Chapter Text
The last note still lingered in the air long after the lights cut out.
Minho stood on stage, breathing hard, sweat cooling at the nape of his neck as the roar of the crowd slowly gave way to something softer—cheers dissolving into echoes, into memory. The world tour was over. Finished. Months of movement, noise, schedules stacked so tightly they barely left room to think, all coming to a sudden stop.
Beside him, the members were laughing, bowing, clinging to each other in that loose, boneless way that only came after everything had already been given. Jisung was somewhere to his left, bent over with his hands on his knees, hair plastered to his forehead, grinning like he couldn’t quite believe they were done.
Minho watched him for a second too long.
There was something fragile about the moment—about all of them standing there with nothing left to prepare for, no next stage to rush toward. Just the quiet truth of having made it through.
When they finally made it backstage, the energy didn’t disappear so much as change shape. It turned giddy, restless. Someone cracked open a drink. Someone else started music on a speaker that was definitely too loud for the hallway. Changbin was already talking with his hands, recounting a moment from the show that had everyone laughing like they hadn’t just performed for hours.
Minho drifted through it all, present but distant, nodding when spoken to, smiling when expected. He felt loose around the edges, the way he always did when adrenaline wore off too quickly.
Jisung found him near the back of the room, pressing a cold can into his hand without a word.
“Thanks,” Minho said.
Jisung shrugged. “You looked like you needed it.”
Their fingers brushed when Minho took it. Nothing unusual. Nothing that hadn’t happened a thousand times before. Still, Minho felt it—a small, grounding point in the middle of everything else.
They didn’t stay near each other for long after that. They rarely did, not intentionally. Jisung was pulled into a conversation with Chan and Changbin, animated as ever, while Minho found himself cornered by Hyunjin, who was still vibrating with post-performance energy.
Later—much later—they ended up at the after party.
It wasn’t anything official. Just a rented space, dim lights, music low enough that conversation didn’t require shouting. The kind of place meant to feel casual even when it wasn’t. Drinks lined the counter. Jackets were draped over chairs. Someone had kicked off their shoes entirely.
Minho leaned against the wall, nursing a drink, watching the room settle into something easier. Felix laughed brightly near the center, Seungmin hovering close with a fondly unimpressed expression. Jeongin looked tired but happy, curled into the corner of a couch like he might fall asleep any second.
Jisung was across the room, mid-laugh, head tipped back, eyes crinkled shut.
Minho felt the pull then. That quiet, persistent gravity, like his body knew where it wanted to be before his mind caught up.
When Jisung eventually wandered over, it felt inevitable rather than intentional.
“Hyung,” Jisung said, voice a little hoarse. “You okay?”
Minho nodded. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
“Same,” Jisung said, dragging the word out. He leaned beside Minho, shoulder bumping lightly against his arm. “But like, the good kind. The ‘we survived’ kind.”
Minho huffed. “Barely.”
Jisung smiled at that, softer than before. He took a sip of his drink, then grimaced. “I don’t think I like this one.”
“You’ve had three already,” Minho pointed out.
“Details.”
They stood there for a while, not talking. The music shifted. Someone cheered loudly in the distance. Minho was aware of Jisung beside him in a way that felt sharper than usual—his warmth, the faint scent of sweat and cologne, the way he swayed just slightly with the beat.
“You did really well today,” Minho said quietly.
Jisung glanced at him. “You too.”
“I mean it,” Minho added.
Jisung studied him for a second, expression unreadable. Then he smiled again, small and sincere. “I know.”
The party thinned out gradually. People drifted off in pairs or small groups, exhaustion finally winning out over celebration. Minho hadn’t been planning to stay late, but time slipped strangely, stretching and folding in on itself.
At some point, Jisung tugged lightly at Minho’s sleeve.
“Hey,” he said. “Do you wanna get some air?”
Minho hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Sure.”
Outside, the night was cooler, quieter. The city hummed in the distance, but up here it felt removed, like they’d stepped into a pocket of stillness the world had forgotten about. Jisung leaned against the railing, elbows resting on the metal, staring out at the lights below.
Minho stood beside him, close enough that their arms brushed.
Neither of them spoke.
Minho thought of all the times they’d stood like this before—balconies, rooftops, parking lots behind venues. Moments stolen between schedules. Jisung always got quieter at night, like the darkness coaxed something gentler out of him.
“I’m glad it’s over,” Jisung said finally.
“Me too.”
“And I’m also kind of scared,” Jisung admitted, laugh soft and unsure. “Does that make sense?”
Minho nodded. “Yeah.”
Jisung exhaled, shoulders slumping. “Everything slows down now.”
Minho looked at him, really looked. At the tired set of his shoulders. At the way his fingers worried the edge of the railing absentmindedly.
“Slowing down isn’t always bad,” Minho said.
Jisung turned toward him then, eyes searching. For what, Minho didn’t know. Maybe for reassurance. Maybe for something neither of them had words for.
They were close. Too close to pretend it was accidental.
Minho felt the moment stretch, fragile and heavy all at once. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stayed.
Jisung’s gaze flicked down—to Minho’s mouth, back up again. He swallowed.
“Hyung,” he said softly.
Minho waited.
Whatever decision was made next didn’t feel like a decision at all. Just a quiet step forward. A shared understanding that neither of them named—but both of them felt, heavy and undeniable in the space between them.
Jisung moved first.
Not all at once. Just close enough that Minho could feel the warmth of him, the careful pause before crossing a line. His hand brushed Minho’s sleeve, fingers lingering there like he was testing whether this was real.
Minho’s breath caught. He didn’t pull away.
Jisung looked up at him then, eyes darker than before, searching Minho’s face like he was bracing himself for rejection. For hesitation.
Minho gave him neither.
He lifted his hand slowly, thumb brushing along Jisung’s jaw, feeling the tension there. Jisung leaned into the touch instinctively, lashes fluttering as his eyes fell shut.
That was all it took.
The kiss was unhurried—soft at first, almost tentative. Jisung’s lips pressed against Minho’s like a question, warm and careful, waiting to see if Minho would answer.
Minho did.
He kissed him back with quiet certainty, tilting his head just enough to deepen it, to make it clear this wasn’t a mistake. Jisung made a small sound against his mouth, relief and something sharper bleeding through as his hand fisted in the front of Minho’s jacket.
The world narrowed.
The kiss grew heavier, slower, breaths tangling as Jisung stepped closer, chest flush against Minho’s. Minho’s hand slid to Jisung’s waist, anchoring him there, feeling the way Jisung relaxed once he was held.
When they finally pulled apart, it was only by a fraction—foreheads touching, breaths uneven, the space between them charged and fragile.
Neither of them laughed it off.
Neither of them stepped away.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
Minho barely remembered the ride back to the hotel. Only flashes: the quiet of the elevator, the muted carpet under his shoes, Jisung’s hand finding his again as soon as the door closed behind them. Laughter that dissolved into something quieter. Slower.
The room was dim, lit only by the city bleeding in through half-drawn curtains. Jackets discarded somewhere near the door. Shoes kicked off without care.
Minho remembered hands—warm, familiar, suddenly reverent. The way Jisung’s voice dropped when he said his name. The way everything else seemed to fall away until there was only heat and breath and the feeling of finally stopping after months of running.
When Minho came back to himself, the world had softened.
They lay tangled together on the bed, sheets twisted and warm around them. Jisung was tucked against his side, bare shoulder pressed to Minho’s chest, one leg slung loosely over his. His hand rested there too—possessive without trying to be.
Minho stared up at the ceiling, heart heavy and light all at once, listening to the slow, even rhythm of Jisung’s breathing.
This wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t careless.
It felt deliberate in the quiet aftermath, in the way Jisung shifted closer instead of away.
Minho thought, not for the first time that night, that this felt different.
He didn’t say it out loud.
Outside, the city kept moving—cars passing, lights blinking on and off—unaware that something fragile and irreversible had already taken root.