"Welcome to my house," Jisung kicked the front door closed behind him. As he was given the incredible view of the older's back as he stepped into the threshold of the living room, Jisung continued to invite him in, "It's small. Kind of suspicious, I think I dropped a knife under the couch-"

Minho whipped around. His face was pale, "What?"

"-and we haven't had the chance to fish it out. The kitchen is that way. My room is down the hall," Jisung pointed out the mentioned rooms in the one-storey home as he marched along in his speech, his gestures ranging somewhere behind Minho as he attempted to point out the doorways and crooks which led to the proper rooms instead of some strange and mystical wonderland. He ignored the worried look on the older's face as he talked, his own words wrapped up in too much giddy at the fact that yes, Minho, the Minho, the Lee Minho, was standing in the threshold of the living room and observing the smallest flecks of dust in the cramped space. Jisung bubbled as he prodded the back of the statued Minho, "My Mom won't be home tonight, she's on a date, so make yourself at home."

The older clutched his motorcycle helmet close to his chest. Unsure of his steps, he scooted his bare feet across the wooden floors, his torso bending over as he approached the couch. No doubt attempting to look for the mentioned stray knife. Trying to spot the sharp edge waiting underneath the couch, to keep an eye out for the razored blade thirsty for the blood of an unsuspecting mortal, and ensure it didn't snare his Achilles's tendon and didn't send him straight to the emergency room. When Minho was sure, absolutely positive, without a doubt, completely, confident in the fact that the knife was not about to lurch out at him, he finally waddled over to the couch and set his motorcycle helmet down on the oak wood coffee table in front of the plush seat.

With Minho not acting as a blockade in the threshold, Jisung dropped his gym bag at the entrance of the house and began to slink over to the mentioned kitchen. He tried to keep an eye on the curious Minho as he walked around the couch and furniture of the living room, the same arrangement, the same placement of furniture, down to the brand magazines set on the coffee table his mother used for cup coasters rather than viable forms of entertainment. And again, he was trying to process, trying to perfectly realize that yes, Minho was standing in his living room like he belonged there, observing the house as if he was a prospecting buyer prepared to purchase the piece of property. He picked at his nail, tempted to bite into the tough fibers, to calm the swelling of nerves sprouting in his chest.

He trudged into the kitchen. Finally tearing his eyes away from the older, Jisung scrambled for the cupboard and yanked two glass cups. He closed the creaky door with the back of his wrist, his hands now occupied with the two cups, before shuffling over to his refrigerator to fill them with water.

As he watched the glass fill with the spiraling water refreshing to the touch, his gut gnawed at him.

What if Minho thought his house was disgusting? What if Minho hated it? What if Minho thought that there were too many dust patches on top of the old PlayStation conected to his television, what if he thought that there were too many magazines sitting on the coffee table, and that the cellular ring spots the misty cups left on the contoured faces of the models on the front pages were too abnormal, after all, what kind of cup made that weird oblong shape that was next to the motorcycle helmet? What if Minho thought that the squeaking of the cupboard was too loud, or if he thought that the water Jisung was grabbing for him wasn't the proper temperature for him? What if Minho noticed the family pictures on the wall and thought that little Jisung looked stupid?

What if Minho finds the knife under the couch and is stabbed?

What if Minho doesn't like his cat?

What if Minho doesn't like his house?

What if Minho doesn't like him?

Jisung shook his head, the rough motion calling him back from his vacant worrying just in time to stop filling the second glass cup to the brim and ensure that it didn't cause a bigger mess for him to clean up. He snatched up both cups in his jittering hands. With one final deep inhale and exhale cheering him on, he clutched the glass cups tightly in his grip and trudged his way back out to Minho in the living room. A small chant of 'You can do this' stuck on loop in his mind. Though, he wasn't entirely sure what 'this' was referring to, besides basic interaction and conversing with another human who was a friend. A friend. Not anything more. Not anything less. He had done this plenty of times before.

I'm okay, I can do this.

He stepped back into the living room. The sight which greeted him was almost worth the mild moment of panic in the kitchen; Minho was crouched in front of the the couch cushions, gentle and affectionate words barely audible to the human ear were tumbling from his lips as his fingers curled, the loosened comb they created brushing through the lush fur of a cat sitting up on the couch cushions. The paws of the cat worked at the fabric beneath it's paws, the small alabaster murder mittens stepping in time with the soft purrs rumbling as loudly as a motorboat in it's fluffy chest. Both of them, completely content in the moment. Minho drifted his fingertips over the painted fur of misty greys and pastel oranges splattered at seemingly random around the fern green eyes staring at him with an adulation only the old gods and deities knew.

Jisung couldn't tell whether to coo at the scene, be in awe that the older managed to charm the diva that was his cat in about thirty seconds, or boil with envy because the cat was receiving attention and love.

"Is this Mitochondria?" Minho asked as the younger set the cups down on the coffee table behind him. When he was given a swift nod, he turned back to the purring cat and breathed out a laugh, "She's so pretty."

Jisung went rigid. He froze in his position placing the cups down, as he curled his hands into his chest and clarified, "She?"

"Calicos are generally female. There are a few males but it's fairly uncommon so I assumed it's a she," Minho explained.

Jisung slowly let go of the glass cups, stood up from his position hunched over the coffee table, and turned around.

I'm an idiot.

He slammed his palms onto his burning face.

I'm an actual idiot! That makes so much more sense.

As he tried to fight off the fuming heat of embarrassment from each and every inch of his body, never before had he been so thankful that he wasn't being look at by Minho.

Sorry, Mitochondria. I think you have a new name.

While he attempted to control his breathing cycles, he released the hold his hands had on his face and pressed the back of his hand into every inch of the burning sensation. It wasn't even a blush anymore, his entire face was red; From his forehead to his temples, his cheeks and jaw, the tips of his nose and the lobes of his ears, the skin was beyond a temperature anyone would consider remotely normal. Even on a summer day. Even if he had heat stroke. The warmth eradicating his sense of being was stronger than the sweltering temperatures he'd be submerged in if he had heat stroke. He wasn't just dunked in a pit of lava, he was the lava, he was the molten core in the center of the Earth, he was the solar flares of the sun, burning hot and killing all possible lifeform wanting to survive.

Including his own self. With the stuttering and buffering of his thoughts trying to recollect him, his brain was frying into a scramble eggs.

He messed up before Minho even stepped foot into his household, and now, everyone would make fun of him for not knowing the gender of his extremely fluffy cat, what kind of person didn't know what gender their cat was, what kind of person can't tell—

"Who's in these photos?"

Jisung squeaked and whipped back around to the owner of the voice.

Perched by one of the many picture framed hung on the four walls of the living room, the older was staring at him with a patient smile on his face. He was holding Mitochondria as delicately in his arms as a parent would hold their favorite child, the small paws resting and flexing on the older's balcony rail of a shoulder while he supported the brat cat from below with his forearm, and a hand on the back. The green eyes of his, Jisung's, cat were slotting close with more tumbling purrs..And suddenly, Jisung couldn't tell if the growling heat in his limbs was still from embarrassment, or if it was the slight jealously stabbing his heart because the cat was being treated with so much love and affection. Mitochondria definitely did not ever let Jisung hold her in the way that Minho was currently holding her. Was it possible to be jealous of a cat, and a human, all at once?

Reluctantly, Jisung folded his arms over his chest and stalked over to where the older was. His feet shuffled against the ground, purposefully delaying his travels to allow himself more time to settle the scalding red flushing him to hell and back, and that was if Minho hadn't already noticed his embarrassment. Judging from the raised eyebrow and unrelenting gaze, he noticed. He noticed a long time ago. And all attempts to tell otherwise were futile. It didn't help that the older kept looking at him, even as he took a spot closest to Mitochondria so Minho wouldn't be able to see him through the fluffy fur. To ensure he was protected behind the barrier, he scooted in. His shoulder tapped into the older's

Carefully, Jisung inspected the picture frame and without missing a beat, explained to him, "That's my Mom. She's a wonderful lady. And that's me, but that part is obvious. We took the picture together at an amusement park when I was tiny."

"What about your Dad?"

"Who knows?"

"I'm sorry."

"What? No, don't be. He's cool, like, really cool. He plays trombone in a professional symphonic band, and he used to let me play it," Jisung unthreaded his arms from their folded knot over his chest. He moved them, coming to lace the fingers behind his back as he found himself bumping more into Minho. Though, he wasn't entirely able to tell who was leaning in. Partially because of the cat. The car made it hard to tell who was shifting around, but the movements were clear enough to send jolts down Jisung's spine and remind him of the fact he was supposed to be friends with the person standing next to him. He tried to distract himself from the heat crawling in his cheeks for the second time in less than ten minutes, "Mom and him just didn't see the point of being together anymore. Kind of 'fell out of love' and peacefully went their own ways."

Minho shifted back. He tilted his head forward to see around the barricade of the cat, though the effort was largely unsuccessful as he tried to free a hand to pull cat hair from his mouth before finally turning to face the younger completely. He asked, "Do you still see him?"

"Occasionally. I didn't see him that much as a kid, he usually kept it to distant gift giving," Jisung shrugged as he flipped through the memories of his childhood. Some good, some bad, some beautiful, and others ugly, all piecing together the him he was today. The younger continued to tell as he stared down his mother in the picture frame, "He won't admit it, but in my opinion, him seeing Mom hurts too much now. It brings back too many memories. They fought, but, they really loved each other."

Minho pursed his lips together. He shifted the cat in his arms around, before responding through the silence, "It's amazing to me. How you can love someone one day and the next, you don't."

"It's kind of scary," Jisung nodded along. He stepped back from the wall, using the momentum of the carry to face the older as well, using the angle to take in everything that made the older who he was. His features, his eyes, his posture, his demeanor, his smile and his words, a comforting feeling of warmth and melancholic summer days existing  in his angelic being. The glittering gestures, his content lips, how he stayed for the younger, even when he hid, how he encouraged him, how he helped him, how he watched him with a caring eye, how he brought him snacks and company whenever he needed the presence of someone else, how he was like a dream too good to be true and too good to be presenting itself so openly to someone like Jisung.

He finalized, "But it's scary how one day you don't love someone and the next, you do."

Minho looked over to him. For a brief second, their eyes met around the barrier, and the only sound the younger could hear was the thumping of his own heart squeezing around his

Before he could roll out another comment, Jisung whipped around to march back to the couch and to hide the creeping urge to melt away to a fine puddle of liquid Jisung. He hurried out the comment, words stumbling and tongue tripping over itself, "An— Anyway, how about that movie? Huh?"

He would never turn around in time to see the fond smile trained on his back.

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