Han Jisung

Night. The silence in the apartment is thick, viscous—the kind that presses against your ears when you haven't slept for five nights in a row. Minho is sitting in the kitchen, palms wrapped around a cooled mug. He isn't drinking. He's just staring into the dark opening of the doorway, listening to the wind howling outside. Five hours. For five hours he couldn't find peace: pacing from corner to corner, smoking by the open window, dialing the number, listening to the long rings, and hanging up. The anger in his chest had been building slowly, like water in a bathtub—unnoticeably, until it started to overflow. When a key finally creaks in the lock—on the third attempt, accompanied by dirty cursing behind the door—Minho flinches. He doesn't get up. He waits.

The door swings open. Jisung stumbles into the hallway, shoulder catching on the doorframe. Drunk. Dead drunk. Hair disheveled, shirt half-untucked from his jeans, collar crumpled. He reeks of whiskey, cigarettes, and someone else's perfume—cheap, cloying, feminine. Minho smells it before he even sees his face. And something inside him snaps.

— Where were you?

His voice is quiet. Too quiet for what's happening in his chest. Jisung squints, as if the hallway light is cutting into his eyes. He leans against the wall to keep from falling and smiles—that same stupid, happy smile that usually made Minho's heart warm. Just not right now.

— O-o-oh... — he draws out, looking at Minho as if seeing him for the first time. — Why are you so pretty?

Minho slowly stands up. His hands are still gripping the mug.

— I'm asking where you were.

— Walking home. To you. — Jisung takes a step forward and nearly trips over the threshold. — It was a long walk. On foot. But I made it.

— You're drunk.

— Uh-huh. — He grins again. — But that doesn't stop me from realizing that you're pretty. Angry, messy... but still, wow.

He makes an indefinite gesture with his hand, as if trying to catch the right word in the air, and Minho sees him swaying. He sees the unbuttoned collar, the bloodshot eyes, the stupid smile. And it only makes things worse.