now, listening to it actually unfolding, actually been real feels like a movie. He is frozen, he doesn’t know what to do, how to answer to how Minho is waiting for him to move. He stays stills looking out of place, out of mind, out of space because Minho is coming close, closer, his hands searching.

In the dark, he can’t see his cheeks blushing but the thud of his heart beating, his hands latching onto Minho’s, seeing him even with his eyes shut (he can always see him, he is embroidered under his skin, behind his eyelids). This is real, he thinks, fingers twined, his hands gracing his hips, pushing him near, so near that he feels the fabric of his shirt, the perfume swirling into his nostrils like a lullaby (sweet, reassuring, calming; like a balm for his soul, he melts into it, he is nothing but broken bones that Minho holds dear).

He wants to clash his lips, bruise them with all the force of his emotions, to bite and moan and let him know that he is more than willing to go down with him, to walk over ice and fire and spikes, that he can use him as he wants, that he is his toy to play with, that only a word can turn him into flames or blow them away like a candle on the wind. That this can be the first one and the last, he doesn’t mind, he can’t mind because his breath itches an inch away from him and he can take it, he can do it.

“Maybe I read it all wrong,” he says, his eyes looking for him, tentatively; hands on his cheeks. “I thought that you liked me, too,” and his voice is so soft, so tender, gently brushing his ears, caressing the inside of his chest as if touching his core, opening him rip.

He feels like flying, he feels like dying, he feels the earth beneath his feet alive, bouncing, his blood pumping and his hands are miles away, gracing the sky that is Minho.

“No, you read it right,” he wants to say. He wants to move, he wants to purchase his lips, he wants to kiss him slowly. But he does none of them and thinks of how disposable he is, how easy for Minho would be to change him for someone else (someone who knows how to kiss, how to speak, how to confess his undying feelings that he keeps reclosed inside his narrow chest). Maybe this is only on his head, maybe he is going crazy, insane but his lips are soft and smooth and taste like apple-tart and spring and there aren’t fireworks but it is still wonderful. It is like “love me tender” whispered right to his ears, piercing his soul with every small turn of his mouth on him. It is painfully slow and beautiful, flowers in bloom and his hands are pinning his shoulders, cradling the end of his neck with such gentleness that it feels like a dream.

“I love you, hyung,” he says, the flavour of his lips still spread over Jinwoo’s. “I wanted you to know. And I’m sorry for stealing the kiss.” It is no longer warm and safe when Minho moves out of him when he is not encircled by his frame. Minho looks dejected while admitting his sin (as if kissing was made by only one instead of two). He is leaving. He is letting him go. He can’t let him walk away.  

He rushes after him, leaving the room where they kissed. He catches him on the hall, Minho turns around, surprised, a weak smile growing big.

“Hyung?” there are hopes and expectations condensed into this only word; as if a world colliding, Minho faces him with prospects and anticipations and Jinwoo can’t fail him again (he needs to tell him something, he needs to stop him from going).

It is simple. In the end, what else is there to be said? Jinwoo grabs his hands and pulls him in, fingers caressing his back, hugging him urgently. He is melting, diluted into cosmic stardust painting his palms. Minho breathes in once, twice, three times and embraces him, too.

There is nothing to say, not now when he has him when he is holding him, finally (when he is holding him back, kissing the space between his eyes, mumbling sweet-nothings that are evanescence his heart).