Chapter Text
The new neighbors could kiss his ass.
They had only moved in a week ago and already the cops had been called on them three times for “noise complaints.” The wrinkly old farts clearly had no idea what quality music was.
It wasn’t like they blasted heavy metal at four in the morning (okay, maybe once, but that had been a creative emergency). The band was good at their instruments, and Jisung was a good vocalist, no matter what anyone said. So he didn’t get why the geezers whined so much. It wasn’t even like they practiced with the garage door open, though they could have. Jisung would’ve done it just to piss them off more, but the rest of the band didn’t want to risk another incident with the neighbor showing up wielding a baseball bat.
“Alright, we’ll handle it,” Chan, the band’s drummer, said politely to the cops as he closed the front door behind them. He sighed and returned to the others.
“Last warning,” he simplified the officers’ long speech. “Next time they come back, it’s with a fine.”
“Fuck the fine. I should just go over there and tell those fossils they’re basically one foot in the grave anyway, so the least they could do is enjoy our beautiful music while they can,” Jisung snapped, already half-rising to actually do it, but Chan caught his arm in time and shoved him back onto the couch with a pointed look.
“We’ll figure it out,” said Jeongin, the pianist, firmly. “I hope,” he added, far less certain.
“No worries. We just need to find another place to move practice,” Chan reassured them, naturally stepping into his usual role of holding the group together.
“It’s so dumb that two raisins are forcing us to move when they’re the ones who invaded our space,” Jisung muttered angrily, arms crossed as he sulked deeper into the couch.
They all went quiet, thinking.
“We could use my place,” Seungmin, the bassist, offered hesitantly. He lived with his older brother, who, to put it mildly, wasn’t a fan of their music.
Everyone stared at him doubtfully. After a pause, Jeongin broke the awkward silence.
“And you’re only telling us this now? After we almost had to pay a fine?” he demanded.
“Oh please. Like we would’ve actually paid it,” Seungmin shrugged, and no one argued.
So they packed all the instruments into the little van they’d borrowed from Chan’s dad and drove them over to Seungmin’s garage. It was smaller than their old space, sure, but everything fit, a little cramped but nothing unbearable.
“There won’t be any problems here, right?” one of them asked.
“Nope. No neighbors on one side, and on the other is a chill young couple. Totally fine,” Seungmin reassured them.
“Except Minho’s locked up in his room upstairs, like always,” he added with an eye roll.
Jisung’s head snapped up at the name. He had never particularly been close to Seungmin’s brother. Too much of a… nerd.
“Your brother’s home?” Jisung asked a little too quickly.
The others all glanced at him curiously.
“He’s home,” Seungmin confirmed, though it almost sounded like a question. “Why? You planning to say hi?” he teased, earning laughter from the rest of the group, everyone except Jisung, who felt his ears burn a little for some weird reason he couldn't name.
“No,” Jisung scoffed. “I just thought he’d be at the library, or buried in his textbooks, or working on some presentation, or-”
“He’s home,” Seungmin cut him off before he could embarrass himself further. “He’s studying for some exam. I haven’t seen him without a book in weeks. Total nerd.” He snorted.
“Yeah, total nerd,” Jisung echoed, earning even louder laughter from the others.
Jisung might have got a little-tiny-itty-bitty-stupid crush on his best friend's brother, but that's only because he has a ridiculously pretty face, which is so unfair to be paired with such an up-tight and boring personality.
Ignoring the banter, they focused on unpacking the gear. Once everything was in place, the situation didn’t look half as bad as it had at first.
They plugged their instruments into the amps, and Jisung stepped up to the mic for a quick test.
“Nice, the acoustics here are pretty good,” he said with satisfaction. “And not too echoey either. Maybe that means Jeongin won’t miss half the keys this time,” he added, shooting a pointed look at their pianist, who frowned deeply in protest.
“You say that like your voice doesn’t crack at least three times every practice,” Jeongin snapped back. The others wisely kept their mouths shut, since their playing could all use some work too. But before the bickering could escalate, Chan cut in.
“Okay, enough. That’s the point of practice, to get better. That’s literally why it’s called practice, in case you didn’t know,” he said as he tried to wedge himself behind his drum set, which had been crammed into the far corner. Using the boxes stacked by the wall as makeshift stepping stones, he managed to scramble to his stool.
“I need a smoke, I can’t stand you guys right now,” Seungmin sighed, heading out, Jeongin on his heels muttering something about needing fresh air because everyone stank.
Jisung shook his head and called after them, “Then I’ll just go find some food, since you didn’t even bother offering your guests anything.”
“You haven’t been a guest here in ages, idiot,” Seungmin shot back. “And don’t touch my kimchi jjigae,” he added louder as he left.
“I’ll do whatever I want,” Jisung yelled back childishly. “If I feel like it, I’ll eat everything in your fridge!”
Seungmin just sighed, shaking his head as he and Jeongin disappeared outside.
“Cool, and I’ll just… be stuck here waiting,” Chan muttered to the empty garage, wedged tightly behind his drum kit.
Jisung sulked his way down the hallway, heading straight for the kitchen. He’d been over at Seungmin’s plenty of times, ever since middle school. They’d hung out a lot more since Seungmin had moved out of his parents’ place and into this smaller but still ridiculously nice house with his brother. No parents meant way fewer rules than at Jisung’s own place, which made him feel freer here.
Pushing into the kitchen, he made his way straight to the fridge. Opening it never failed to impress him. Vegetables and fruit lined up by color, food arranged by expiration date, everything neatly labeled. Even Seungmin’s precious kimchi jjigae had a label, which made Jisung smirk, though his eyes quickly snagged on something else.
A container marked Brownie. Jackpot.
He pulled one out and bit into it, immediately moaning at the rich, chocolatey chewiness. Without hesitation, he shoved the rest into his mouth and reached for another.
“Well well. If it isn’t the Han Jisung,” a low and blank voice drawled behind him. Jisung nearly jumped out of his skin.
Clutching his chest, he spun around. Standing in the kitchen doorway was none other than Lee Minho. In his usual casual comfort clothes, gray sweatpants and a black hoodie. His hair was a mess, like he’d just woken up from a nap in the middle of studying. A thick textbook rested in one hand, as if he didn't want to waste a single minute. Glasses perched on his nose, his trademark. Total nerd.
“You walk around like a ghost,” Jisung accused.
“It’s my house. You’re the one halfway inside the fridge like some starving raccoon,” Minho deadpanned, setting his book down on the counter.
Jisung frowned at him, popping the rest of the brownie in his mouth as he watched Minho’s every movement.
In all of their almost ten years of knowing of each other's existence, they have never had a proper conversation before. Not one that didn't include Jisung pointing out how boring the other was, or one where Minho didn't call Jisung an idiot.
“That’s my ‘good luck’ brownie from Felix,” Minho said flatly.
Felix… the name rang a bell. Seungmin had mentioned him before, they gamed together together quite often, and from what Jisung remembered, the guy sounded disgustingly sweet. He was also pretty sure Felix was in Minho’s study group.
Without a second thought, Jisung grabbed another brownie, shoved the whole thing into his mouth, and chewed loudly with his mouth open. “Here’s your ‘good luck,’” he mumbled around chocolate, making sure the other can see his brownie covered teeth.
Minho grimaced. “You’re disgusting.”
“Thanks,” Jisung replied, still with his mouth full.
Minho kept watching as Jisung finally swallowed the brownie.
“I hear you’ll be practicing here from now on,” he said as he stepped closer. Jisung was still standing in front of the open fridge, so Minho just reached past him to grab a bottle of water from the door.
Now that he was closer, Jisung caught the faint scent of his body wash. It made his nose wrinkle as he tried not to breathe too deeply. That would be… weird.
“Oh, you’ll definitely hear me, don’t worry. I’ll make sure to be extra loud,” Jisung blurted out without thinking, aiming to annoy him.
Minho just glanced down at him from behind his glasses, eyes dark, and hummed low in agreement.
The meaning of his own words suddenly hit Jisung. His eyes widened, ears burning hot, but he decided against trying to defend himself.
Instead, Minho tore his gaze away and looked down at Jisung’s hands. “Wash your hands,” he ordered, tilting his head toward the sink.
Jisung lifted his hands and, sure enough, his fingers were still smeared with chocolate crumbs from the brownie.
“I wouldn’t be happy if you left chocolate fingerprints everywhere,” the older added.
But instead of obeying, Jisung lifted his hand higher, right to eye level, and flipped him off, locking eyes with him the whole time. To top it off, he slowly dragged his tongue along the length of his middle finger and popped the tip into his mouth, licking the last of the chocolate away with a smirk.
Minho stared down at him, eyes somehow even darker now, gaze fixed on Jisung’s lips even after his finger dropped away.
“Wouldn’t want to leave stains on the doorknobs,” Jisung teased, voice edged with mischief.
Minho didn’t move, didn’t speak, he just stared, a statue carved in the air.
Jisung shifted under the weight of that gaze, unsure what to do with it.
“What? Do you want some too?” he asked, raising his hand again for effect and holding his fingers just inches from Minho’s face. Minho still didn’t answer, only stared at those fingers as if all it would take was the smallest push for him to act.
Jisung sucked in a sharp breath and snapped his hand back down to his side, suddenly nervous, as if realizing something all at once.
Minho’s eyes flicked back to his, brows slightly raised in question.
“Practice,” Jisung blurted, voice almost breaking. “I have practice.”
He spun on his heel and left the kitchen in a rush, abandoning the older man frozen in place.
But just before turning the corner, Jisung risked a glance back. Minho was still standing there, shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut like he was trying to chase something away.
That sight pulled a smug little smile to Jisung’s lips, one he wiped off just as quickly before stepping back into the garage.
“Your brother’s still an ass,” he said matter-of-factly to Seungmin, who just choose to ignore him.
--
The rehearsals had gone surprisingly well. Ever since they’d been forced to practice in the new space, something about it made everything feel smoother. The band played sharper, everyone seemed more focused, and even Jisung had been hitting the high notes more cleanly. They’d learned not to get carried away, but they didn’t bother hiding how much they enjoyed the good rehearsals, and their laughter gave them away anyway. The new place almost felt lucky. Not even a single complaint about the noise yet. Not even from Seungmin’s stiff older brother.
Today had gone just the same, and by the time they decided to wrap up night had already fallen. The air had turned cold with the unpredictable autumn weather. Jisung, still in just a T-shirt, was pacing the garage for the fourth time, searching for the jacket he could’ve sworn he’d brought with him after Chan had reminded him.
But the jacket was nowhere to be found. And his bare arms wouldn’t last long outside.
Seungmin, about to leave, stepped back inside with a shiver.
“Jisung, your bus gets to the bus stop in twelve minutes. If you don’t leave soon, you’ll miss it,” he reminded him impatiently, glancing at his watch.
“Thanks, Seungmin, I know,” Jisung said, barely holding onto his patience as he checked behind the plastic bins again. Still nothing.
“You know you could just stay here, right? You wouldn’t be in the way.” Seungmin leaned against the wall, making no effort to help. “Just call your dad. Not like he would even care.” he added more quietly.
“I just need to find it,” Jisung muttered, his head disappearing behind the couch, one leg kicking in the air as he tried to balance. He came back up empty-handed, sighing in frustration.
Maybe he hadn’t brought it after all. Maybe he’d only thought about it, seen it hanging by the door before leaving and assumed he’d picked it up. The sun had been warm earlier. Maybe he really had left it at home.
As a last chance, he said, “I’ll just check inside. Maybe someone carried it in by accident.” He brushed past Seungmin and pushed open the door to the living room.
The place was spotless, annoyingly so, and the jacket was clearly not there either. Jisung let out a heavy sigh, stepping further inside until the kitchen came into view.
There, standing at the counter with his back turned, was Minho. A podcast about codes and stuff buzzed quietly from his phone as he poured hot water into a mug. Jisung couldn’t help a small laugh. "Just like an old man."
An idea struck, bright and mischievous, and without wasting another second he headed straight for the kitchen, straight for Minho, who, luckily for him, was wearing a warm-looking navy hoodie.
“Hey, grandpa,” Jisung said once he was close enough.
Minho jerked his head around, startled, not having noticed him come in. Probably too caught up in whatever nonsense the podcast was rambling about. His surprise only deepened when he realized just how close Jisung had gotten.
Now only a step apart, their chests nearly brushed when they breathed. Minho’s eyes dropped in surprise as Jisung’s hands rose and went straight for his hoodies zipper.
“You don’t mind, right?” Jisung asked, looking up at him from under his lashes, his voice calm, as if the answer didn’t matter. His fingers worked quickly, tugging the zipper down before Minho could even respond.
Minho, caught off guard, half-raised his arms to give him space.
“Sure, not like I needed it,” he muttered sarcastically, like this was so normal.
“Good.” Jisung’s delicate fingers brushed Minho’s shoulders deliberately as he pealed the hoodie off of him, Minho not moving a muscle to help.
In seconds, the hoodie was his. Jisung pulled it on, zipped it up all the way, the sleeves almost swallowing his fingers but otherwise fitting nicely.
“Thanks. Really means a lot,” he said quickly, clearly in a hurry. He turned to leave, but then paused. His eyes flicked to the counter and the mug of steaming tea.
Before Minho could stop him, Jisung picked it up and took a sip. His face twisted instantly at the bitter taste and the heat, but just to prove a point, he raised the mug again to his wet lips and forced down another gulp. Minho’s eyebrows climbed higher with every second.
“Can’t catch a cold,” Jisung said, setting the mug back down and patting Minho’s t-shirt covered chest twice, like petting a cat on the back, before stepping away. Minho just stared, speechless, eyebrows practically in his hair.
“Jisung!” Seungmin’s voice echoed from the garage. “Bus! Now, unless you’re staying.”
Jisung hummed in response, patted Minho’s chest one last time, then turned on his heel and darted back toward the garage.
The air outside was sharp, but Jisung barely felt it. The hoodie was warm, yes, but so was the lingering heat under his skin, on his neck, across his face. He couldn’t tell if it was from the borrowed hoodie and tea, or from the closeness that still burned at the edge of his memory. Whatever it was, the cold couldn't touch him all the way to home.
--
“You know my uncle’s bar, the one where all those indie bands usually play?” Chan said from his seat behind the drum kit. They had been practicing for hours and were finally taking a well-earned break. Seungmin was tuning his guitar while Jisung and Jeongin sprawled lazily across the couch. At Chan’s question, they all nodded.
“I talked to him. He said there’s an open slot. Another band canceled their set, and he’s willing to let us play instead.”
That made everyone sit up with interest.
Chan’s uncle owned a bar that was well-known for hosting up-and-coming alternative bands every weekend. It was the kind of place where producers often showed up, looking for new talent worth sponsoring, maybe even helping to kickstart their careers. A few years ago, a small local band had played there just once, and now it was almost impossible to find a radio station that _didn’t_ play their songs.
So playing there was a big deal. Bands practically begged for a chance to perform on that stage. Nobody got paid for it, but the opportunity itself was worth more than money, just the possibility of being noticed.
And everyone in the room had been hoping for this chance for a long time. True, Chan’s uncle was the owner, but he didn’t let just anyone play there. His calendar was always packed, months in advance. That was why it was such a huge deal that he was finally giving them a shot.
“The gig’s next weekend. So, less than ten days,” Chan continued. “We need to pull ourselves together and put a setlist in place. We’ll have about thirty minutes to play, so we’ve got to be smart about the songs. But it’d look a lot better if we included more originals.” His gaze flicked meaningfully toward Jisung, and the others followed, expectant.
Jisung was the one who wrote most of their lyrics. He was constantly scribbling down new ideas, but whenever anyone asked, he always brushed them off with, It’s not perfect. And if it wasn’t perfect, then it wasn’t worth sharing at all. He was never satisfied with his writing, or maybe he just didn’t want to share because the words felt too personal.
“I’m working on them,” Jisung muttered, trying to brush it off.
Chan sighed. “Fine. We’ve got two originals we can use. We’ll fill the rest of the set with covers to hold it together. If we put on a good show, they might invite us back. By then maybe someone will have more lyrics finished.” His stare landed on Jisung, sharp enough to sting.
“You could pick up a pen yourself, you know, since you’ve got such a big mouth on you and so many words you wanna say,” Jisung shot back, leaning forward on the couch with a scowl.
“Calm down. You’re the one singing them, and writing them, at least in theory. They should carry your voice, your thoughts. But we could help if you just told us what you wanted them to be about,” Chan argued, like it was a conversation they’d had far too many times before.
Jisung rolled his eyes, not even pretending to hide his irritation, and flopped back against the couch cushions.
“Whatever. Let’s just throw out ideas for what we want to play,” Chan said, steering the mood back before it could spiral further.
The next hour and a half was spent piecing together a rough setlist, complete with small arguments over which songs deserved a spot. The list was still too long to fit into thirty minutes, and before the debates could escalate into something worse, like a fistfight, they called for a long break to cool down.
A few blocks away, Minho had been hunched over his textbooks and laptop in the corner of a café for hours, three empty coffee cups and one still holding some liquid, standing guard on his table.
He’d heard the faint echoes of the band’s practice earlier and decided there was no way he could manage to focus today while drums rattled through the floorboards and vocals cut through even his noise-canceling headphones. Today, he needed to concentrate.
His exams were close, and unless he scored perfectly, every minute not spent studying would feel wasted. His professors said he was overdoing it, that he didn’t need to spend so many hours buried in books and his laptop, that he was so smart, half of the time he spent on studying would be more than enough.
Born gifted, they said. Probably had math equations and computer science concepts in his head since he was a baby.
Which was, frankly, bullshit. No baby came into the world thinking about numbers. This was all hard work. All practice. If he hadn’t spent years glued to his books, he wouldn’t be where he was now.
The numbers on the screen began to blur as Minho sank too far into his own thoughts, so he shook his head and forced himself to focus again.
It didn’t last long. The muffled sound of an argument carried through his headphones, breaking his concentration. After finishing one last equation, he reluctantly looked up toward the noise.
At first, all he saw was a tall, heavily muscled man’s broad back. But when the man shifted slightly to the side, Minho could make out his tattooed arms, his imposing height, and the surprising patience on his face as he stood in front of someone at least a foot shorter, waving his arms and pointing at the wet patch on his sweater… Han Jisung.
Minho frowned, pulling one ear of his headphones down to hear better.
“Do those big muscles of yours come with working eyes?” Jisung snapped, grabbing a handful of napkins from the counter and blotting at the coffee splattered on his sweater. From where Minho sat, he couldn’t even see a stain, so it couldn’t have been much.
Jisung, however, wasn’t letting it go. “Maybe try using your eyes so you can avoid bumping into people. Or has all those steroids ruined your vision?” he shot back. A few nearby tables gasped audibly at the insult.
The man’s calm demeanor began to slip, the veins on his bald head reddening with the effort of holding back his temper.
Jisung opened his mouth to speak again, clearly not finished, but before he could cross the line and probably get himself thrown onto the floor for his big mouth, Minho stood and strode toward them in long, purposeful steps.
He grabbed Jisung firmly by the elbow and yanked him back, his eyes flashing at the man’s furious face and back to Jisung's. “I think that’s enough.”
Jisung tried to pull free, but Minho’s grip was far stronger than he expected. “You’d like to apologize for not keeping your mouth shut. Right?” Minho pushed him slightly toward the man as if to prompt him.
“No way am I apologizing to some meatheaded—” His words cut off with a sharp hiss as Minho tightened his grip until the circulation nearly stopped in his arm.
“Sorry,” Jisung ground out finally when Minho refused to let go.
“Good,” Minho said curtly. He didn’t wait for the man to accept it, he looked ready to explode anyway. Instead, Minho dragged Jisung away from the scene without another word.
“Hey, I didn’t even get to order,” Jisung protested, but Minho didn’t release him until they reached his table. He shoved him a little too firmly into the empty chair and then scanned the café, his sharp look enough to send all the curious onlookers back to their own business.
“You’re so pushy,” Jisung muttered, almost pouting, as if not being beaten up by a man twice his size had somehow ruined his day.
“I just saved your ass from a black eye, you idiot,” Minho shot back as he sat down again, discarding his headphones on top of his textbooks and notes.
“Wow.” Jisung leaned forward on the table, taking in all the work Minho has been busy with, genuine awe in his expression. “You’re such a nerd.”
Minho didn’t even bother replying, just rolled his eyes and tried to get back to his work. But Jisung clearly had other plans.
Reaching across the table, he snatched Minho’s half-empty coffee cup and raised it like it was his own. Minho gave him a questioning look.
“What? You didn’t let me get my own coffee, so—” Jisung didn’t finish the sentence. He just took a long gulp, then set the cup down with a dramatic grimace, which, to his annoyance, made Minho smirk in satisfaction.
“Damn, you really like bitter stuff, don’t you?” Jisung wiped his mouth in exaggerated disgust before leaning over to a nearby empty table. He grabbed a leftover biscuit off a dirty plate and popped it into his mouth, drawing an even deeper scowl from Minho. “You really are an old man.”
“You’re gross,” Minho muttered under his breath, but Jisung heard him anyway, and smiled like it was the best thing he’d ever said.
They spent the next few minutes in silence, Minho focused on his laptop screen while Jisung stole small sips of Minho’s too-bitter coffee, scrolling through his music app to tweak their setlist.
But peace and quiet was always a luxury when Jisung was around. It didn’t take long before he got restless.
“This date is boring,” he sighed, blowing out a dramatic puff of air and crossing his arms over his chest.
Minho glanced up for half a second before turning back to his computer. “Not a date.”
“What?” Jisung asked, his voice loud with fake shock. “But when we matched on Tinder and you said we should go on a date, and also said I was extremely attractive and the most handsome guy you’ve ever seen, and also said I look like the awesomest musician of this generation- I thought you liked me. And now you’re saying this isn’t even a date?” He waved his hands and scrunched up his face all cartoonish, definitely selling the performance to anyone within earshot of his too-loud complaining.
Minho just leaned back and stared at him, blank-faced, half impressed by his acting skills… and half finding him a little too adorable. He didn’t say anything, letting Jisung squirm for a moment.
“Never happened.”
Jisung dropped his arms with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “You’re boring. When someone asks me about bad date stories, I’m gonna say this one.”
“Sure. Glad I could help.”
“How is Seungmin so cool and you’re so… old?”
“Han Jisung,” Minho’s patience was wearing thin. “I’m two years older than you.”
Jisung’s eyes went wide. “Two??” He looked genuinely shocked. “More like too old to be talking to young pretty guys like me.”
Minho closed his eyes for a moment, holding back from saying something harsh. “You’re distracting me,” he muttered finally.
“What are you studying all this time anyway?” Jisung scooted closer to peek at the laptop screen. His eyes widened. “Is this the Matrix? Are you really a robot?”
“I study computer science.” Jisung blinked at him, waiting for more. “You know, coding and stuff.”
Jisung didn’t reply. He clearly had no idea what that meant.
So for the next ten minutes, Minho explained his work anyway. Jisung didn’t understand a single word, but Minho was so passionate about it, so alive, that Jisung didn’t dare interrupt. He had never seen him like this before.
“…and I’ve been struggling with this one,” Minho pointed at his screen, “but I need to perfect it before the exams if I want a perfect score.”
Jisung nodded, though his eyes were fixed on Minho instead of the computer.
“You’re hot when you’re all nerdy,” he blurted out honestly.
Minho turned to him, their faces way too close, eyes narrowing in skepticism. “Did you even pay attention?”
“Oh, I did,” Jisung smirked, his gaze drifting over Minho’s sharp features with a slow appreciation.
For a few seconds Minho just looked back at him, unreadable.
“So is that your type? Boring and intellectual?”
“Something like that,” Jisung grinned, thrilled that Minho hadn’t pulled away.
Minho finally shook his head and pushed Jisung’s face away with his palm. Jisung giggled against it, and Minho could feel the vibrations under his hand.
A buzz from Jisung’s phone broke the moment, a reminder from Chan that they needed to get back to practice for the big night. But before leaving, Jisung held out his phone to the grump in front of him.
“Give me your number.”
Minho’s eyebrows shot up, searching his eyes.
“This was the worst date ever. We have to do it again.” Jisung’s grin was huge.
Minho shook his head but took the phone anyway, typing in his number. “Don’t text me unnecessary things. Or at unreasonable times,” he deadpanned, laying down rules.
Jisung’s smile only widened. “I would never do that.” He grinned mischievously, sliding his phone back into his pocket before standing. Leaving Minho to his “computer stuff,” he walked back toward the band, humming a melody under his breath.