cherry club 🍒 minsung

epilogue

[ by any other name ]

Minho was late. Very late. An-hour-past-the-final-bell late. But he wouldn't trade his morning for all the cats in the world. Jisung had a long night. He spent hours hunched over his computer with his sparkling headphones on and one arm wrist-deep in a chip bag. Almost a year ago, they boarded a plane to New York City with nothing more than two suitcases of clothes and Dori. Jisung met with record label after record label, showcasing his mixtape to no avail. 

Money was never a struggle for them in New York. Jisung was ridiculously wealthy, even more so with his money converted to USD, and they found a lavish condo in the heart of the city. But Jisung was unhappy. Minho knew he was becoming frustrated with the rejections, and it hurt to see his boyfriend losing himself to anger. Jisung missed the simplicity of 3racha in times like those, but one glance at his lover and all the struggles faded. 

He posted his music on every platform that would allow him, and it finally caught on. Korean and American fans flocked to his Instagram and Twitter, gushing about the "hot Korean rapper". Atlantic Records heard his music and offered him a deal, and his career skyrocketed. He joined the ranks of famous Western artists like Cardi B, Bruno Mars, and Ed Sheeran. His most famous song, coincidentally the one he wrote for Minho, propelled him to the Billboard Top 100. Minho attended all the award shows with a smile on his lips and the hottest man in Korea by his side. 

"Dori," Minho called out, emptying the last of their cat food into her pink bowl. The speckled kitten ran from his and Jisung's bedroom when she heard the ringing of food hitting porcelain, and Jisung's sleepy body followed. His hair resembled a disgruntled cockatoo from where Minho grabbed it, and red spots were blooming along the column of his neck. Jisung grabbed his dick and adjusted it in his shorts nonchalantly, and Minho would have scolded him, but he could feel the dried evidence of their morning routine on his lips.

"G' morning, baby," Jisung greeted, resting his head against Minho's back and patting his tummy. Minho cooed and stopped petting Dori to kiss his boyfriend's swollen lips. 

"Good morning, bubba."

"You must be a lumberjack because you are damn good with morning wood," Jisung snickered, and Minho reached around to smack his butt, embarrassed. 

"Han Jisung!" 

Jisung leaned against the counter next to Minho with a sleazy smile. "Lee Minho," he mimicked. Minho rolled his eyes and swung his heavy book bag over his shoulder. College courses came with college textbooks that weighed more than Jisung and him combined. They made his back ache worse than when he pulled a muscle in dance two months prior attempting to show off (why Minho thought he could do a perfect plie without stretching, he didn't know). 

"How are your classes?" Jisung asked, clicking the start button on their Keurig. It churned to life, and a small trickle of jet black liquid dripped into the cat-dad mug below.  

"I auditioned for Julliard to dance, not to learn why the hell some dudes from Ancient Greece decided to start a theatre!" Minho groaned. Professor Bailey would skin him alive if he heard Minho dissing classical dance or it's origins, but in the comfort of his kitchen, Minho felt invincible to his elderly wrath. 

Jisung sipped his bitter coffee with an amused hum and handed Minho a vanilla protein shake from the fridge. "You dance all day, though?" 

Minho pecked Jisung's cheek as a thank you and threw the bottle in his luridly green duffel bag. It was a gift from Jisung's mom in Malaysia, and he didn't dare to tell his boyfriend how god awful the color was. It reminded him of a tree frog tripping on mushrooms, or the color of Dori's puke when she got into their lemon sherbert a few weeks ago.