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Minho arrives in a taxi, bundled up, all warm and young-looking. Jisung takes one look at him — coat and scarf; long, wooly socks — and laughs.
“I thought it’d be colder,” Minho admits, sheepishly, after they’ve hauled his suitcase up all four flights of stairs, after he’s unwrapped his scarf and unbuttoned his coat and unrolled his socks. After that, Jisung had knocked him over onto the couch in his excitement, and now they sit and look at each other, alive with possibility.
“It was cold,” Jisung says. Now that the laughter has subsided, another ball of emotion has taken hold. He takes a deep breath. Minho smells like the airport. He smells faintly like cigarettes even though he doesn’t smoke — a gift from Jisung’s neighborhood. Jisung takes another breath and refuses to cry. “But now you’re here.”
They only have two days, so Jisung drags him out before Minho can even change, barely stopping to grab a cap for himself. He’d thought Minho had been crazy for coming in the first place — two days, he’d echoed, in disbelief — but Minho had told him the tickets were non-refundable, and, well. Jisung wasn’t going to complain about getting to see his boyfriend.
“Just leave the jacket,” Jisung had said, tugging on Minho’s arm before he could even finish lacing up his boots. “And the scarf.”
“I look ridiculous,” Minho says now, blinking at him while the subway car sways. One of Minho’s hands is holding onto the grab rail; his other hand is on Jisung.
Jisung begs to differ.
“You look like an off-duty supermodel,” he says, blinking up at Minho. “I wouldn’t be surprised if someone came up to you and asked if you wanted to pose for them.”
Minho looks unimpressed. “Are you speaking from experience? Do I need to worry about boys with cameras stealing you away?”
“So romantic,” Jisung teases him, laughing. “Are you calling me pretty?”
Minho rolls his eyes. His hand — the one on Jisung — slips downwards to pinch his ass.
“Shameless,” he says, but his smile says it all.
The museum is nice. There’s a lot of art. Jisung has been before, obviously, but going with Minho is a different experience altogether. There’s a quilting exhibit that they both pause to admire. The sign describes the practice: as much an act of love as an act of labor.
The next exhibit they enter is a little less legible. There’s a lot of color, a lot of — lettering? Scribbles? Jisung can’t tell which it’s supposed to be, but he likes it regardless. There aren’t a lot of other people in the room, so he takes the opportunity to pull his phone out and take a photo of Minho.
It’s a good photo. His camera roll is filled with the silly little photos that Minho texts him when he’s eating, when he’s playing with his cats, when he’s working out, since they auto-save and he’s never had the heart to turn that feature off. Jisung likes to look at them sometimes, when he’s feeling — not lonely. They talk enough to stave off the loneliness, most days. Just impatient, for the countdown to end and for his longing to bridge the distance between them, an ocean and too many time zones apart.
He’s been thinking for too long, and his phone screen has gone dark. He clicks it on again. His lock screen is a picture of Minho eating, one he had taken the last time they were together, when he had flown back to Korea for Minho’s birthday half a year ago. It’s ordinary, almost banal. He has over a hundred photos from just that day.
He remembers how he’d felt then, similar to how he feels now, so suffused with joy that there had hardly been room for anything else.
Jisung replaces the photo on his lock screen with the photo he just took. He does a little lap around the room, before returning to Minho, who’s still staring intensely at the first piece.
They stare at it together. Jisung tries to see what Minho’s seeing. The painting wiggles back at him. The lines reform into a face contorted in laughter, then smooth back out into indecipherable shapes.
“What do you think this means?” Jisung whispers, eventually.
Minho leans in. “Fuck if I know,” he whispers, into Jisung’s ear. “You’re the one that took the picture of it.”
Jisung’s heart thumps a little harder in his chest even as he laughs. “I was taking a picture of you.”
He shows Minho the picture, and Minho laughs, too, insisting that he take a better one.
“With my face in it, at least!”
The painting — and Minho’s handsome, silly face — is immortalized as Jisung’s new lock screen wallpaper for the next three months.
The last exhibit they see is the Hokusai exhibition. More than The Great Wave, though, or the other thirty-five paintings in his series, they pause in front of —
“I didn’t know Hokusai got down like that,” Jisung says, after a pause. An older couple rounds the corner, peers over at the book they’re examining, and turns away with a gasp.
Minho squints at the text surrounding the illustration. “I think I can read what some of that says.”
“Really?”
The image really speaks for itself, but Jisung can’t help being curious. “What does it say?”
“It says…” Minho turns to him with a playful grin. “That’s what I’m going to do to you tonight.”
Jisung smacks him on the arm, scandalized. “I thought you were being serious!”
“Tentacle porn is serious stuff,” Minho says, but he’s smiling, almost gleeful. “Admit it. You considered it for a second there.”
“You’re terrible,” Jisung says, cheeks heating up at his insinuation. “We’re leaving.”
Laughing, Minho follows him out of the exhibition.
There isn’t enough time to see everything. Jisung leads Minho out of the museum by the hand, pulling him ahead with an urgency that raises eyebrows. Minho’s, anyway, when Jisung turns back to look at him.
All he says, though, is —
“Where to?”
“There’s a park across the street.” Jisung shuffles his feet. “I’ve taken you before, actually.”
Minho’s lips quirks upwards. “I remember,” he says, amused. “We biked past a horse, and you screamed.”
“You screamed,” Jisung says, accusatorial. He doesn’t deny it though.
“We both screamed.” Minho shoulder-bumps him, smile growing. “My hands were dirty from adjusting your seat. The uphill stretch was hell. It was all terribly romantic.”
Jisung shoots him a look. “Are you calling me short?”
“Of course not.” Minho blinks innocently at him. They’re properly in the park now, and making their way down the main road, bluebells blooming to their left and right. Fairy flowers, Jisung thinks.
After another beat, Minho adds, “Just bad at biking.”
Jisung whacks him in the arm, outraged. “I don’t remember you being any better!”
“No,” Minho says, a soft smirk playing at his lips. “But you were definitely worse.”
Jisung huffs. They turn away from the road, the bluebells, the horses and the bikers. “Your definition of romance might need some work.”
“Maybe,” Minho agrees. “Are you going to show me?”
Jisung looks up, biting his lip to hide his smile. The day is warm and cloudless; the trees form a gentle canopy against the sunlight. There is something bright and sweet in the air, and it hums under his skin when Minho smiles back at him.
Easy. Everything is easy — the feeling rising in his chest most of all.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I am.”
There’s a hill, nestled in between more popular gardens and walking trails. The slope to the top is gentle, and when they arrive, Jisung picks a sturdy-looking tree to lay down against. Still connected — palms pressed together, fingers slotted in neatly beside each other — Minho follows him down onto the grass.
“Whenever I’m here I think of you.”
“Here?” Minho’s voice is light, teasing. “Not the flower gardens or the wildflower trails?”
Jisung kicks a leg out at him and Minho hooks an ankle around his, bringing it back down. He squeezes his hand, laughing. “Come on, tell me why.”
“Kids like this spot,” Jisung murmurs. He nudges at Minho. “Look.”
There are a few other groups in the area — picnicking, sunbathing, reading. Lots of families. Lots of children. Closest to them, two students share a sandwich and a blanket, their backpacks holding the corners down even as a breeze makes the edges flutter. Someone is blowing bubbles, and they float through the air, iridescent. A little further down, two girls are chasing behind a dog, loud peals of laughter that travel up the hill.
Jisung’s thoughts wander, as they often do here, quiet domesticity nestled all around. They flit around without settling on anything specific — a family, one day, maybe. A baby with Minho’s laugh. A dog to chase after the bubbles; a cat that hates being outside. A slow afternoon, an easy warmth.
The thought of the future used to overwhelm him. But these days, he thinks, he feels more hopeful than anything else. Here, the fantasy is straightforward. It feels like it could be real.
“I watched two people get married here once,” he says. “This little girl carried their rings for them. It was…”
He thinks again of a little girl with Minho’s eyes, and his heart seizes in his chest. It hurts, just a little.
“…nice,” he finishes. He looks at Minho, who’s already looking at him, and gives him a small smile. “I think it’d be nice.”
The kiss catches Jisung off guard. He doesn’t squeak, but it’s a close thing.
He brings one hand up to Minho’s shoulder to steady himself. “What —”
Minho swoops back in, and he giggles, even as he kisses back, just a touch more enthusiastically than they usually would in public. When Minho pulls back, Jisung blinks at him and licks at his lips.
“What was that about?”
Minho blinks back, unashamed. “You wax lyrical about me and I can’t kiss you?”
Jisung’s cheeks warm. “When did I —”
“You tell me you daydream about marrying me and having kids, and you expect me to just sit there and nod?”
“I don’t know,” Jisung says, trying for coy and landing somewhere near giddy instead. “I didn’t say I was imagining us.”
“Do you have any other boyfriends I should know about?” Minho teases him right back. “You say you’re going to show me true romance, and then bring me to a place where you sit and think about me.” His tone stays playful, though his eyes soften, just a bit. “Do all of your boyfriends get this kind of treatment, or am I just lucky?”
“Of course not,” Jisung says. He cracks a smile. Minho is so ridiculous. He plays along, indulgent. “Weekends are reserved for my favorite boyfriend only.”
Minho lets out an exaggerated sigh. “What a relief. I was just starting to get comfortable too.”
They grin at each other like idiots until Jisung can’t take it any more, so happy he feels like he could float all the way into the sky.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispers, after kissing Minho again. “I missed you. Thank you for coming.”
“Always,” Minho murmurs. “Who would monopolize your weekends otherwise?”
A wave of emotion swells in his chest. Fiercely, Jisung thinks — I’m the lucky one.
It’s a beautiful day to sit side by side in relative silence. Jisung would enjoy sitting with Minho even if it was gray and misty, but it’s not. Even the sun is beaming.
He watches as the two students sitting on the blanket, done with their sandwiches, brush their hands shyly against each other — once, twice — until they’re holding hands. The dog from earlier is curled up, napping, next to the girls. Down the hill, a vendor gestures exaggeratedly, showing off his bubble wands to even more wide-eyed babies.
He takes Minho’s hand, catching his attention.
“Let’s picnic next time,” Jisung murmurs, and Minho kisses him on the cheek.
“Tomorrow?”
Jisung tilts his head back to look at him. “Tomorrow?”
Minho’s eyes dance. “That’s what I’m asking you. My flight isn’t until six.”
Jisung’s mind whirs. “I don’t have any food.”
“We can go grocery shopping together.”
“I don’t have a picnic blanket.”
“I’ll sit on one of your hoodies.”
Minho smiles at Jisung’s grimace. He cups his cheeks and squishes them together. “Ah, you’re so cute when you’re concerned. I don’t care about a blanket, baby.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “We can shower together afterwards.”
“Deal,” Jisung jokes, and they both laugh. “Seriously though. You don’t have anywhere you want to go?”
“Let’s see.” Minho leans back, thoughtful. He counts on his fingers. “Your apartment. Your favorite spots. Your local park.” He purses his lips, pretending to be deep in thought. Then he shakes his head. “Nope. Nowhere else I’d rather be.”
On the train back, Jisung nudges Minho with his shoulder. “What do you want for dinner?”
The door opens, and they perform the obligatory shuffle to get closer together as more people get on.
“Hmm.” The door closes. Minho drops his head into Jisung’s shoulder. “You pick. I’m not that hungry.”
Jisung bites his lip. “You came all the way here,” he says. “You should pick.”
“I came here to see you,” Minho corrects him. He nudges Jisung back playfully without looking up. “I’ll eat anything. We can even order in if you want.”
“Okay,” Jisung says, something strange in his throat. He blinks down at the top of Minho’s head and lets the feeling settle. “I’ll find something.”
Coordinating around their usual schedules is a bit of a hassle. By the time Jisung gets up, Minho is going to bed. There’s an hour or two between when Minho wakes up in the morning and when he has to leave for work, and then he’s busy until it’s three or four in the morning for Jisung. Still, they make do. A lot of planning. A lot of pictures and voice messages. Minho likes to send him terrible photos of his meals, and sometimes Jisung will take it as a challenge, to send back a better photo of him eating the same dish. Most of the time, that’s the closest they get to eating together.
A well-worn cliche: all relationships take work. Jisung doesn’t mind the work, not when his reward is glimmers of Minho’s life, threads that he gathers close to his chest, tying them closer together despite their physical divide. Sometimes, he learns, love is in the repetition.
But right now, he doesn’t need to know what time it is in Seoul. (Six thirty in the morning, too early for a weekend.) He hasn’t checked his messages since Minho was still on his way here. And it doesn’t matter where he goes for dinner, because Jisung has him, has him, and when Minho takes his terrible, unappetizing photos, it will be with two portions instead of one.
They end up getting ramen in a tiny shop, crammed together at an even tinier table for two. Their knees are so close together they might as well be playing footsie, but the soup is mind-blowingly good, so much so that it seems to revive Minho from the throes of jetlag as he slurps it down.
Minho pays, flatly refusing Jisung’s offer to split it. “Don’t listen to him,” he says to the waitress, when she comes out with the check, and makes Jisung put his wallet away. Then, “You’ve been paying all day.”
Jisung rolls his eyes. “The museum tickets weren’t that much.”
“And the train.”
“That was barely even —”
Minho holds a hand up. “Is it really such a crime to pay for my boyfriend’s dinner?”
Jisung pouts — he can’t help himself. “I could ask you the same thing. And you’re the guest in this scenario.”
“Demoted from boyfriend to guest,” Minho sighs dramatically. “Maybe chivalry is dead.”
Never let it be said that Han Jisung backs down from a conversational opening. He pounces, metaphorically. Physically, their legs are already almost touching, so there’s no room for that sort of maneuver.
“Forgive me,” he professes, blinking at Minho guilelessly. “Let me buy you a drink to make it up to you.”
Minho cocks his head, as if considering the proposition. His eyes twinkle. “I suppose,” he drawls, after a brief pause, “that would be acceptable.”
Jisung’s favorite bar is tucked in between two other bars, and a short walk from his apartment. At this hour on the weekend, it’s far from empty, but there’s enough space for him to order two beers relatively quickly, and when he makes his way back to Minho, he’s managed to snag one of the tables by the window.
“Not bad,” he says, with a half-smile on his face, when Jisung returns. He jerks a thumb at one of the screens. “Which team is yours?”
Jisung squints to see. It’s a baseball game.
“The team wearing white?”
“I think they’re losing,” Minho says, after a beat.
“Oh.” Jisung shrugs. “Well, that’s too bad.”
His attention wavers between Minho and the game. He’d stolen Jisung’s cap on the walk over, wearing it backwards, and a few strands of his hair, longer now, have fallen out from underneath it. There’s a little bit of foam gracing his upper lip, and a furrow between his eyebrows that Jisung knows means he’s trying to figure out how the game is going. He also looks tired, just a little, which is understandable. He had been half-dozing on Jisung’s shoulder the subway ride over.
He still looks hot as fuck. Jisung had caught at least one other person looking in his direction, while he was at the bar and Minho was alone at the table.
Jisung lifts his beer to his mouth and swallows. It’s too bad he doesn’t have a sign that reads: HE’S WEARING MY CLOTHES, in flashing LED lights. Maybe he should invest in one, for the next time someone shoots his boyfriend a heated glance.
Minho turns away from the screen and takes a long swig of his drink. “So,” he says, stretching out the o so that his lips hollow around the sound. “Come here often?”
And it’s early, and he’s barely halfway through his beer, and it is his favorite bar, really — and they still have most of tomorrow — but there is suddenly nothing Jisung wants more than to take Minho home.
He chugs the rest of the beer, much to Minho’s amusement. A catlike grin spreads on his face, like he knows exactly what Jisung is thinking.
Still, he makes a show of looking around. “Are we in a hurry?” Minho asks, leaning back in his chair lazily. “I thought we were watching the game.”
Jisung, finished with his beer, folds his arms in front of his chest. Grumpily, he says, “We can watch the game at home.”
Minho raises an eyebrow and huffs, amused. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?”
There’s only a little left in his glass, but Minho takes his sweet time, tipping his head back to catch every single drop. When he finishes, he hooks a finger under Jisung’s chin, bringing him in so that he can kiss him — right there, in front of the window and a gaggle of college kids trying to order a round of shots.
Take that, Jisung thinks faintly, and hopes that the person that had been admiring Minho earlier sees.
“Alright,” Minho says, and Jisung feels more alive than ever, almost dizzy with the feeling, saturated with love for the city, for the night, for him. “Take me home.”
Any doubts Jisung has about whether Minho is too tired are put to rest as soon as they get home. “I’m gonna suck the soul out of your dick,” he says seriously, as soon as the door closes, and Jisung’s mouth falls open, halfway between incredulity and desperation.
“Yeah, okay,” he chokes out, and then, later, breathier, on his bed, when Minho gets a hand around his legs and drags his hips down towards his mouth, “Yeah, like that, fuck —”
There’s a particularly memorable moment — Minho looking up at him from between his legs and wiping his mouth, still wearing Jisung’s cap — when Jisung squeezes his eyes shut and pants, “Oh god. I think I’m gonna die.”
“Thank Hokusai,” Minho says, grin wide and nasty like the little shit he is, and Jisung groans, kicking feebly at him. Or trying to, anyway, with what feeling is left in his legs.
“I hate you,” he moans, which is of course, untrue. The greatest falsehood in the world.
Minho knows, obviously. He presses a kiss to Jisung’s inner thigh — soft, gentle, before nosing his way back up. “Be prepared to hate me more,” he says, voice thick with laughter.
Arousal punches through him like a physical blow. “Don’t laugh at my dick,” Jisung says, shaky.
“No promises,” Minho says gleefully, and dives back in.
They don’t quite manage to recreate Hokusai’s creative illustrations. But it’s a respectable attempt. They get pretty close.
Afterwards, Minho falls asleep immediately, jetlag catching up to him. Jisung stays up a while longer, like he can prolong the inevitable. Like he can make the night last forever, as long as he doesn’t close his eyes.
Home, Jisung thinks, is a curious thing. The city that he lives in is different from the city he was born in, which in turn, is different from the city he grew up in. And right now, home is the double bed he shares with someone else just for the night, the moon in the sky a lighthouse, a reminder of the shore, a beacon of light cutting across the water to steal his blankets and hold him tight.
It’s a nice metaphor. He almost wants to reach for his phone to jot it down — inspiration for a song, maybe. But not at the cost of waking Minho up, each one of his slow, measured breaths its own lullaby, each moment so rare and precious.
Two days isn’t enough. Two lifetimes wouldn’t be enough. For now, Jisung adds these two days to his patchwork quilt of memories, knits them into the fabric of his life. How nice, that completely distinct pieces of fabric can be stitched together to form something new, piece by piece, day by day.
Outside, the city thumps on. Inside, he rests his head against Minho’s chest, and thinks — soon. There is no dream sweeter than this music, the rhythm of the rest of his life.