Jisung

The living room was completely dark, illuminated only by the shifting, cool-toned glare of the television. Minho was leaning back heavily against the cushions, completely relaxed, his legs casually parted, while Jisung lay stretched out along the sofa, his head resting as a comfortable dead weight on Minho’s thigh.

They had been friends for so long that personal space had stopped existing between them a long time ago. Jisung didn't even have to ask to use him as a pillow, and Minho’s hand had instinctively found its way into Jisung’s hair the moment he laid down. But lately, Minho was finding it harder to treat it as just a habit. He was becoming far too aware of the steady warmth against his leg, and the soft strands slipping through his fingers, attaching entirely too much meaning to things that used to be simple.

On screen, the movie was reaching some loud, chaotic climax, but Minho wasn't paying attention. His gaze had dropped, tracing the line of Jisung's profile illuminated by the blue light of the TV. His fingers, which had been idly scratching the nape of Jisung's neck, slowed down. His hand shifted slightly, his fingertips trailing lazily down the back of Jisung's neck, a slow, gentle motion that lingered just a fraction too long.

Jisung didn't move his head, his eyes staying glued to the screen, but he reached up. His hand loosely wrapped around Minho's wrist, halting the motion without actually pushing his arm away.

— You're not even watching, Jisung pointed out, his voice a lazy mumble over the noise of the TV. — When you ask me to explain the plot in ten minutes, I'm ignoring you.

Minho let out a quiet exhale, not pulling his hand back, just letting it rest comfortably where Jisung held it.

— It's a terrible movie anyway.