more than enough ; minsung

one two three, one two three

It feels like a gut punch. The kind that ricochets. The kind that carves out a hole and burrows inside. Sometimes the hardest hits aren't physical — sometimes they're delivered via golden-trimmed card that reads you are joyfully invited to celebrate the union of...

Jisung needs to sit. No, he needs to pace.

No. Alcohol. That's a better idea.

—

Alcohol was a mistake.

He should have seen it coming. He has a complicated relationship with the gin that sits at the back of his cupboard. He avoids it. Then he needs it. Then it fucks him backward, sideways and upside-down. Rinse, repeat.

Obviously yesterday when he was getting drunk and sing-weeping breakup songs, his plans for today slipped his mind. Now he's spinning around a fluorescent, mirror-bound room to blaring ballroom music. He feels like cardboard. Like a barely-sentient saltine cracker. He's dizzy and dry-mouthed and praying nausea won't be added to the docket. The only thing that could make this day worse would be throwing up on his dance instructor, Lee Minho, who would probably react with the same tranquility and quiet humour that he radiates at all times.

They're waltzing lopsided circles across the shiny floors, and thank God it's just a box step, because anything more elaborate may have done him in. Minho seemed to notice his state before class started, but he didn't ask any questions. They're not partners officially, but when Minho isn't roving around the room, giving advice and correcting postures, he and Jisung tend to end up together. (Coincidence? A calculated effort on Jisung's part? A little of both?)

Minho is eyeing Jisung now like he's a puzzle with a piece missing. Jisung is staring at his own shoes, trying his hardest not to trip them both up. One two three, one two three...

"Are you counting steps?" Minho asks.

"Yeah. I'm not feeling well."

"Are you sick?"

"No. I... got really drunk last night."

Minho laughs. "Hey, so did I."

Jisung looks him up and down. He's an inch or two taller, brown hair and light brown skin, elegant features. Strong, willowy body under a loose-fitting button-up and trousers. Sometimes he does headspins for fun. Of course he can hold his liquor.

"You're annoyingly perfect, you know that?"

"I do, thank you. I'm assuming you went overboard."

"I look like shit, don't I?"

"No. Just a little shit-like. And you're leaning on my shoulder more than usual."

Jisung eases up. Minho is leading, but Jisung refuses to lag. "Sorry."

"No problem. Remember posture."

He presses one hand to the small of Jisung's back. Jisung is too hungover to properly enjoy it. He straightens out, squaring his shoulders.

"Tell me the binge was worth it, at least," says Minho.

"Hardly. It was a sad binge."

"What happened?"

Jisung hesitates. This might be oversharing. He and Minho aren't friends really. They met in this classroom and haven't taken their relationship — acquaintanceship...? mentorship...? — outside of it. Even though sometimes Jisung hangs around while Minho gathers his boombox and plastic roses and they talk until the yoga crowd starts to file in.

Minho spins them both out — oh God, no spinning — and when they meet again, he says, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"It might be too much information."

Minho shrugs. "Give me something to chew on."

Jisung takes a big breath like he'll somehow suck up the right words. This is going to be weird. He should probably shut up. When it comes to Minho, he's always one step outside his comfort zone. Waltzing along the edge. He doesn't know what might happen if he makes a misstep.

"My ex-boyfriend is getting married. And I'm invited to the wedding."

Minho's cheeks puff out a little, like he's holding the information in his mouth. Well. At least Jisung gave him something to chew on.

"That's a little fucked up," Minho says. "When'd you break up?"

"Year and a half ago. We were together for two years and, well, he..." He didn't want to marry Jisung. "It's just hard to swallow."

"Think you'll go?"

Jisung drops his head back, trying to keep his howls of anguish inside. "Fuck, I don't know. There's this pressure to be all emotionless and put-together, and that — that is not me. I feel like whatever I do, I'll still be the tragic, lonely ex."

Jisung isn't lonely, and he's only a little tragic. He hates the thought of drawing a sad check next to the decline box, but even more he hates the thought of going alone to the wedding. He hates — hates — the thought of his ex, Sangkyu, looking at him like he's the same starry-eyed guy who clung to him all through college. Like Jisung still wants him. Which he doesn't. He's pretty sure.

"You could bring a friend as a fake date," Minho suggests.

"Our friends kind of overlap." He'd probably see them at the wedding. He cringes. "God. I should just go off the grid. Hide in a bunker somewhere, fake my own abduction."

"Imagine RSVP-ing no because you're a milk carton kid now."

Which actually gets a laugh out of Jisung, rustling the cobwebs in his chest.

"Really, you shouldn't worry," Minho muses. "Everyone's awkward at weddings. It's a fundamentally weird ritual."

"I guess I'm in risk-mitigation mode. I don't know whether the emotional turmoil is worth salvaging my dignity."

"Sure sure, and?"

"And what?"

"Isn't there a part of you that wants to prove to your ex that you're okay — better, even — without him?"

Jisung was trying to suppress that part. The part that would relish the look of regret on his ex's face. He imagines taking Minho to the wedding. God, imagine.

Jisung makes a face, trying to convey shame. "I mean..."

"Thought so."

"I'm not petty though."

"I am, and I'm perfect. Be more like me."

They share a smile. A moment passes. They seem to realize at the same time that Minho is the instructor here. He looks around and quickly calls out a correction to the couple next to them.

Jisung watches their shoes again.