Minho only ever sees Jinki on Sundays. He knows, objectively, that Jinki goes to his school, but he's in the honors program and Minho is decidedly not, so they've never had a class together. Weirdly, he doesn't know anyone who's ever had a class with him either, but it's not all that surprising since Minho mainly hangs out with his team or his childhood best friends turned high school delinquents (to his mom's eternal chagrin).

The church Minho and Jinki go to is mostly old people. It's on the decline, as parishioners start to croak, and young people aren't joining the way they used to. There aren't enough teens for a youth program, and so every Sunday, Minho and Jinki and the pastor's twin daughters all sit together in a room upstairs and watch ancient bible study videos from the '80s that the pastor's wife found in storage. It's stupidly boring. Minho spends most of his time on his phone, or napping, and — very occasionally — doing his homework.

But sometimes, he watches Jinki. The guy always seems to be cramming, like he somehow has an exam every other day. The honors program must be hell, Minho thinks, glad his soccer schedule kept him out of it. But Jinki never seems all that stressed. He's awkward, yeah, but in this calm, gentle way that makes him pretty likeable, after a conversation. And he's kind of cute, even with the acne and the gnarly haircut (which, Minho can't really throw stones, not since his mom accidentally cut his bangs so short that he's heard nothing but ridicule about it from the guys on the team).

On this particular Sunday, it's hot enough outside that this stuffy second floor room might as well be a sauna. The pastor's daughters have shed their cardigans and monopolized the barely-functional oscillating fan, leaving him and Jinki to stew in their own sweat. Jinki, especially, seems to be suffering, sweat dripping from his hairline and turning the back of his dress shirt translucent. He's kinda ripped, Minho notices (in a purely objective sense); he wonders what this guy is doing, since Minho's never seen him near the gym or the athletic complex. Maybe it's from hauling around all those textbooks.

"Psst," Minho whispers, extending a foot to nudge Jinki's leg. Jinki looks up from his math homework and over at Minho, eyebrows quirked in confusion.

"Yeah?" he whispers back. It's stupid — this isn't detention, no one's monitoring them, but it feels right to keep their voices down, under the drone of the TV.

"It has to be illegal, keeping us up here," Minho says, flopping back against his decrepit beanbag chair. "Wanna sneak out with me?"

Jinki's eyes go wide. "Really?" he asks. "My parents will kill me."

"It's fine." Minho makes his best pleading face. "They never come up here to check on us until at least noon. I'll make sure we're back by then."

Jinki bites his lip, glancing between his math homework, the TV, the closed door. He sighs.

"Okay." He closes his textbook. "Where are we going?"

Minho grins. "I know which closet they keep the wine in."

And so that's how they end up in the the backseat of Minho's parents' car, the keys swiped from his dad's sport coat hanging up in the vestibule, sharing a bottle of truly awful wine and relishing in the air conditioning blasting at full force.

"I've never done anything like this," Jinki says, giggling. His face has gone flushed, his legs tangled with Minho's in the tiny, cramped space. Minho can see that the flush goes further down where Jinki's unbuttoned the first couple buttons of his shirt. With the wine making his head a little fuzzy, it takes him longer to remember to look away.

"You should have fun more often," Minho says, taking another swig, sweet and bitter. "You're always studying, man."

"Well, I'm good at it." Jinki grins ruefully. "I'm not much of an athlete."

"Not with that attitude," Minho replies, wincing internally at the way he sounds exactly like his dad. "You could come over some time. I'll teach you, and you can help me with calculus."

Jinki shrugs. "Maybe. Only if you don't mind that I'll be terrible."

"Come on, I bet you're not that bad," Minho enthuses, feeling more drunk by the second. He pats Jinki's leg where it's pressed up against his own. "You look plenty strong."

Jinki looks down at Minho's hand, then out the window, his hands twisting together in his lap. He swallows hard, his adam's apple jumping in his throat, like he's trying to find the best way to word something he doesn't really want to say.

"Minho, have you ever…" He trails off.

"Have I ever what?" His tone is making Minho nervous. Jinki looks up, and Minho's never really noticed how dark his eyes are, how thick his eyelashes are. Jinki swallows and puts his hand on Minho's knee. It's scalding through the fabric of his dress pants.

"Thought about other guys," Jinki whispers.

Minho really should laugh it off, shove Jinki's hand away, drink more wine. But something about the dark intensity of Jinki's gaze pins him where he is, draws honesty out of his throat. He manages to temper it into something less than a full confession.

"Maybe," he allows. "I don't know, doesn't everyone?"

Jinki bites his lip, lets it go. His lips look as soft and shiny as any girl Minho's ever fantasized about. He can't stop himself from looking.

"I don't think so," Jinki says. His voice is a whisper. "I think about it all the time. I know it's wrong."

"I guess if you only think about it, it's okay." Minho doesn't sound convincing, even to himself, and now he's thinking about it, too, hyper-aware of the places Jinki is pressed up against him.

"But I really want—" Jinki cuts himself off with a frustrated sound and leans over to put the bottle in one of the front seat cupholders. Before Minho can say anything, he disentangles himself from Minho's legs and slides down to his knees on the car floor, awkwardly folded into the tiny space. Minho watches, entranced, as he licks his bottom lip.

"Jinki?" Minho's voice comes out weak. His traitorous dick is already half-hard, just from their positions, the suggestion of what Jinki might be offering.

"Can you just let me?" Jinki asks, eyes wide and pleading. "I just want to know, and then I'll never ask again. You'll let me, right?"

Minho squeezes his eyes shut. "It's wrong," he whispers, no conviction behind it, just an empty mantra.

"I know," Jinki says, "I know, but it's okay. Just once, and then you never even have to talk to me again. Please."

His hands land on Minho's thighs, sliding up, fingertips resting on the waistband of his slacks. A rush of heat tears through Minho's body, so intense that it borders on nausea. He's never wanted anything more in his life.

He can't say it, so he nods. With shaking hands, he reaches down and unbuttons and unzips his fly, just enough that Jinki can pull him out of his underwear. He barely manages to muffle his moan when Jinki kisses the head of his dick, slow and tentative and exploratory.

"Oh, god," he gasps, hand flying down to pat awkwardly at Jinki's head, unsure whether he should put it in his hair or not. Minho's suddenly self-conscious of how much pre-cum he's leaking, whether it's a normal amount or too much or too little, if it tastes bad. Jinki's flustered but his expression is serious, concentrating hard as he opens his mouth and takes the first couple inches of Minho's dick onto his tongue.

It's the best thing Minho's ever felt. It doesn't even come close to the time he almost had sex with his girlfriend — they'd gotten as far as her hand on his dick, over his pants, before they'd both chickened out and she'd awkwardly broken up with him the next day. He'd confessed to it, that Sunday, and was reprimanded, sure, but told that it wasn't too bad — they hadn't really had sex, after all. It hadn't really counted.

Minho wonders, hysterically, if this counts, or if this is an entirely different ballgame. He lets out an embarrassing whine as Jinki takes him further in, tongue hot on the underside of his dick, lips stretched obscenely tight. Minho feels a pulse in his stomach, something sickening and deep, like Jinki's drawing something out of him every time he sucks Minho further in. It makes him feel strange, tired, like he's losing his grip on reality with every passing second.

He shouts when Jinki makes eye contact and bobs forward, taking him in the rest of the way and letting him rest in his throat. It's something Minho was sure only happened in porn, something you had to train yourself for, or something. What the fuck—

"You," Minho gasps out, "you're so good at this. Why are you so good at this?"

Jinki hums, swallows, looks up at Minho with dark, knowing eyes, a smile turning up the corners of his lips where they're stretched around him. Minho's limbs feel like lead, his head swimming, every pulse of arousal undercut by the sinking realization that something is very, very wrong.

"Stop, Jinki, you have to stop," Minho manages, threading his fingers into Jinki's hair and trying to pull him off. Jinki's hand curls around his wrist and pins it to the seat next to him. Stupidly, it turns him on as much as it makes him freak out even more. His head feels so heavy, like something is squeezing his brain.

Don't panic. It's okay, he thinks, except that's not how his thoughts sound. The words feel distinctly other, like they're coming from outside. He squeezes his eyes shut but that doesn't help at all, just intensifies the way Jinki's mouth feels on him.

Just let go.

"No," Minho gasps, a sickening dread choking him up, like something primal and terrified deep inside him is screaming to be heard.

But it's too late; he comes hard down Jinki's throat with a strangled shout. It feels incredible, but also like something important is leaving him, something vital exiting his body and entering Jinki. He's having trouble breathing. It feels like it goes on forever.

Eventually, Jinki pulls off and licks his flushed, swollen lips. For just a moment, he looks at Minho with satisfied amusement, and maybe something like pity, before his face transforms, uncannily, into the flustered, tentative Jinki he knows.

"Was it good?" he asks, voice shaky, eyes wide, and Minho's gripped with the certainty that he's been had, the victim of some cosmic trick.

"Yeah," Minho says, because he doesn't know what else to say, gripped by nausea and trepidation. He glances at the clock on the car dashboard. "We should go."

They make it back just before service ends, tossing the nearly-empty bottle into the dumpster behind the church. Stepping across the threshold makes the hollowness in Minho's stomach curdle like spoiled milk, but he swallows it down as they sneak upstairs, back into the sweltering room where the TV still drones on. One of the twins appears to have fallen asleep; the other ignores them entirely. Jinki smiles at him and goes back to his textbook, while Minho sits on a dusty beanbag and tries to regain his bearings. When he looks up at the TV, it sounds like static, his ears ringing painfully until he looks away.

When Minho's parents take him home, he doesn't say goodbye to Jinki. He doesn't say anything.

Next Sunday, Jinki is gone.