Work Text:
eyes
"If you're going to keep looking at me like that, you'd better fucking kiss me."
Kibum had been clocking the look Minho had been sending him all night, the one that his (stupid) round eyes and (annoying) small face just intensified: the one like a banked fire. He'd held court all night, effortlessly commanding attention – but his eyes kept flicking back to Minho, who was in the VIP area with the girls.
So it shouldn't have been a surprise when, forty minutes before last call, they shoved at each other in the club store room, barely concealed by the stacked crates of supplies. The group that he'd been holding court over had dispersed. The girls in VIP had gone to dance. There was no one to miss them, now.
Minho had made a point of following Kibum into the shadowed hall between the bathrooms and storage, his presence silent and large. Kibum let Minho crowd him against the wall, in the most shadowed part of this space, before he'd issued his challenge. If – when – Minho reacted poorly, they could play it off as their banter, and this weird tension between them would finally ease.
True to form, Minho (who hated losing) frowned. There was something piqued in his expression. Kibum was ready to change direction – he'd always been good at pivoting on a dime – because Minho always responded to a challenge.
But leave it to Minho to surprise him: Minho slid his hands up Kibum's chest, over his shoulders. Kibum wasn't prepared for those long fingers to tunnel in his hair, for that broad palm to cradle the back of his head.
"I'm a great kisser," Minho insisted, placing a march of kisses up Kibum's neck, his jawline. "I won't lose to you, Bummie."
At that, Kibum couldn't help but grin salaciously. "Honey," he said in English, and then right back to Korean: "I win either way."
Minho tugged at his hair, and if not for the wall at his back, Kibum's knees would have given out. "Are you sure about that?" Kibum could feel Minho's smile curve against his cheek. "Honey?"
He yanked roughly at Minho's waistband, pulling him closer. There was no air between them now, they were pressed so close. "You're such a tease," he said, hands sliding around Minho's waist and keeping him near.
"That's rich coming from you," Minho whispered, nipping at the shell of his ear.
"Shut up," Kibum complained. "No take-backs, Ming," he added, and tilted their heads until their mouths finally met. He wouldn't ever admit it even under threat of death, but he'd idly wondered what kissing all of his members would be like. Minho, with his fiery nature, was the most unpredictable.
The reality was this: Kibum slid his tongue into Minho's mouth, and that banked fire he'd observed all night roared to life, a consuming heat. Minho used his grip on Kibum to tilt his head exactly as he wanted, used his size to move even closer – and Kibum allowed it. One of Minho's legs slid between Kibum's, and the friction made Kibum moan shamelessly, hands gripping Minho's waist so tightly that he must have been leaving marks.
He gasped for breath, dizzy. "Minho," he sighed, tilting his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. "What do you want?"
"I want you," Minho said plainly.
The desire for more more more was overwhelming. "No," Kibum said, shaking his head and straightening himself out.
A wounded expression crossed Minho's face, before smoothing away into something forbiddingly neutral. He stepped back, giving Kibum space. "I thought you said no take-backs–"
Kibum grabbed his wrist. "No," he repeated, and added, "not here."
And there, again, was that look that Minho had been sending his way all night, that banked fire back in his expression. "Oh."
He had no idea how they got out of the club without getting mobbed, didn't recall summoning the designated driver. The drive back to his place was a blur of empty, pleasant chatter with the driver and of Minho feeling him up in the darkness, long fingers pressing higher and higher into the inside of Key's thigh while he lied to the gig worker about what it was like to work on Amazing Saturday.
The elevator ride to his floor was torture. Minho still looked debauched, clothes wrinkled and askew, mouth still dark and kiss-swollen. Kibun wondered how much of a sight he looked, too. It was taking every ounce of willpower he had not to either run and hide, or to jump Minho right there in the elevator, in front of God and the building security team.
"Stop looking at me like that," Minho said quietly, two floors from Kibum's.
"Like what?"
"Like you want to climb me like a tree," Minho said, and Kibum could see the corner of his mouth tilt up.
"That's ridiculous," Kibum scoffed, playing along. "I don't go outside. I'd never climb a tree."
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened with a whirr. Minho gestured for Kibum to exit first, and followed close (but not too close) behind.
At the door to his place, Kibum found his hand was shaking slightly. "The kids aren't home," he said, anything to fill the silence. "My parents took them for the week, said they wanted to spend time with their grandchildren."
"They'll come back groomed and five pounds heavier," Minho replied, voice mild. He sounded completely normal. Kibum wanted to kick him.
"Just like me," he joked instead, and pressed the last digit of his door code. The lock chimed and clicked open, and then suddenly Kibum was being hassled into his place, the entryway light blinking on above as he was shoved roughly against the door, slamming it shut. "Hey, my neighbors will complain about the noise–"
"I don't care," Minho said, flipping the deadbolt. "Kibum-ah," he said, and kissed him.
Kibum had been waiting for the other shoe to drop; anxiously anticipated Minho coming to his senses and crashing on the couch; expected their longtime, hard-earned friendship to get in the way of this intensely crackling chemistry they'd accidentally unlocked. It must have been like this when Son O-gong took the first bite of the peach of immortality.
He moaned shamelessly into Minho's mouth and proceeded to feel up Minho's chest with the kind of single-minded determination he usually gave to mastering choreography or maintaining his winning streak.
Minho broke the kiss, face pressed into Kibum's shoulder. "That tickles," he complained. "How can you do two things at once, seriously?"
"Talent," Kibum replied flippantly, nevermind his erratic breathing. "Practice."
"You're saying I'm not distracting you enough," Minho accused. He raised his head–
–and dropped to his knees.
Kibum, in turn, dropped his bravado. "W-what are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Minho tugged and pulled at Kibum's waistband until he got the belt buckle undone.
"It looks like you're going to blow me," Kibum said, reaching out and grasping Minho's hair – not too tight, just enough so he would feel it.
Minho's eyes gleamed. "Oh, good," he replied, undoing Kibum's fly and tugging his trousers down his thighs. He reached into Kibum's underwear and pulled him out, stroking him experimentally. "No false advertising," he added, and pressed a kiss to the underside of the head.
Kibum tossed his head back hard enough to knock against the door. "Fuck," he bit out.
"Sure, let's do it," Minho replied, tonguing at Kibum's shaft lewdly before taking the length into his mouth in one swallow.
The overhead light clicked off.
nose
By some miracle, their managers had allowed them two full days off, so naturally everyone had gotten shitfaced at the cheapest pojangmacha they could find.
Minho sipped his somaek and surreptitiously eyed the mixed group of college students at the table two over from them. The penny had finally dropped a few weeks ago when he had realized he was admiring the lines of the other soccer players at the pickup tournament in the park, and not because he was admiring their ball handling – rather, instead, he wondered what it would be like to have that top-heavy striker's body against his, or what it might be like for that lithe midfielder to suck a hickey onto Minho's neck, or what the experience of the brawny goalie between his legs and lips might translate into.
The realization had been like a combination lock clicking into place, not nearly as shocking as he'd expected it would be. However, the knowledge was still too new to share, not when he hadn't fully sat with it, hadn't adequately risen to the challenge it presented to him, hadn't quite folded this new wrinkle of his identity into his self-image yet.
Still, everyone always said his eyes were so big. Looking was still allowed. He turned his attention back to his own group, certain they hadn't noticed. Except: Jonghyun gave him a long, considering look over the rim of his pint glass.
The ding! of a notification saved him, and they all checked their phones. Jinki-hyung had gotten the first message, but it was like the seal had been broken with that, and soon Kibum and Jonghyun were not-so-surreptitiously texting other people under the table.
"Just go already," Taemin had said, rolling his eyes. He made a shooing gesture. "I'll get Minho-hyung home and then go to my parents' house."
That sobered Minho up slightly. "Wait, I can't go to your house?"
"Cousins are visiting," Taemin replied with a shrug.
Jonghyun didn't need to be told twice. "Don't wait up for me," he said with a wave, and flagged down the ahjumma to pay.
Key stood up next, swaying ever so slightly. His eyes were bright, even under his fringe. "Guess it's time for my test drive."
"Drunk driving is illegal," Minho pointed out, feeling like he was missing something.
Kibum patted his cheek. "You're so cute," he said, and Minho had enough of his wits to know this was an insult. "See you all tomorrow." He gathered his things and practically skipped out of the tent.
"I'm headed in your direction, Taemin-ah," Jinki said at last. "I'll help you get Minho-man tucked in."
"I'm literally right here," Minho complained, unfolding himself from the tiny table. His knees ached, which made him feel unspeakably old even though he was still in his twenties. He glanced one last time at the attractive group before ducking out into the street.
True to his word, Taemin had dropped him off at the dorm and headed off. Jinki had lingered a little longer.
"You good?"
Minho ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I'm good. There's a bottle of hangover cure in the fridge, I'll be okay."
And Minho was okay, if a little lonely. It was rare he got the dorm to himself, though, and he debated walking around in the nude or playing loud music or any number of things. In the end, he opted to sleep naked, figuring he'd pull on underwear if someone came home early.
What he hadn't counted on was this: Minho dreamed of a pliant body pressed all against him, the unmistakable pressure of a nose in his neck and lips on his skin. Without opening his eyes, Minho rolled over in his dream and kissed his bedmate, tongue breaching the seam of their lips.
Minho liked kissing, liked the way kissing could foreshadow a lot about a new partner, liked the closeness of it. He especially liked how kissing could be a prelude to more -- he slid a leg between the other's legs, slid his fingers into the other's pixie-cut hair and tugged. Every texture was in 4K, ultra high definition – the wet of the mouth, the softness of their skin, the hair like silk. It was dizzying.
His bedmate made a soft, needy noise, and he took that as encouragement. He slid his leg higher, moving closer--
There were other unmistakable things about this: the hyper-realism wasn't a dream but rather reality; the hard ridge of the Adam's apple that he was tonguing; the other hard ridge, further down, unabashedly pressed against the muscle of his thigh.
He opened his eyes. It should not have been a surprise to find Kibum -- Kibum, who consistently got drunk and fell asleep with Minho; Kibum, who moisturized with the kind of single-minded focus Minho put into pickup soccer games; Kibum, who was supposed to have been elsewhere that night. Yet, it was a shock of cold water all the same.
"Kibum?!"
Kibum slowly blinked open his fox-like eyes, and for a moment there was the unguarded want in his expression that threatened to steal all the air from Minho's lungs. But Minho blinked and the desire was gone, replaced by the more familiar flinty look, and that somehow was disappointing.
Worse was what he said: "I'm not one of your girls, Minho."
He recoiled at that, thunking his head hard against the underside of Kibum's bunk. "I--fuck, ow--I just--"
Kibum wiggled out from under him and clambered up to the top bunk. "It's too early for a sexuality crisis. Kissing a boy doesn't make you gay, pretend it was just a dream. Hell, pretend it was the concussion you just gave yourself." There was rustling, and then the slowed, even breathing of the sleeping.
Half-tumbled out of bed and half-mast, Minho pressed his fingers against the rapidly swelling knot on his head and bit back some sudden, unexpected emotion he couldn't name.
(Later, he would know it for what it was: shame, disappointment, and rejection.)
lips
The first time Minho came over to play with Commedes and Garcons, he was more excited than Kibum's own babies.
"You mean it?" Minho's eyes were shining, and Kibum wanted to shove at that face, ugly it up a little.
He settled for rolling his eyes. "I wouldn't have invited you if I didn't mean it."
Minho, as usual, ignored his grousing. "I'll bring presents."
"Don't I spoil my kids enough?"
Minho pouted.
"Ugh, fine, whatever, do what you want." Sulking, Kibum sipped at his drink while Minho clapped.
A few days later, Minho arrived at Kibum's new place ("It's a transitional apartment," Kibum had insisted. "The lease is only for a few months." Of course, Minho had agreed in that way that meant he thought you were full of shit) with a shopping bag and a smile so big that Kibum could see it on the doorbell camera.
"Yah, what are you smiling at," he complained through the intercom.
"Shut up and let me in," Minho retorted. "I bought presents for you, too," he added, holding up another bag.
"Lead with that next time," Kibum said, and buzzed him in.
Minho was unsubtle, thumping loudly on every step up. Kibum had the door open and was leaning on the jamb when Minho appeared in his hallway. "Could you be any louder? A tank has more stealth."
"I didn't want to scare the kids," he said, like that was a reasonable explanation.
And, because his own children conspired against him, Kibum heard Commedes and Garcons skittering to the door. They wove between his legs and barked excitedly, little puffy tails wagging fiercely as they attempted to jump onto Minho. "Down, down!" Kibum bent down and scooped them up. "Come in, I guess," he said, feigning apathy and knowing Minho would follow.
True to form, Minho trailed behind him, closing the front door and toeing off his shoes. "Thank you for having me over," he said politely, likely the only polite sentence Kibum would hear from him all night.
"You literally invited yourself," Kibum pretended to complain. "Guest slippers are right there, that's a new pair for you."
Minho looked touched, but in an exaggerated way. "Honey, you shouldn't have," he said, false-brightly, and Kibum rolled his eyes.
"Do you want the tour? It's not much."
"It's fine," Minho said, shuffling out of the entryway now that his slippers were on. "Where do you want these?"
"On the counter," Kibum said, gesturing with his chin. Minho complied, then strode to the living room and knelt on the carpet in front of the sofa. The dogs were squirming in his grip anyway, so Kibum set them gently on the ground. They made a beeline for Minho, who immediately began scritching and cooing at them in a baby voice.
"They're old men, you don't have to baby them," Kibum grumbled, peeking into the bags.
"If they're not babies, they shouldn't be baby-sized, isn't that right?" Minho was making Garcons pretend to dance the choreo to Lucifer. It was so cute, Kibum was tempted to hate him forever for it. "The smaller bag is yours, by the way."
Caught, Kibum stopped pretending like he wasn't snooping. He did, however, pull out the bundle from the larger bag first. It was three outfits from high-end brands. One was athleisure, and the other two were sweaters. "These are cute, are you sure you picked these?"
"Ha, ha," Minho laughed sarcastically. "But actually, Changmin-hyung did help me pick them out."
"I knew it," Kibum said, cackling.
"C'mon, I'm the one who bought them," Minho whined.
"Commedes and Garcons say thank you," Kibum replied, setting the items aside and tugging the smaller one closer. Inside were two cartons of strawberries. "No way!"
"A friend of friend's uncle runs a strawberry farm," Minho explained. "He gave me a few trays and told me to share, so I'm sharing."
"That was nice of him."
"What about how nice I am!"
"You're supposed to be nice to me, I'm the one with the cute dogs."
"I should get a dog," Minho said wistfully, scratching Commedes behind one ear.
"A puppy to match your energy," Kibum agreed, then shuddered, and not from the cold water he used to rinse the fruit. "My nightmare, two of you."
In short order, the fruit was washed. He sliced half of one carton into quarters and set the fruit on a plate, like his grandmother would have done. It gave him a warm feeling, and he said a silent prayer to her as he pulled out forks and napkins.
"Yah, wash your hands, I–" He turned out of the kitchen to set the plate on the coffee table when he saw why the room had quieted in his absence.
His two kids had fallen asleep in Minho's lap, dozing as Minho idly ran a hand down each one's back. His expression was soft, unexpectedly unguarded, the way Minho often was around children. It made Kibum's chest hurt, made him feel like he was melting all over.
Kibum exhaled sharply. "Oh."
Minho looked up, looking sheepish. "I guess I have my hands full."
Just horrible, a disaster.
He feigned nonchalance. "They're demanding little brats."
"They get it from their dad."
Kibum shoved at his shoulder as he set the plate down. "No fruit for you."
"Aw, Bummie, come on."
"Yeah, yeah," he said, kneeling in front of Minho. He speared a piece with one of the forks and brandished it at MInho. "Say 'ah'."
"Ah," Minho parroted obediently, holding his mouth open. He looked expectant, soft, harmless.
It made Kibum's heart ache a little, and he fed Minho the strawberry quarter without fussing. Minho's lips wrapped around the fork and then he pulled, chewing without breaking eye contact. "Shank yew," he said, mid-chew.
"You're so gross," Kibum replied, with no heat in his voice. "You want another?"
Minho nodded.
"Close your eyes."
Minho obeyed without protest, and that made Kibum's heart ache, too. He speared a piece of fruit but, instead of feeding it to Minho, he placed it in his own mouth. With gentle hands – because maybe Kibum was realizing he'd never been as gentle with Minho as he should have been, but he could always start right now – he cupped Minho's face and pressed a kiss to that mouth, pushing the strawberry past Minho's lips when they parted ever so beautifully.
He felt Minho's tongue sweep out and graze his lower lip, as if to taste. Kibum pulled away, sitting back on his heels, heart racing. He studied Minho's slightly upturned (and still annoyingly tiny) face. Those round eyes were still closed as his kiss-pout gave way to a compulsive chew.
"How is it?" Kibum asked, voice unexpectedly rough.
Minho opened his eyes. "It's sweet," he said, and smiled.
teeth
It'll be fun, Minho cajoled via text, jumping off the treadmill belt because convincing Kibum to do anything required his full attention – something he'd learned over the last several years but felt especially keenly this past year.
What's in it for me? Kibum fired back, and Minho grinned. Kibum never made things easy.
My undying love and appreciation?
Hard pass, Kibum replied.
"Are you texting Kibummie?" Changmin was walking on the treadmill, part of his rehab for the ankle he'd twisted in dance practice.
Startled, Minho looked up. "How did you know?"
Changmin rolled his eyes. "You look like how I do when I text my fiancée."
He hoped the flush was attributable to exertion and not embarrassment. Changmin was cool, but Minho wanted to share news and not aspirations. "I–wait–"
"I'm just teasing," his hyung said, hitting stop on his treadmill. "Help me with my four-way stretches?"
"Sure, hyung," Minho replied, powering down his machine as well.
Later, after Minho had changed clothes, he checked his phone.
Ugh, fine, there's nothing better to do. I'll meet you at the dojang tomorrow.
"Yes!" Minho cheered, and then texted Kibum a series of hearts and exclamation points. Victory never tasted so sweet.
You text like a middle schooler, Kibum replied. Minho could practically feel the eyeroll from across town. See you tomorrow.
The next day, Minho warmed up on the large matted area, stretching and doing basic calisthenics while he waited for Kibum to show up. He didn't have to wait long; in sunglasses and a comically oversized hoodie, holding an iced americano, entered SHINee's Key. "One sec, I'll change," he said, barely pausing. Minho, accustomed to this by now, simply hummed an acknowledgement and continued stretching his hip flexors.
He was starfished on the ground when Kibum reappeared, coffee long gone and considerably less glamorous. He wore loose shorts over compression tights, and a fitted running top that looked like a rashguard. His hair was pushed back with a terry cloth headband. It made his face look round.
"You look like the moon," Minho said, sitting up.
Kibum pressed his hands to his cheeks. "My face is swollen because I had ramyeon last night." He sighed and collapsed onto the mat, gracefully shifting into a hurdler stretch. "Seriously, why am I here, I could be at brunch. I could be asleep. I could be sleeping at brunch."
Minho snorted. "You're the one who said you had no better options."
"That's true," Kibum said. He changed sides. "Why'd you even ask me? Wouldn't Jjong be a better pick?"
Minho twisted himself into a standard back stretch, right elbow on left knee. Conveniently, this meant he wasn't facing Kibum. "Maybe, but you're a tougher opponent than he is. You look average height and build but you're actually all muscle, you won't go easy on me, and if anything you'll fight dirty to win."
"There's a compliment in there somewhere, so thank you."
Minho looked at him with an affronted expression. "I just acknowledged you as one of the few people who could win against me in a fight."
"I said thank you," Kibum shot back, smoothly moving to stand. He reached an arm down to help Minho up. "So, a wrestling drama, huh?"
"The script seems fun," he replied, grasping Kibum's hand and letting himself be hauled up. "They liked my screen test and want me to try wrestling their stunt guy next week."
"You're a masochist," Kibum said, no heat to it.
"It seems to be working out," Minho replied, not disagreeing. "I need you to help me practice my grabs and takedowns."
"You'd better not have dragged me out of my house at dawn–"
"It's like ten in the morning–"
"So that you could just judo throw me–"
"We're doing traditional Korean wrestling–"
"For a half hour."
"Forty-five minutes, and it's practicing grabs, but yes ok, you've made your point."
Kibum sighed, incredibly put-upon at being forced to be active. He then relaxed into a neutral stance, waiting for Minho to approach.
(Minho knew he was exaggerating and didn't actually mind it so much; if he hadn't actually wanted to show up, he simply would not have agreed to come, nor would he have shown up at all.)
MInho mirrored his position. "You ready?"
Kibum nodded, a single jerk of his head. "Let's go!"
They worked their way through a series of holds – Minho first practiced doing the hold, then let Kibum grab him while he wriggled out of the grip. Much like dance practice, it was about drilling the movement, until the actions were about muscle memory at speed rather than rational thought.
At an advanced grab, Minho's foot slipped, and he accidentally upended Kibum over his shoulder, flipping him in….a judo throw.
"Ow!" Kibum complained, rolling onto his stomach. "What the fuck, you said you weren't going to do that."
"I'm sorry," Minho said, hands hovering all over Kibum as if to check for injuries using his (nonexistent) x-ray vision. "My foot slipped and I tipped over, it was an accident, seriously."
He batted Minho's hands away. "I'm good," he said quietly, voice and gaze steady. "I'm fine," he repeated, then stood up and shook out his arms and legs. "Feels like I get a free pass to toss you around a little." He grinned, a flash of teeth.
Minho couldn't help but get excited. Who challenged him more and better than Kibum? No one, not even Changmin-hyung. "That seems fair. I won't make it easy on you."
Kibum raised an eyebrow. "So, what, you want me to take you down?"
Minho smirked, widening his stance. "If you can."
Something wicked crossed Kibum's face. "Oh, you're on."
He charged at Minho without warning – but Minho had expected that and kept his stance low so he could stay balanced. He dug his feet into the mats but felt himself sliding, Kibum pushing with his full strength. Minho tried to redirect their momentum, so that he could get rooted, but Kibum swept at his leg and they toppled over in a tangle of limbs.
Kibum reoriented himself first and used his weight and positioning to pin Minho to the mat. "Yield."
Pinning Minho meant Kibum had to make himself large, which meant he was pressed close. Minho tilted his head and grinned. "Never."
"I win, dummy, you gotta yield or I'm not getting up."
"Maybe I don't want you to get up," Minho retorted, arching in place ever so slightly. He was exactly where he wanted to be, wasn't that something. "Maybe I want you closer."
Kibum looked confused, uncertain, like he was going to stand up and back away.
Minho fisted his hand in Kibum's shirt and tugged him close. "I'm going to kiss you now," he said and closed the distance when Kibum didn't recoil.
They were sweaty and breathing hard, and so the kiss was more a scraping of teeth than a kiss. But then: Kibum tugged away Minho's hand, lacing their fingers and pinning that limb, too, to the mat. He tilted his head and relaxed his body deadweight into Minho's, and the kiss sweetened, taking on a more considered feeling. This, too, felt like practice – feeling out a partner, learning their rhythms and idiosyncrasies, exploring what they were capable of.
Minho sighed, pleased, and laid back on the mat. "I thought you'd never let me kiss you," he admitted, squeezing their joined hands.
Kibum was still pinning him down, his other hand braced on Minho's shoulder. "How long have you wanted to do that, exactly?"
Minho considered the ceiling for a long moment. "Eight months?"
Kibum sputtered. "Eight months?! How–what–?!"
But Minho just smiled. "Somehow, you never figured out that I was inviting you out to play one-on-one basketball or one-on-one soccer…or tennis, or hockey, or swimming…. or when I'd ask you to get drinks and play billiards downtown with me, that I was trying to get you to go on a date with me."
Kibum opened and closed his mouth soundlessly for several moments.
"Wow," Minho said. "I thought the only way I'd leave you speechless is if I made you come so hard you forgot your own name."
At that, Kibum flushed a deep scarlet. "Yah!" he started yelling, walloping Minho with his free arm. (For his part, he couldn't help cackling, defenseless and sprawled out as he was.) "You jackass, you could have taken me to normal places, like a museum or a cafe or even a movie, whatever. Why would you pick sports! And who taught you to say such erotic things with a straight face?! I'll kill them myself."
"You can't kill Taeyeon-noona, you like her too much," Minho said between laughs. "If I'd taken you to normal places, you'd have figured out too fast that I like you, and then you'd have made fun of me until I died."
The tension in Kibum's shoulders bled away. "I wouldn't have made fun of you," he said quietly, pulling back so Minho could breathe.
"Not even a little bit?" Minho teased, tilting his head coyly.
But Kibum shook his head. "No. You didn't make fun of my old crush on Jonghyun, even though I was so obvious about it."
Minho was quiet for a long moment, studying Kibum's face. "I want you," he said at last, opting for the kind of vulnerable honesty that would usually unnerve Kibum and make him lash out. It was a risk worth taking. "It took me a while to put it together, but it's the truth."
Kibum sighed, exasperated. "It's not fair, you don't get to be good-looking and emotionally mature."
Minho beamed. "You think I'm good-looking?"
"Quit fishing for compliments," Kibum scolded.
"Then give me something nice," Minho insisted.
"Fine," Kibum said, and kissed him again.
This time, the kiss was slow and telegraphed, and so it quickly became more heated. They were panting into each other's mouths. Their hands and bodies were pressed tight, and Minho felt Kibum's leg move–
He rolled them over, so that he straddled Kibum's hips, and pinned Kibum down with his weight. "Yield," he said, once more reduced to peals of laughter at Kibum's expense.
"Yah!" Kibum yelled, thrashing beneath him and doing interesting things to Minho's hormones. "What the hell, I won."
"Honey," Minho said, affecting Kibum's intonation, grinning widely. "I never lose." He leaned down for another kiss.
Kibum kicked him squarely in the chest.
tongue
He was washing dishes, humming some song that Minho had sent him, when it struck him: they had been hanging out a lot lately, even with their busy schedules and commitments.
Beside him, Minho was drying dishes and harmonizing here and there. They were shoulder-to-shoulder, personal space long ago lost in the SM dorms.
Kibum continued cleaning, after faltering for a moment. He supposed it was inevitable; they were both the last ones of their friends who'd enlisted, and the last single ones in their groups. As the weather got colder, it got easier to feel lonely – not that either of them would ever admit to it. And maybe Kibum was a little at fault, too: he couldn't just leave Minho on read.
"We've been hanging out a lot," he said aloud, wondering if Minho had noticed it too.
"Mmm," Minho hummed, setting the clean plate in the rack. "It's nice," he added. "I like having someone to come home to."
"You should get a dog," Kibum insisted, handing Minho a plate. "Two. Maybe three. However many it would take to be your size."
Minho laughed lightly. "I'll think about it," he replied, like he always did.
And that was really it: Minho was comfortable – someone he didn't have to perform or pretend for, who'd seen every ugly he'd ever had. And he'd seen a lot of Minho's ugly over the years, too. Kibum was pretty sure his own exes didn't know as much about him as Minho did.
They lapsed into their comfortable quiet, just the running water and the click-clack of Commedes and Garcons nails on the tiles as they filed out of the kitchen and headed into the living room.
"Garcons probably needs a trim soon," Minho noted, craning his head to peek around the pillar.
"I was thinking about letting his coat grow out for the cold."
"We could match, I'll get a perm," Minho joked, taking the pot Kibum handed him.
Kibum rolled his eyes eloquently. "Just because Heechul-hyung pulled it off–"
"Debatable–"
"Doesn't mean you could."
"I cede to your superior taste," Minho said, using the old-fashioned intonation.
Kibum hid a smile and handed him the last item. He began scrubbing down the counters and the sink, and barely noticed as Minho finished and grabbed the broom to sweep. They finished at the same time – old habits, he supposed – and dried their hands on tea towels that Kibum pulled out of a drawer.
"Thanks for letting me help," Minho said, leaning on the counter. He hung his towel on the oven handle, next to Kibum's. A matched pair.
"Thanks for coming over." And that was when Kibum made his mistake: on autopilot, he tiptoed up and kissed the corner of Minho's mouth.
He stood back down on his heels, and looked at Minho's shocked expression. In a fell swoop, Kibum realized what he'd done – the thing he'd done with innumerable boyfriends and casually-seeing-yous and dates-to-impress in the past. With them, it would have been an invitation, but this was Minho.
Kibum opened his mouth to apologize when Minho's shocked look morphed into something more familiar: longing, and that I want you to kiss me breathless look that Kibum knew all too well.
So instead of backing off, instead of retreating and hiding, instead of any sensible choice – instead, he crowded Minho against the counter, one hand fisted in the material at Minho's hip and the other braced on the quartz top. "Say no," he managed, a hoarse whisper.
And Minho – as steadfast as the earth, aglow like a hearth – parted his legs and bowed himself over Kibum, the two of them slotting together like they were made for each other, a forged set. "My answer is yes," Minho breathed, sliding his hands to cup Kibum's jaw, the base of his skull.
If Kibum had ever guessed what their first kiss might be like, he would have said competitive, all heat and frantic energy, the same combative undertone that colored all their interactions, but with a different kind of heat and desperation and need. Instead there was this: need, yes, but a slow burn. The kiss was a well-written drama, a meal worth savoring, a canvas deserving a full study.
He felt Minho lick at the seam of his lips, and Kibum pulled away on a gasp. At some point, he'd started to tug at Minho's clothes, and now Minho looked rumpled and half-tumbled already, mouth dark and full. He felt Minho's hands slide over his chest, until their fingers were loosely clasped.
"Whatever you want, Key-goon," Minho murmured. "I'll follow your lead."
Kibum stepped back, clasping their hands firmly, and tugged. Minho hopped off the counter and followed silently, something like hope slowly dawning on his features. It made Kibum smile as he tugged Minho into his bedroom.
"I think we want the same thing, Minho-ya," he said, smirking as Minho beamed. "Now take off your clothes," he commanded haughtily, and slammed the door shut.
heart
The setting sun in Los Angeles was painting Kibum's skin extraordinary colors.
Not that Minho would tell him that – he could hear him responding now. "Well, I am a work of art, I'm glad you're finally acknowledging that."
No, he wasn't going to tell him. But he wished he had a camera to capture it. Could film adequately freeze this moment in time? Would the colors come out right?
A slim arm reached out and a thumb rubbed at the little ridge between his eyebrows. "What are you thinking about over there?" Kibum was awake, jet lag and exhaustion roughening his voice. It made Minho shiver a little; how long had he waited to have that voice for himself?
Minho pulled the hand away and pressed a kiss to the palm. "You," he said sincerely.
Kibum rolled his eyes. "Gross, you're such a cliche." But he slid closer and ran his fingers through Minho's hair. "So soft-hearted," he added, but it sounded like a compliment.
"So are you," Minho pointed out in a mumble, head pillowed on Kibum's bare chest. He could hear Kibum's heart beating, strong and steady. Minho sighed contentedly, reaching for Kibum's other hand and twining their fingers. "And you're mine," he added, turning smug. "I win."
Kibum jostled him. "You're so predictable," he complained. "Why can't you use some of that energy to protect your heart a little more?"
"You could protect my heart a little for me," Minho retorted, pouting.
He hadn't expected Kibum to still. "I will," he said, low and soft. "I'll protect it with everything, I promise."
Tears pricked at Minho's eyes unexpectedly. "Me, too," he said after a long moment, blinking them away. He tugged Kibum over him so they could embrace. "I promise."
They kissed, far from their first, something indelible in it: a pact sealed, a twining beyond just their bodies.
The light in the room faded as the sun finally set.