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*
Pink had always been Jisung’s favorite color, since he was old enough to decide. He recalls his mom telling the story of how in kindergarten he’d wanted to dress in all pink outfits, all day, every day. Small and adamant and pink-skinned. Phasing through pastel tulle tutu, the bright pink of scraped knees from climbing too-tall trees, the satin fabric of coveted ballet flats and thin bubblegum cardboard casings of VHS lesson tapes from the library that didn’t work out. But always color-loving, that is - of one color.
In high school, his class had been tasked with giving mini seminars on a special topic. He’d chosen color psychology, and been fascinated with the studies done on football players who were weakened by the so-called feminine color, rather than calmed. How too much of a good thing can make you angry. The danger of toeing this line.
He likes to think he can hold the nuances in his hands. All the nuances that come with growing up trans and queer.
When he’d first discovered and grown into his identity, though, it hadn’t been as easy.
He’d hover over the checkout button for a pair of pink-blue gradient headphones, scrolling through ecstatic reviews of the colorway, but knew if he wore them over his ears regularly and had to be perceived with the feminine associations of pink on him, he’d hate it. Color has no gender, he knows that logically, but still - he’d feel dysphoric.
And so he started to grow away from pink, moving towards blues and greens, electric and lime, conventional and minty, hues deep like forest trim and tender like succulent leaves.
And it had felt more comfortable, more like a home he could live in, warm in navy plaid pajamas, wrapped in the loose hug of spring green hoodies hiding chest, the way the sturdy olive fabric of a thick-strapped backpack felt masculine on his shoulders, the smooth ceramic of a seafoam mug in the roughening skin of his hands.
And then along came Minho.
Minho didn’t stutter into Jisung’s life, or come in with a bang. There was no grand fanfare, instead a comforting lack of excess awkward jitters - Minho simply eased into Jisung’s every day as if he’d been there all along, as if he were meant to be there.
At first, Minho taught Jisung the beauty of browns: his chocolate brown fluffy hair, soft to the touch, allowing Jisung to pet when his hand faltered where his mind lept. And in stylish tan brown cargos he let Jisung borrow when he spilled his coffee like the klutz he is, Minho’s smile at the fact adorable in finding Jisung adorable for it. A playful light slap on the arm drenched in warmth. Brown is warm, Jisung learns. Grounding.
And so is care expressed in the form of borrowed clothing. The khakis were the first, but at this point, Jisung doesn’t even need to ask anymore. Minho knows Jisung craves the honeyed taste of gender euphoria from borrowing his boyfriend’s clothes, needs it to feel better on his down days when his dysphoria hoodies aren’t enough.
- Oh, are you nesting again? Burying yourself in my masculine alpha scent? That’s gay.
- Shut up, hyung. You’ve been reading too much fanfiction again.
Jisung’s favorite item of Minho’s so far is one of his thick flannels, tan and charcoal brown, with streaks of something new to his senses. The particular shade - rosewood, is darkened to an almost brown, but is still familiarly pink , and fits oversized even on Jisung’s broad shoulders, well-worn like the affection apparent on Minho’s face in one of his lopsided gooey smiles meant only for Jisung.
The best part of wearing the flannel is not how it covers him in euphoria, but how it also covers him in Minho’s pleased attention, in the form of gentle knowing eyes, a subtle warmth in his smile. A firm care in the press of his hands on left then right shoulder, and along the small of his back. Minho’s hands, though they look delicate at times, are sturdy. His touch is strong, veined with barely hidden desire, versus Jisung’s still trembling, exploratory ones, shy as they trail the feel of the lines of Minho’s body and soft flesh, as they lay there cuddling on the couch. (He needs to bring them ever closer. Minho lets him.)
Sometimes, and especially in the beginning he had, he wonders if he wants to be Minho. Hyung and I are one!! But then, he realizes that’s so, so silly. Why be a clone of his love when the object of his affections loves him for who he is? Loves him, for simply being Jisung. Being with Minho makes him feel euphoric.
One blink and Jisung might miss it. He needs to keep his eyes open for this. The experience of just loving being with Minho. The ever present comfort even in the newness of it.
But alas, the sleepy boi tendencies of waking up at 5am for a new storyline drop in his favorite gacha game takes its toll.
Sleepy?
He blinks, nods in response, cuddles into a shoulder. That’s okay, Jisungie. In the faint distance, a fleece blanket moves to cover him. Minho is there, faint cinnamon and alluring cherry. Jisung dozes off, knowing Minho will be there too in his dreams - looks forward to it.
He dreams happily of cherry lips and warm cinnamon eyes that turn golden under the sunlight.
*
At 24, Jisung likes to think he understands the alphabet of the rainbow, or more of it at least, and as his body grows to become more of what he loves, something he can hold and say he’s proud of playing at creator with it, he in turn is relearning to love his forgotten pink again. And all the new shades he’s carefully tucking away under his arm and growing bicep, in the paint section of their favorite hardware store remind him of, no, when he closes his eyes, are in the form of Minho.
He thinks he could drown in it. Thinks he could drown in the color of Minho alone.
In dedicated memory and particular order, his encyclopaedic documentation of shades of pink now reads:
Pastel pinks - tender shoots and the newness of holding, the flamingo thrill and the lemonade rush. Jisung holding the whole weight of Minho’s body to prove a point, straining like beginner’s feet in a ballet slipper; Minho deftly holding Jisung’s, a flushed surprise every time / bated delight. One arm goes here, how dare you flip me like that!
Giggles, pleads. Teasing smiles accompanying rare tension. Softer ones where their warmth connects. A gentle release.
Dusty pinks - peach framing Minho’s cheeks, soft to the touch, and deepening in color to the cradle. Ripening. Minho doesn’t blush easily. Neither of them do. The flush on tanned skin from a strawberry margarita too many, the stumbling over words they’d never speak in the daylight. The clink of sparkling coral glasses, trying to remain subtle and coy. Thinly veiled joking confessions, carefully crinkle-wrapped fears giving way to rustling anticipation. Blurting out souls into night, tripping knees, desperate tongues, baring unexpected gifts and sweet beginnings.
Searing pink - a color in its own category, akin to a bright red, behind the pinkness of his eyelids in the 7am sun, when the curtains open to summer solstice light have Jisung blinking into form. Minho’s calloused but warm hands grasp his, whispering jagi with each soft pad of long fingers on his short, stumpy ones, and each graze of smoothly trimmed nails a scintillating promise of mornings to come - learning to know the language of Minho by touch alone.
Watermelon lips alternate with dark spots as his vision adjusts - the moment carving a tender hole in his soft, wet, and aching heart and not forgetting to fill it back up again. For you, the door is always open. Don’t forget to come back in.
Jisung never changed his favorite color. He loves pink, just as he loves Minho.
- They should name a color after you. We should paint our walls with it.
- I’ll paint my walls with the pink of you. Stay.