Chapter Text
Minho wakes up to the feeling of clingy human heat latched onto his back.
This is not new.
Jisung’s limbs are draped over him like some kind of oversized, sleep-hogging koala, his breath warm and– annoyingly– pleasant against Minho’s neck. It’s faintly tinged with the scent of cheap strawberry soju, which means he got back late, again, and didn't bother using his own bed, again.
Minho sighs. Not because he's annoyed– well, maybe 10% annoyed– but mostly because this is just how most of his mornings go.
He squints at the glowing numbers on Jisung’s phone buzzing somewhere on the nightstand. Minho swipes the alarm into silence, then begins prying his best friend off him with the efficiency of having done this many, many times before.
Jisung lets out a low, wounded groan and immediately attempts to reattach himself like a burr to wool.
“No,” Minho mutters, dragging the human blanket toward the edge of the bed, resigned yet fully aware he has made his choices in life and now must live with them. “Shower. Go.”
Jisung whines something unintelligible and possibly obscene, but Minho is undeterred. He steers the shuffling, pajama-clad disaster down the hallway, shoves a towel into his chest, and clicks the bathroom door shut before heading to the kitchen.
The shower spray kicks on, and he’s already moving through the motions with muscle memory. Coffee is ready. Eggs crack. Rice is scooped. Jisung’s vitamin gummies are now on the counter, because if Minho doesn’t hand-feed the neon bears to him, Jisung will forget about them.
By the time the shower stops, Minho’s already plating food.
Jisung pads into the kitchen a moment later, barefoot, damp-haired and somehow still half-asleep, wearing jeans and one of Minho’s sweatshirts.
“You’re a saint,” he mumbles as he plops into his usual seat at the counter, resting his head on the cool granite. “A domestic miracle. A blessing.”
“Eat,” Minho says, sliding the steaming plate toward him.
Jisung picks up a pair of chopsticks, stares at it for three seconds, then immediately drops it in favor of opening his mouth expectantly. Like a bird. Or a very lazy toddler.
Minho stares. Jisung is still waiting.
With a heavy sigh, Minho picks up the chopsticks and feeds him a bite of egg. This is, unfortunately, normal– Jisung doesn’t bother with breakfast most mornings. He has the attention span of a goldfish when it comes to self-preservation, and Minho has this innate need to keep the goldfish fed.
They go through a few more mouthfuls before Jisung perks up, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“I had an idea,” he says, cheeks full.
Minho doesn't even look up from his coffee. “No.”
“You haven’t even heard it yet!”
“And I don’t need to.”
Jisung leans forward, chin resting on his hands, pouting at him with doe eyes and chipmunk cheeks. “But what if it’s life-changing?”
“That's what you call bad ideas,” Minho counters. "Like the time you tried to ferment your own kombucha in the closet."
Jisung conveniently ignores the trauma of the Great Kombucha Explosion of '23. “I was thinking we should go to couples therapy.”
Minho blinks. Then blinks again.
“I’m sorry,” he says flatly. “Did I hear that correctly, or are you still hungover from last night?”
Jisung shrugs, all too casual. “Just for fun. You know, for the bit.”
“You want us to pretend to be a couple… in therapy. Just for fun.”
“Yeah!” Jisung nods enthusiastically. “Just until the therapist figures it out.”
Minho gives him a long, slow look that suggests he is currently measuring Jisung for a straitjacket. “So. Two sessions, max.”
“Exactly! Maybe even one!” Jisung’s voice is way too cheerful for someone suggesting emotional fraud.
Minho takes a sip of his coffee and shoves another bite of rice into Jisung’s mouth to silence him. “You need a hobby. A normal one. Try crocheting.”
“I’ve already tried crocheting! I made like, half a sleeve, and then lost the needles under the couch for six months.”
“Try something else.”
“I have ADHD, Minho,” he whines. “I’ve tried hobbies! I get into them for, like, two weeks, then I forget they exist. But this is different! Because it’s weekly, and scheduled, and we’re paying someone to talk to us. Built-in accountability. And– you get to sit on a couch and talk about your feelings. You love feelings!”
Minho snorts. “No, you love feelings. I love not committing therapy fraud.”
“It’s not fraud!”
“Tell that to the licensed professional you’re trying to scam.”
Jisung leans forward, eyes big, lip jutting out. “C’mon hyung, I’ll pay for it. It’ll be so much fun! We’ll bond! And it’s not like we’re lying– we do live together!”
“‘We’re not a couple,’” Minho quotes flatly, pointing a pair of accusatory chopsticks at him.
“But we fight about dishes! You make me breakfast! I wash your clothes– sometimes! You let me sleep in your bed, and I let you pick the films we watch,” Jisung ticks them off on his fingers. "Seungmin always says we act disgustingly married. That has to count for something.”
“That’s not–” Minho starts, but Jisung’s already giving him the sad-puppy face: brows drawn up in that please-love-me way, cheeks puffed full of rice, eyes shimmering with fake innocence and wide with weaponized cuteness.
Minho sighs and looks away, chewing slowly. He hates how super effective it is.
“Please, hyung, pleaaaase,” he begs, mouth still half-full. “It will be good times. It will be funny! There’s no one else I’d rather do this with.”
“Because no one else would say yes,” Minho mutters into his bowl.
“Is that a yes?”
Minho opens his mouth to shut it down. The answer should be obvious: no.
He knows he should say no. It’s a stupid idea– peak Jisung nonsense, really. But Jisung is still staring at him like a cartoon animal brought to life, looking two seconds away from sulking if he doesn’t get his way.
It’s not that Minho is weak. It’s just that Jisung is...impossible. Impossible to argue with, impossible to guilt-trip, and apparently, impossible to say no to.
Minho swears he used to have a backbone, once. He’s certain of it. He must have left it in his old apartment, before he and Jisung moved in together.
“I’ll think about it,” he answers, already regretting how pathetic and soft the words sound as they leave his mouth.
Jisung immediately cheers.
“I said I’ll think about it. That doesn’t mean 'yes'.”
Jisung still cheers. “Thinking is the first step to 'yes'!” He grins, hopping off his stool with a sudden burst of morning energy. “I gotta go or I’ll miss my train. Love you hyungie, see you later!”
Before Minho can protest, Jisung leans in, wrapping him in a hug that’s warm and damp and still somehow cozy. Then, he presses a quick, messy kiss to Minho’s cheek and breezes out the door, his bag swinging over his shoulder.
Minho stares at the door for a long moment after it closes. His cheek feels annoyingly warm where Jisung’s lips touched it.
With a heavy sigh, picks up Jisung’s abandoned spoon, and starts cleaning up breakfast.
Because, tragically, this is also normal.
— ♡ · ♥︎ · ♡ —
Minho is halfway through his shift at the café, elbow-deep in espresso machine grime while a soft jazz playlist hums low in the background, when Hyunjin leans against the counter with a slow, smug smile.
“So what’s the weirdo boyfriend up to now?” he asks him, casually picking at a croissant sample from the pastry dome.
Minho doesn’t look up from the steam wand. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Right, right. Roommate. Soulmate. Casual morning cuddle-buddy who shares your skin. My bad.”
Minho sighs. “He picked up a new hobby.”
Hyunjin freezes, a half-bite of pastry suspended in midair. He looks genuinely alarmed. “...Is he okay? Do we need to call someone?”
“That’s what I thought.”
Hyunjin slowly sets the croissant down, his expression shifting into something uncharacteristically serious. “Minho,” he says, “Jisung doesn’t do hobbies. Jisung does... chaotic hyperfixations that burn out in ten to fourteen business days.”
Minho gives him a look, dry and weary. “This one might not be so bad.”
Hyunjin narrows his eyes. “Define not so bad.”
Minho wipes a smear of espresso grounds off the stainless steel counter. He stalls, focusing intensely on a stubborn water spot.
“Oh God,” Hyunjin breathes, leaning over the counter. “What did he do? Did he buy a farm? Is there a goat in your bathtub?”
“He wants us to go to couples therapy.”
There’s a long beat of stunned silence.
Hyunjin blinks. Then, his face lights up with a look of pure, evil glee. “Wait. Wait. Couples therapy? Like, real therapy? For couples?”
“Yes.”
“And you two are…?”
“Not a couple.”
Hyunjin tilts his head the way a curious cat would. “Huh.”
Minho goes back to deep-cleaning the espresso machine. “It’s just a bit. He said we’d go until the therapist figures out we’re faking it.”
Hyunjin raises an eyebrow. “So… two sessions, maybe?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Mm.” Hyunjin folds his arms, studying him, watching him a little too closely. “And you’re just gonna play along?”
Minho hesitates. The hesitation is barely a second long, but between them, it might as well be an hour. “I told him I’d think about it.”
Hyunjin’s expression shifts– it’s subtle, but unmistakable. Something a little softer. Something a little knowing. “Because you can’t stand it when he pouts.”
Minho doesn’t answer. He only scrubs the counter harder.
“You are so gonna do it,” Hyunjin says, sounding absolutely delighted now. “You’re gonna lie to a professional therapist for funsies, just because you can’t handle Jisung’s sad eyebrows.”
“I’m not doing anything yet,” Minho insists, which unfortunately is not quite the same as denial.
Hyunjin leans in, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial stage-whisper. “You know you’re basically already married, right? You just haven’t signed the paperwork.”
Minho shoots him a warning look. A very pointed, shut up before I unplug your charger or change the wi-fi password kind of look. “You’re supposed to be on my side, Hyunjin.”
“Oh, I am,” Hyunjin nods, looking far too pleased with himself. “I’m just on the side of truth. And the truth is, you’d let that man set your entire life on fire and thank him for keeping you warm.”
Minho makes a face. He hates how accurate that sounds. He hates how it doesn’t even sound like an insult.
Hyunjin smirks, thoroughly satisfied, and slides a clean rag across the counter. “Good luck with your fake therapy, lover boy. If you need a witness for the trial, I’ll print out the screenshots of your drunk texts from last year.”
Minho opens his mouth to argue. He searches for a witty rebuttal, a sharp denial, a way to prove Hyunjin is wrong.
Then, he closes it.
Because, tragically, Hyunjin is not wrong.
— ♡ · ♥︎ · ♡ —
When Minho walks into the apartment after his shift, the first thing that hits him is the thick, unmistakable scent of burning food– sharp, smoky, and clinging to the air while cartoon theme music blasts from the living room speakers, clashing cheerfully with the minor culinary emergency currently in progress.
“Jisung,” he calls, toeing his shoes off, “did you leave the oven on again?”
“No,” Jisung yells back, way too fast, way too high-pitched. Definitely a lie.
Minho walks into the kitchen to find:
1. The oven on.
2. A tray of now-blackened nuggets, burned to a crisp.
3. Jisung, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the open fridge, eating yogurt straight out of the tub with a fork.
Minho pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling the scorched nugget air and feeling his soul leave his body. “We are so not qualified for therapy.”
Jisung grins up at him, mouth full, yogurt smeared on his cheek. “Funny you should say that.”
Minho doesn’t like the sound of that. “Why?”
“Because I got us a great deal.”
“…What deal, Jisung?”
“Therapy. Twelve sessions for the price of nine. It was a bundle!”
Minho freezes mid-reach for the oven mitt. “You bought a bundle.”
Jisung nods proudly, absolutely beaming.
“A bundle of therapy sessions.” Minho repeats, his voice flat.
“Mhm.”
“Twelve sessions.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Twelve weekly sessions.”
“I had to commit to the full three months to get the discount,” Jisung explains, blinking as if he’s explaining a very normal, very rational decision. “Which I did. I booked every Thursday at six, it was the only time she had. Her name is Dr. Song. She has a PhD and a soft aesthetic. You’ll love her.”
Minho just stands there. The kitchen clock continues ticking too loudly, and Jisung continues eating his stupid yogurt.
“Why would you do that,” Minho asks, far too calm to be truly safe, “if the entire plan was for the therapist to figure out we’re not a couple after the first session?”
“Well, see, that’s what I thought might happen,” Jisung answers, licking yogurt off the fork. ”But then I thought, hey, what if she’s bad at her job? Or really polite? Or has an incredible suspension of disbelief?”
Minho stares. He looks for the punchline. Surely he’s joking. Surely he can’t be this insane, right?
Surely this is a joke. Surely this cannot be his life.
“I mean, you know me,” Jisung says, shrugging. “I’m charming. And you’re cute. We banter. If we really commit to the bit, she might just fall for it.”
“This is not a bit, Jisung.”
Jisung gives him a sheepish, lopsided smile. “It could be?”
“You bought three months of fake therapy!”
“Technically, it’s real therapy. The relationship is fake. The therapist is high quality though– I checked the reviews. Dr. Song is pretty good! She specializes in interpersonal dynamics, she’s queer, and she’s got, like, an entire wall of awards. And plants. They all look really trustworthy– except for the ficus. I don’t really trust that one.”
Minho closes his eyes and breathes through his nose, counting to ten. Or twenty. “This is a disaster.”
“This is an adventure,” Jisung corrects. “Besides, you said you’d think about it. That’s like a soft ‘yes’. And now we have no choice but to follow through!”
Minho wants to throw something. A spoon. A nugget. Himself out the window.
Instead, he opens a cupboard, pulls down two bowls, and starts scraping the charred nuggets into one of them with grim, terrifying resolve.
Jisung’s eyes light up. “Are we eating the nuggets?”
“No,” Minho answers. “You are. This is your punishment.”
“But–”
“You booked twelve sessions. I’m not feeding you.”
Jisung pouts, his lower lip wobbling theatrically. “You don’t mean that.”
“I absolutely mean that,” Minho says, nodding at the burnt nuggets.
“I’ll wear my sad socks to the appointment,” Jisung threatens, folding his arms in defiance.
“You own exactly zero pairs of sad socks.”
“I’ll buy one. And it’s going to be sad. Miserable. Depressed even.”
Minho turns away before Jisung can catch the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He spoons rice into his own bowl, bites the inside of his cheek, and tries not to think too hard about the next twelve Thursdays of his life.
— ♡ · ♥︎ · ♡ —
Wednesday night finds Minho on the couch, folding laundry. The TV plays something forgettable– just background noise to the rhythmic snapping of fabric. A soft pile of half-sorted socks perches on the coffee table, and a faint scent of lavender fabric softener clings to the air.
The peace lasts exactly four minutes.
That’s when Jisung bursts out of his room, clearly in the midst of prepping for their debut in deceit-based counseling.
“What do you think?” Jisung asks, shirt half-tucked, striking a pose in front of the hallway mirror. “Is this too gay, or just gay enough?”
Minho doesn’t even look up from a pair of jeans. “That’s your Tuesday outfit.”
“Yeah, but it’s Therapy Thursday now. Gotta rebrand the aesthetic.”
“Therapy Thursday is not a holiday, Jisung.”
“Not with that attitude, it isn’t.”
Jisung spins around and flops dramatically onto the couch beside Minho, knocking over a pile of socks. A pair of Minho’s briefs lands on his shoulder. He ignores it. “What are you wearing tomorrow?”
Minho raises an eyebrow, smoothing out a t-shirt. “Clothes?”
Jisung gasps, looking scandalized. “Come on, hyung! We can’t just wear whatever. We need synergy! Cohesion! A visual narrative! I think we should go for something matching. All couples wear matching outfits these days.”
“I’m not wearing a matching couple’s outfit to fake couples therapy.”
“You say that now,” Jisung replies, wagging a finger in Minho’s face, “but what if the therapist assumes we’re falling out of sync because we dress like we’re going through a messy breakup?”
“We’re not going through anything, Jisung.”
Jisung narrows his eyes, his voice dropping into a mock-serious register. “I think you’re afraid of commitment.”
“I think you need a new hobby that doesn’t involve psychologically manipulating licensed professionals.”
Jisung waves that off. “Okay, fine. We go semi-casual. Light coordination. Like… shades of beige. That’s emotionally neutral, and grounded, right?”
Minho sighs, leaning forward to rescue a sock from the floor. He returns to folding socks, because it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
Two sad beige moms at the therapist’s office. What the hell, sure.
Jisung slinks closer. He wraps his legs around Minho’s waist and rests his chin on his shoulder, his breath warm against the side of Minho’s neck as he watches the laundry folding. “Okay, but seriously,” he whispers. “What’s our story? Are we the ‘bickering for years but still somehow in love’ type, or the ‘toxic exes trying to make it work’ type?”
Minho pauses mid-fold. “Why are both of those options so specific?”
“I did my research,” Jisung says proudly. “I read a Reddit thread. The gays on there have so much drama, Minho. So many screenshots, too. They keep receipts, no joke.”
Minho gives him a flat, sideways look. “We don’t need a fake backstory. We just go, act normal, and let the therapist figure out we’re not a couple.”
“But we do need fake problems,” Jisung insists, his chin digging into Minho’s shoulder. “Something simple, but believable. Like… you won’t stop adopting houseplants without consulting me first.”
“We don’t own any plants, Jisungie.”
“See? That’s already a problem.”
Minho rubs his eyes with both hands, laundry forgotten as the absurdity of the situation finally sinks in. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”
Jisung beams, utterly triumphant. “But you did. Because I’m adorable, and you love me so much.”
“Regrettably,” Minho mutters.
“Which is perfect!” Jisung claps his hands together, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “We’ll use that. Repressed love. Longing. Mutual fear of abandonment. Very on-brand for our dynamic.”
Minho’s heart gives a traitorous little thud. “You’re just describing the plot of the K-drama we watched last week.”
“Exactly,” Jisung grins, completely unfazed. “Now help me pick socks. They need to say ‘I’m vulnerable but also fun.’”
Minho picks up a balled-up sock and throws it at Jisung’s face.
"Hey! These aren't even the fun socks!" Jisung protests, throwing it back. Minho catches it without looking.
He’s a smart man. He knows how to read people.
But as he looks at his best friend, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not nearly as good at faking it as Jisung thinks he is.
— ♡ · ♥︎ · ♡ —