worth it?

by 325minchan

Summary:

Minho knocks Chan down during a light sparring round. Chan gets back up with a bruised jaw, a hard on he really does not know what to do with, and enough shame to consider changing gyms.

He should go home and ice his face.

Unfortunately, he is much more worried about Minho’s hand.

Minho knocked his white gloves together once and looked at Chan over them. He already had his mouthguard in. It made his voice come out a little thick, the words not as sharp as his face. 

“Are you ready?”

Chan had to pull his attention away from Minho’s mouth before the coach noticed where he was looking. He leaned against the ropes and stared at Chan until Chan finally looked at him. Chan cleared his throat and lifted his gloves, very casual, like he had not just been caught looking at another man’s lips through headgear.

“Yep. I’m ready.”

Minho’s eyes stayed on him for another second. Just that cold, direct way he looked at people. Then he stepped back into stance. This was the first time they had sparred together. They had spoken before, of course. It would have been difficult to share the same gym four nights a week for a month without ever speaking, especially because Minho had no problem telling strangers when they were using equipment wrong or leaving sweat on a bench. But their conversations had been gym conversations. You done with this? Is that bottle yours? Coach said three rounds, not five. Once Minho had asked Chan to hold the end of a wrap while he rolled it again, and Chan had been so normal about it that he thought about the interaction for two days. He only had held the cloth and watched those small fingers work. When Minho finished, Chan gave the end of the wrap one last pull and handed it back.

Chan had first noticed him because Minho looked unexpected in the gym. Chan knew better than to decide that about somebody from their face, or at least he wanted to believe he knew better. It was more that Minho looked like somebody had taken him out of a cleaner, more expensive place and dropped him between the old heavy bags and the wall with the water stain. His face was soft. That was the first problem. Full cheeks even when the rest of him was lean, a pretty mouth that naturally pushed forward a little, the upper lip fuller than the lower one. Big dark eyes, too. Doe eyes, if Chan was being honest, though honesty in this situation made him sound like a creep. The lashes were long enough to look fake when Minho glanced down. His expression ruined all of it in the best way. He looked unimpressed almost constantly. Beautiful face, tiny hands, cold attitude. Chan had seen the combination and thought, very calmly, oh, fuck me.

It had not improved after that. Minho’s body looked soft and Chan liked it so much it made him embarrassed on his own behalf. There was muscle there, clearly. He trained hard, moved well, never skipped conditioning even when everybody else started bargaining with the coach. Still, nothing on him looked cut for display. His thighs were thick, smooth looking under short boxing shorts, and Chan had wasted an unreasonable amount of time pretending he was studying Minho’s footwork when he was actually watching those thighs shift. Then there were the hands. The fucking hands. Small palms, narrow wrists, delicate fingers that disappeared inside boxing gloves and came back pink and damp after training. Minho always pulled one glove loose with his teeth, then used the freed hand to undo the other. Chan went crazy every time.

He knew the thought was unfair. Obviously beautiful people could box. Men with soft bodies could hit hard. Small hands were still hands, and Minho had never acted like he needed anybody protecting him. Chan knew, seriously, he did. And yet some slower, much dumber part of him kept looking at Minho beside the cracked mirrors and thinking he should be somewhere better. The gym was rubber mats, leather that never fully dried, taped wrists, bruised ribs. Chan fit there. People asked if he boxed before they even knew his name. He had spent years making himself strong. It was useful. Minho looked like he had options. Chan had decided that based on absolutely nothing, and Minho was about to correct him with his left hand. The coach tapped the top rope.

“Light round,” he said. “Work clean. Nobody’s trying to win a belt tonight.”

Minho touched gloves with Chan and moved first, left foot forward, which Chan had expected. He had watched Minho work the bags enough. Chan settled behind his jab, kept it loose, gave Minho something to read without throwing hard. Minho slipped outside it, came back with a quick left to the body and moved before Chan could answer. It was controlled. Almost polite. The glove still landed with a flat little thump under Chan’s elbow, enough to say he had been there. Chan smiled around his mouthguard, Minho did not smile back.

For the first minute, everything felt normal. Chan had the reach and weight advantage, so he kept some force out of his right hand and tried not to crowd. That was good sparring etiquette. It was also, if he was being honest, him making decisions for Minho. He told himself he was being safe while Minho circled, watched, and let Chan repeat the same combination twice. Jab, right hand, small step out. Each time, Minho slipped toward the ropes and reset. Chan started expecting it. His shoulders loosened. He found the rhythm and felt that warm little satisfaction of understanding a person in front of him. Minho gave him one more round of it, then looked straight at him over his gloves.

The eye contact was the problem. It lasted maybe half a second. Minho did not smile or glare. He just looked at Chan like he knew exactly what Chan had been doing for the last month, all of it, the staring and the carefulness and the stupid thoughts about his hands. Chan’s lead glove dropped a few inches. Minho dipped his shoulder toward the body. Chan’s elbow followed. The left cross came up the center and landed clean against the side of his jaw. The headgear took some of it, but not enough to keep the room in the correct place. White flashed through Chan’s vision. His right glove hit the canvas, one knee folded, and then his ass followed with a hard, ugly drop that pushed all the air out of him.

“Time,” the coach shouted.

Somebody near the bags made an impressed noise. Chan sat there blinking at the floor between his own knees. His jaw hurt, his pride hurt more. Above both of those things, clear and immediate and completely fucking unhelpful, his cock started getting hard.

That was new. Chan had been turned on by Minho for a month, that part did not need investigation. He had imagined kissing him, touching his waist, getting those soft thighs around his waist. Normal enough. He had not known he could get dropped onto a boxing mat, look up at the man who did it, and have his body react like somebody had switched it on. The knockdown itself was not sexy in any reasonable way. His teeth had clicked together. But Minho was standing in the neutral corner, breathing through his nose, white gloves lowered, and he did not look pleased with himself. He looked calm. Like he had seen the opening, taken it, and now the small task was over. The coach crouched in front of Chan.

“Look at me. Any stars? Nausea?”

Chan dragged his eyes off Minho and focused. The room had already settled. “Flash for a second. It’s gone. I’m fine,” he answered.

The coach held up two fingers, checked his pupils, then asked where he was.

“On my ass,” Chan said, which got a laugh from somewhere behind them.

He took Chan by the forearm and helped him stand, but the round was done. Nobody needed to prove anything after a clean knockdown, and Chan especially did not need to walk around the ring with an erection while Minho looked at him. Except Minho did look at him. He came out of the corner once the coach waved him over, pulled his mouthguard out with one glove.

“You okay?”

Sweat had darkened the hair around his forehead. His cheeks were pink inside the headgear and his lips were wet from the mouthguard. Chan looked at him and went, oh, right. He had been thinking about Minho like there were two separate versions: the soft pretty one he stared at, and the boxer he was trying very hard not to underestimate. There was one Minho. One of those tiny hands had just put Chan on his ass. He was still soft, still beautiful. He was also very fucking good, and none of those things cancelled the others out. Chan’s erection got worse, great timing from his body, as usual.

“I’m good,” Chan said, though his voice came out lower than usual.

Minho watched him for another second. “You dropped your hand.”

There was no teasing in it, which somehow made Chan want to smile. “Yeah, I noticed around the time the floor hit me,” he answered.

The corner of Minho’s mouth moved. Chan saw it and stored it like a fucking loser. Then Minho ducked between the ropes and climbed down. Chan followed more carefully because he was twenty nine years old, had a real job, paid his taxes, and apparently needed to hide a hard on caused by eye contact and a left cross.

Minho lifted his one glove without turning. Chan stared at it. He wanted the hand inside so badly it made him hot all over again, and not only in the easy sexual way. He wanted to unwrap it, check every knuckle, turn the palm up, kiss the little lines the wrap had pressed into Minho’s skin. Then his brain got worse and supplied Minho putting that same hand over his mouth, looking down at him with the flat expression from the ring. Chan sat on the nearest bench and bent over his shoe even though the lace was already tied. The coach tossed him an ice pack before he could pretend to fix it for a third time.

“Tell me if you feel dizzy, and stop flirting in my ring.”

Chan’s head came up so fast his jaw ached.

“I wasn’t flirting,” he said.

The coach was already walking away when he answered. Minho heard the whole thing. He had one glove strap between his teeth and was trying to pull it loose, eyes lowered, his ears turned pink. It was such a small reaction that Chan might have missed it if he had not spent a month studying every available version of Minho’s face. He did not miss it. It hit him almost as hard as the punch.

“Your hand okay?” Chan asked.

Minho got the glove off, dropped it into his open bag and looked over. “Why wouldn’t it be?” he said.

Chan lifted the ice pack a little. “You hit a hard object.”

Minho glanced at his face. “It’s fine.”

Chan nodded because there was nothing else to do. “Can I check it anyway?”

Minho stared at him. “You are the one with a bruise.”

“I know… But hands are different, you know? You can feel fine now and wake up swollen,” Chan said.

Minho narrowed his eyes. “Do you have a medical license or something hidden under all that?”

Chan smiled. “I have first aid certification from work if that makes sense.”

That seemed to make the request worse, somehow. The coach solved it from across the gym. “Let him check, Minho. If your wrist hurts tomorrow, you’re gonna blame me.”

He shoved the second glove into his bag, stood and looked at Chan. “Well? Are you coming, Mr. First Aid Certification?”

Minho walked toward the changing area. Chan got up so fast he almost left the ice pack on the bench. It felt like being invited somewhere, which was stupid. They were going fifteen steps behind a concrete wall to inspect a hand that was almost definitely fine. Still invited was how it felt. The changing area was empty, just two metal benches, dented lockers and a light buzzing overhead. Minho sat down, put his bag by his feet and held out his left hand.

“Make it fast,” he said.

Chan sat beside him and took the wrist carefully. The wrap was damp from training and pulled tight over the knuckles. He found the velcro and started unwinding it one turn at a time. This was a normal thing to do. He had checked teammates’ hands before. He knew what swelling looked like, knew how to press along the metacarpals, knew which movements tested the wrist. None of that knowledge prepared him for Minho’s bare hand resting in his palm.

It was even smaller up close. Chan’s hand almost swallowed it, his thumb wide across the back, Minho’s fingertips ending a little bit after Chan’s first knuckles. The skin was warm and marked with pale lines from the wrap. The first two knuckles were pink but not swollen. Chan turned the hand over and tried to think like somebody responsible. Instead he noticed the soft center of Minho’s palm, the narrow wrist, the fast pulse under his thumb. That hand had put him on the floor ten minutes ago. It had looked small inside his from the beginning and somehow did not feel small anymore. Compact, maybe. Built to do what Minho asked of it. Chan had the intense urge to bring the palm to his lips. He did not, because there were limits to what a person could do before getting punched twice in one night.

“Make a fist,” Chan said.

Minho did, watching his face rather than the hand. Chan pressed gently over the first two knuckles. “Pain?” he asked.

“No.”

He moved lower. “Here?”

Minho said no again, more impatiently this time.

Chan supported the wrist and asked him to bend it back. Full movement. No wince. Fine, exactly as expected, but he kept holding it because the check had become an excuse somewhere around the third finger. Minho let that happen for maybe five seconds, then looked at Chan properly.

“Are you checking my hand or trying to read my future?”

Chan looked up. Minho’s cold expression had returned, but the pink in his ears was still there. Chan’s thumb rested directly over his pulse. He should have let go, he knew that. His hand apparently did not.

“Sorry.”

Chan checked the thumb joint with far more concentration than it required. Minho watched him do it. “You say sorry a lot.”

Chan smiled a little. “Usually after doing something embarrassing.”

Minho’s mouth pushed forward, not quite a pout because he would probably hate that word. “Then you should say even more.”

Chan laughed. He could not help it. Minho’s pulse jumped under his thumb, and Chan had to look back down before his face gave away too much. “Nothing hurts?” he asked again.

“You’ve asked me four times, please set me free,” Minho said.

Chan nodded. “Yeah. Last one.”

Minho looked at him, then at the hand still lying in Chan’s. “Your face is worse than my hand.”

“My face is fine,” Chan answered.

Minho’s gaze moved to the ice pack hanging forgotten by Chan’s knee.

“Sure.”

The way he said it made Chan smile again. He liked being corrected by him. That thought arrived calmly, with no shame attached at first. Then his body reacted under his sweatpants and Chan realized, okay. So that might be a thing too. Minho noticed him shift on the bench. His eyes dropped, not far enough to see anything properly, then came back to Chan’s face. The pink in his ears deepened. His expression got colder to compensate.

“You can let go now,” he said.

Chan looked down and found himself still holding three of Minho’s fingers, gently, like they had reached the end of the medical part and his hand had refused to accept the update. He released them at once.

“Sorry.”

Minho exhaled through his nose. Minho started rolling the damp wrap around his own fingers. The cloth slipped on the second turn, and Chan reached to help before he thought better of it. Minho pulled the wrap away. “My hand is fine, stop doing that.”

Chan put his hands up. The answer seemed to confuse him more than an argument would have. For a few seconds there was only the buzz of the light and the sound of Minho winding cloth. Chan should have left. His hand was fine. The coach had checked Chan’s head. There was no reason to keep sitting close enough that their knees almost touched. He stayed anyway. Watched Minho’s small fingers gather the wrap into a tight roll. Minho caught him doing it, obviously.

“What?” Minho looked at him. Chan lasted less than two seconds.

“I’m trying not to say something weird.”

Minho’s eyebrows lifted. “Please try harder.”

Chan nodded seriously. “I really should.”

That almost made Minho smile again, but he caught it before it happened. Chan could have kept the rest to himself. He had managed for a month. But being knocked down had loosened something, or maybe holding Minho’s hand had. Either way, the truth came out in pieces instead of a confession.

“I thought you were beautiful before,” he said.

Minho’s fingers stopped around the wrap. Chan immediately wished he had chosen a less direct opening, but there was no less direct version of that sentence. Minho looked at him. “Before what?”

Chan touched the ice pack to his cheek. “Before you did this.”

Minho stared. Chan kept going because apparently death by embarrassment was his plan now. “Not beautiful but good at boxing. I don’t mean that. I mean I thought those were separate things. Like, you looked soft and pretty, and then you moved and it was different.”

Minho’s eyes narrowed. “I feel like I’m listening a train wreck.”

“I know. Give me a second,” Chan said.

He looked at Minho’s hand again because eye contact made speech impossible. “You were still beautiful when you hit me,” he said. “More, actually. Which is not… Good for me.”

The silence afterward was awful. Chan heard somebody drop a metal bottle on the other side of the wall. Minho looked down at his wrap. When he spoke, his voice was completely flat. 

“Did I give you a concussion or a humiliation kink?”

The accuracy went straight through Chan. His cock thickened again under the sweatpants, obvious to him even if Minho could not see it yet. He laughed once because the alternative was putting his head between his knees. 

“Maybe both?” he said.

Minho’s eyes moved over him slowly. The cold look was doing a lot of work now. Under it, Chan could see that Minho was shy. Not soft shy. He did not duck his head or get cute. He got meaner. He held himself straighter and made Chan feel like the embarrassing one for having eyes.

“You need to get that checked,” Minho said.

“The concussion?” Chan asked.

Minho stood and slung the bag over one shoulder. “A full check up, everything about you.”

Chan smiled because that was fair. Minho took one step toward the exit, stopped, then looked down at him. “And stop staring at my hands.”

Chan’s mouth opened before his self preservation could catch it. “I wasn’t only staring at your hands.”

Minho went still. Chan closed his eyes for half a second. “Sorry. That one was worse.”

Minho’s ears were red all the way to the top now before he walked out. Chan stayed on the bench until the buzz from the light started sounding like laughter. He changed in a toilet stall because being half naked in the open changing room with the erection situation still unresolved seemed disrespectful to everybody involved, then checked his pupils in the mirror and tried very hard to become a person again. His jaw had started swelling slightly on the right side. It would bruise by morning, probably dark enough that people at work would ask questions. He could say boxing, that part was easy. He could not explain the rest. Adrenaline, maybe, some weird crossover between humiliation and attraction. New kink unlocked at twenty nine, congratulations. He splashed cold water over his face, shoved his damp hair back and looked at himself in the mirror. It had wet hair, one pink cheek and a hard dick pressing against clean sweatpants. It did not look convinced.

By the time Chan reached his car, the erection had mostly gone down, that felt like progress. He put his gym bag on the passenger seat, locked the doors and sat with the engine off while rain crawled down the windshield. The parking lot had emptied while he changed. A few cars remained near the back wall, dark shapes under weak lamps, and a black motorcycle stood under the side awning with rain silvering the fuel tank. He had seen Minho arrive on it twice before, helmet hooked over one small wrist, and of course it was his. Of course the man with the pouty mouth and the mean left hand rode a motorcycle. Chan should have driven home, eaten something with protein, iced the bruise and slept. He had a morning meeting. His laundry was still in the dryer. Normal life waited for him with all the boring things that usually made him feel steady. He did not start the car. He leaned his head back and replayed the punch instead.

It was not the pain. He figured that out after replaying it for the third time, which was already too many times, Jesus. Pain was pain. His jaw hurt and that part mostly sucked. It was Minho seeing the opening and taking it. Minho looking at him first like, really? You're going to make this easy for me? Then the calm after. That was it. Chan liked being strong, he had worked hard for it. He did not secretly want to be weak or helpless or any of that. He just liked the idea of somebody seeing all that strength and still knowing what to do with him. Where to put him. When to make him wait. So that was apparently living in him now. He rubbed both hands over his face, forgot the bruise and swore when his palm pressed it. His cock got hard again anyway.

Movement near the side door caught his eye. Minho came out with his hood down, gym bag over one shoulder, motorcycle helmet in one hand and a cigarette already between his lips. He had changed into an old dark jacket and oversized purple sweatpants that bunched over heavy black boots. The color should have looked silly under the security lights, but it did not. It made him look softer somehow, especially with his brown hair falling loose and damp around his face, and that only made the motorcycle beside him, the cigarette, the hand that had dropped Chan ten minutes ago feel more confusing. Not actually confusing, Chan corrected himself. People were allowed to contain more than one visual idea. A man could have pretty eyes and smoke. He could wear purple and ride a bike. He could look soft and still understand exactly how to transfer weight through a punch. This was normal. Chan was the one being weird about it. Rain caught in Minho's hair, but he stayed under the narrow awning beside the motorcycle, set the helmet on the seat and flicked his lighter twice before it worked. The flame warmed his face for a second. Chan watched him inhale, watched the full upper lip close around the cigarette, and thought this was getting fucking ridiculous. Minho's phone rang before he finished the first drag. He checked the screen and his whole face changed, not much but enough.

The greeting was short and already irritated. Then Minho listened. Chan could not hear the voice through the rain and closed windows, only Minho's side when it rose. He paced once to the edge of the awning and back, free hand pushed into his jacket. Smoke left his mouth in a hard breath. Whoever was on the call said something long enough to make Minho's jaw lock. He ended the call without saying goodbye. 

Chan's hand moved to the door handle and stopped. He did not know Minho well enough to walk over there. One month of staring did not count as closeness. Neither did being punched. Neither did holding a hand for too long while saying something weird about beauty. Minho looked angry in a way that felt private, shoulders tight, cigarette burning low between two fingers while he stared at the wet ground. The correct thing was to give him space. Chan knew this. Then he got out of the car. The rain was lighter now, more mist than drops, but it soaked the shoulders of his sweatshirt by the time he reached the awning. Minho heard him coming and looked up. The anger disappeared behind that familiar cold face so fast Chan almost doubted he had seen it. Minho took another drag.

"Do you follow everybody you spar with into parking lots, or am I special?"

Chan stopped a few steps away. "My car is over there," he said.

"Then get in your car and get the fuck out of here."

"Is your hand still okay?" Chan asked.

Minho looked at him with open disbelief. "You literally made out with my hand ten minutes ago, you know it's fine."

"Right," Chan said. 

He could have left then, instead he tried again. "That call looked shitty."

Minho's face closed another inch. "Were you watching me from your car?"

Chan considered lying and gave up immediately. "A little."

Minho made a quiet sound through his nose. The easy agreement made Minho look at him more carefully. Chan held the ice pack against his jaw, hair still damp, muscular body folded into a nervous posture that did not suit it. He probably looked harmless, he hoped he did. He did not want Minho to think the difference in their builds meant anything here.

"I'm fine," Minho said.

"Okay," Chan answered.

Minho took another drag. "That's it? No responsible adult first aid certificate speech?"

Chan smiled. "You don't seem like you want one."

Minho's eyes went briefly to his mouth. "Good, you're learning."

Chan felt stupidly pleased. He should have stopped smiling. For a few seconds they stood under the awning listening to the rain tap the metal above them. Minho smoked. Chan watched the hand holding the cigarette and tried not to be obvious about it.

"You really do have a problem with my hands."

"I told you it wasn't only the hands," Chan replied.

That brought the color back to Minho's ears. Minho dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his shoe and looked Chan over. Slowly this time. His gaze passed the ice pack, the wet sweatshirt, the hands hanging uselessly at Chan's sides, then stopped lower. Chan had forgotten about the erection. The gray fabric hid almost nothing. His cock lay hard along his thigh, obvious under the parking lot light, and he had walked all the way over like that while trying to look concerned. Minho looked back at his face. Chan felt heat go from his chest to the top of his head. He moved the ice pack down without thinking, considered putting it in front of himself, then realized that would only make the situation more pathetic. Minho's mouth opened slightly.

"You fucking pervert," he said. Not in a shocked way. Interested, maybe, which was worse.

"I can explain," Chan started.

"Can you?" Minho asked.

Chan thought about it. "No. Probably not."

The corner of Minho's mouth moved. Chan's body responded so hard he almost got angry at it. "Is that still from the punch?" Minho asked.

Chan looked at him, at the cold face and pink ears and small hand now tucked into the jacket pocket. He could blame adrenaline, he could say it had nothing to do with Minho, but he went with the humiliating truth.

"Some of it," he said.

Minho's eyebrows lifted. "Some?"

Chan swallowed. His bruised jaw hurt when he did. "I already wanted you before you hit me."

Minho's eyes sharpened in that shy, defensive way Chan was starting to understand. "You've only known me for a month."

"A month is long enough," Chan said.

"Not less creepy," Minho answered.

Chan nodded, "No, definitely not."

Minho stepped closer. Chan stepped back without deciding to. One step took him out from under the awning and into the mist. Minho followed. Chan moved again, and the back of his thighs touched the bumper of his own car. There was something almost funny about it. They were almost eye to eye. Chan was denser through the shoulders and chest, the one with more visible muscle, but there was no giant size difference for him to hide behind and none he wanted. He had been the one trying to act careful in the ring. None of that mattered now. Minho had figured him out. That was all. He stood close enough that Chan could smell smoke and mint on his breath and see the wet shine in his eyes, then went straight for the embarrassing part.

"So, you got hard because I knocked you down."

Chan let out a nervous laugh. "When you say it like that, it sounds bad."

Minho's eyes dropped briefly to the front of his sweatpants. "Is there a good way to say it?"

Chan thought about it. "You looked really hot doing it?"

Minho stared at him for one beat, then another. Chan smiled helplessly. "Yeah, okay. That was worse."

Minho's hand came up and caught the front of his sweatshirt. Small fist, but a strong grip. Chan's gaze fell to his mouth before he could stop it. Up close, Minho's upper lip really was fuller. Rain had left small drops in his lashes. He looked angry and shy and so pretty Chan's brain simply gave up on organization.

Minho saw exactly where he was looking. His grip tightened once, pulling Chan down a little, and then he kissed him. It was hard from the start. Minho's mouth hit the bruised side of Chan's face and pain flashed under the kiss, sharp enough that Chan made a sound. Minho pulled back immediately, still holding his sweatshirt.

Chan looked at his mouth again, breathless. "Can you do it again but, like, slightly to the left?"

For the first time that night, Minho smiled properly. It was small and mean and did terrible things to Chan's body.

"You're so fucking pathetic," he said, then kissed him again from the other side.

Chan gave in too fast. He knew it while it was happening and could not make himself care. His hands came up to Minho's waist, stopped there for one second in case Minho moved away, then closed when Minho pressed closer. The jacket was cold from rain. Under it, Minho was warm. Chan pulled him in and his erection pressed against Minho's upper thighs through the sweatpants. The contact was embarrassing for half a breath. Minho rolled his hips into it and erased the embarrassment completely. Chan groaned into his mouth. Minho bit his lower lip, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make Chan follow when he pulled away.

"Still the punch?" Minho asked against his mouth.

Chan had both hands around Minho's waist now. "No," he said. Minho raised an eyebrow. Chan corrected himself. "Not only the punch."

Minho's expression did that closed-off thing again, but he did not move back. "What else?" he asked.

Chan could have answered with something normal, like the kiss. "Your mouth. Your hands. Your thighs. It is a very long list."

Minho stared at him. Chan gave him an apologetic little smile. "You asked."

Minho grabbed his hair at the nape and kissed him hard enough to shut him up. There were cameras near the gym entrance. Chan remembered that in pieces: one over the side door, one aimed across the first two rows of parking, maybe another near the street. They were partly hidden by the low wall, but not enough. A car passed on the road beyond it, headlights moving across Minho's wet jacket. Minho broke the kiss first and looked around.

"Your windows tinted?"

"Yeah."

"Back doors open from inside?"

Chan blinked. "Of course they do."

Minho shrugged. "I asked for your own safety."

He took the keys straight out of Chan's hand and unlocked the car. Chan watched the lights flash. "Are we getting in?" he asked.

Minho opened the rear door and looked inside. "No, I wanted to check your upholstery."

Chan laughed, nervous and pleased and probably visibly stupid. Minho moved the grocery bag from the seat to the floor, looked at how far the driver's seat had been pushed back for Chan's legs, then looked at Chan himself.

"Your backseat is fucking tiny."

"I usually sit in the front," Chan said.

Minho gave him a flat look. "Ohh, amazing. Get in."

Chan got in. His knee hit the center console. He tried to turn and almost put his elbow through the window. Minho stood outside watching the whole thing with his arms folded.

"You look like a couch somebody is returning," he said.

Chan finally got himself wedged behind the passenger seat and tried to recover what was left of his pride. "You told me to get in."

Minho ducked inside and pulled the door shut. The rain got louder. So did their breathing, or maybe Chan only noticed it now because there was suddenly nowhere else to look.

Tinted glass blurred the parking lot lamps, and without the engine running there was no fan, no radio, nothing to cover them. Minho sat beside Chan for maybe two seconds. Then he turned, put one knee on the seat and climbed into Chan's lap. His hands went into Chan's hair and the kiss started again before Chan had figured out where to put his arms. Around Minho, apparently. One hand at the waist, one spread over the middle of his back, holding without squeezing too hard. Minho moved in his lap and Chan's cock pressed up between them, every little shift dragged fabric over it. Minho was hard too. Chan could feel the shape through the loose purple sweatpants against his lower stomach, and the discovery made him kiss too desperately for a second, mouth missing, teeth catching Minho's upper lip. He pulled back at once.

"Sorry."

Minho licked the lip. "Keep apologizing like that and we’ll never get anywhere."

Chan nodded. "Okay, sorry."

Minho closed his eyes like he had been assigned the stupidest man alive. The jacket got in the way. Minho tried to shrug it off without leaving Chan's lap, but one sleeve caught behind his elbow. Chan reached to help. Their arms knocked together, Minho's hand hit the roof, and the jacket somehow ended up trapped between both of them. Minho swore at it. Chan started laughing. He tried not to, honestly, but Minho was sitting on his erection, hair wet, one arm stuck behind his back. The laugh filled the sealed car. Minho glared for half a second, then his own laugh escaped, one quick breath that changed his whole face. His eyes closed. The cold line of his mouth broke. Chan saw one slightly crooked tooth he had never noticed from across the gym and felt something in his chest go soft at the worst possible time.

"Oh come on, don't look at me like that," Minho said.

Chan freed the jacket and shoved it into the footwell. Minho put both hands on his shoulders. "Your laugh is so cute." Chan mumbled.

Minho touched two fingers to the bruise on his cheek, very lightly. "I didn't even laugh? That’s your concussion memory is talking."

The contact was so careful Chan almost forgot how to talk. He turned his face and kissed the fingertips before Minho could pull them away. Minho went still. Chan did too. It had not been planned as a move, his body had simply recognized the hand and wanted his mouth on it. Now Minho was watching him, eyes dark, fingers resting against Chan's lips. Chan kissed them again, slower. Then the knuckles, one by one. The skin smelled faintly of soap and wraps, and the first two were still warm. Minho's breathing changed. His face got colder because that was what he did whenever something reached him.

"You're being weird again," he said.

Chan held the hand gently. Minho tried to pull it back. Chan let him immediately, but Minho only moved it far enough to catch Chan's jaw and tilt his face up.

"At least be useful while you're weird," he said, then kissed him.

Chan kissed too much. He could not help it. Minho's mouth was right there, finally, after a month of watching it move around boring gym sentences. Chan kissed the fuller upper lip, the corner, the lower lip when Minho made an annoyed sound and tried to drag him back into something rougher. His hands moved under Minho's shirt at the waist. Minho paused when Chan's palm reached the lower part of his stomach. It was very quick, almost nothing, but Chan felt the muscles tighten under his hand. 

So he touched slowly. He spread his palm over Minho's stomach, felt the soft surface give and the muscle underneath tense when Minho shifted in his lap. He bent and kissed the skin where the shirt had ridden up. The angle was terrible, his neck folded, forehead hitting Minho's chest. He did not care. He kissed the middle of Minho's stomach, then the side, then pressed his mouth there long enough that Minho's fingers tightened in his hair.

"Chan," Minho said.

It was the first time he had used his name that night without the coach saying it first. Chan looked up from under the shirt.

"Yeah?"

Minho stared down at him, cheeks pink, lips swollen, trying very hard to look annoyed. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Chan considered the question. "Kissing you."

Minho made a frustrated sound and pushed Chan's head back against the seat. That was the thing Minho could not deal with. Chan could see it happening. Dirty talk? Fine. Grinding in his lap with both of them hard? Also apparently fine. But Chan kissing his stomach simply because he liked his stomach made Minho go all stiff and pink and mean. Chan got it, kind of. It would have been easier if he were only horny too. He was horny, extremely, painfully, very much yes. He also liked the warm skin under his hand. The little bit of softness. The muscle tensing under it. And now he wanted his mouth everywhere. That was probably the part Minho wanted him to shut the fuck up about.

"You were beautiful before," Chan said, because he had promised himself not to make a speech and had apparently interpreted that as permission for a shorter one.

Minho closed his eyes. "Oh my god, why can't you shut your mouth for a second."

Chan kissed the side of his throat. "You were beautiful in the ring."

Another kiss, lower. "You're beautiful now."

Minho pushed him back and ground down hard. Chan's hands closed around Minho's thighs on instinct, one on each side, and even through the loose purple fabric they filled his palms. That was what got him about them. Not only the size, though yes, the size was doing permanent damage to his ability to behave. It was the way the softness moved over strength. The sweatpants hid the lines until Minho shifted, then the muscle pulled tight underneath, working from hip to knee, the same legs that had driven the pivot behind the punch. Chan squeezed before he could think. Minho stopped kissing him and looked down at his hands.

"What now?"

"Your legs."

Minho looked at them as if Chan had discovered a basic feature of the human body. "Yeah, I brought them with me."

Chan laughed, but his thumbs kept moving over the outside of them, feeling the heavy folds of fabric and what was underneath. Minho watched him do it. His eyes were bright in the low light, not cold anymore, not really. Chan could see his own bare wanting reflected there and, under the embarrassment, something steadier answered it. Minho liked his hands on him. He rolled his hips once, slow, and watched Chan's face change.

"They're the same legs," Chan said.

Minho's eyes narrowed. "If you explain my punch while you're hard under me, I'm leaving."

Chan had already started rebuilding the full combination in his head, except now it included Minho sitting on his lap in purple sweatpants. He slid his palms higher until his fingers reached the crease where thigh became hip. Minho's waist sat firm under the oversized shirt, wider and straighter than it had looked across the gym, not some delicate little thing Chan could close his hands around. There was softness there, though, warmth. A little give under the heel of his palm before the muscle tightened. Chan stared because he had spent a month wanting to know exactly that and apparently knowledge did not make him less weird. It made him worse.

"Take your shirt off," Minho said.

Minho moved back just enough to give him room. Chan caught the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head. His hair came out worse than before. He dropped the shirt somewhere near the door and had one second to feel exposed before Minho went completely still on his lap.

It was not subtle, that did something to Chan he had not been prepared for. Minho looked, his gaze started at Chan's chest, dragged over his stomach, followed the lines between muscles as if he were reading his future like Chan did with his hand, then went back up slower. Chan had been looked at before. He knew his body was good. He had built it on purpose and existed in gyms, compliments were not rare enough to become a crisis. But Minho's lips had parted, just slightly. His pupils spread until the bright brown around them looked thin. He put one of those tiny hands flat in the middle of Chan's chest and pushed, not hard, only testing, then stroked down. The fingertips bumped over each line of his stomach. When they reached his waistband they changed direction and went up again, almost greedier now, palm taking his chest, thumb scraping one nipple. Minho's face stayed controlled but his hands were fucking starving.

Chan forgot every sentence he had ever learned. Minho's hand moved across Chan's shoulder, squeezed the muscle there, then followed his upper arm down and back up. His eyes kept checking the path of his own touch, as if he needed to see and feel Chan at the same time. When Chan flexed by accident under his palm, Minho's eyelashes lifted. There, a clean little flash of hunger. He hid it fast, but not before Chan caught it.

"You like it?" Chan said, unable to keep the pleased note out of his voice.

Minho leaned down and put his mouth on the center of Chan's chest. One kiss. Then another, open and damp, lower. His hand spread over Chan's ribs while his tongue touched skin. Chan's grip convulsed around his waist. Minho looked up at him from there, brown hair falling into those bright eyes, pink lips wet against Chan's body, and Chan made an actual helpless sound. 

Minho smiled against his chest. "Oh, you're fucked."

Chan looked at him. Minho was still sitting on his erection, still rubbing his palm over Chan's stomach like he could not help checking the shape again. Minho's smile sharpened, but the pink had reached his ears. Chan put both hands back on his waist and kissed him before he could say another word. Their mouths met wrong at first because Minho was still bent, then Minho straightened and caught Chan by the hair. The kiss turned deep and wet so quickly Chan lost the rhythm of breathing. Minho kissed with his whole mouth. He bit Chan's lower lip, then licked into him when Chan opened. Chan tilted the wrong direction once and caught the sore side of his jaw. He flinched. Minho immediately eased the angle without stopping, one hand cradling the unbruised side of Chan's face while the other kept moving across his naked chest. That hand was how Chan knew. Minho could insult him until daylight, but his palm kept stroking like he had found something he wanted to memorize.

Chan kissed him harder for it. Minho ground down. All the careful breathing disappeared again. Chan held Minho's waist, then slid to the thighs because apparently he was working through a limited list and both options ruined him equally. Minho's mouth left his and moved across his cheek, carefully avoiding the bruise, then under his jaw. He sucked once at the side of Chan's neck. Chan's hips lifted.

"Stay still," Minho said against his skin.

Chan went still. Minho did it again only because Chan had obeyed. He sucked harder, teeth grazing after, and the reward structure was so obvious Chan could have laughed if his mouth had been capable of anything besides breathing. Minho's hand slid from his stomach to the front of his sweatpants. The first touch was only the flat of his palm over the outline. Minho traced him through the fabric from base to head, slow enough to be cruel. His palm was small, the shape under it was not. Chan watched those fingers spread as far as they could, watched the same compact hand that had hit him close around the thickest part through his clothes. The visual reached somewhere direct and stupid. Minho squeezed once.

"Can you… Can you stop touching, please."

The words shot out of Chan at full panic volume. He caught himself and lowered his voice, though the windows were sealed and the rain was loud.

"Please. I'm gonna come. Like actually. Hands off, please."

Minho froze. For half a second Chan thought he had made the mood weird, but then Minho looked down at the very obvious erection in his hand and back up at Chan's face. His expression changed into something calm and pleased that was far more dangerous than laughing.

"I made this mess."

His thumb moved over the head through the fabric.

"I'll help you get rid of it."

Chan's mouth went dry. His cock jerked under Minho's palm. Minho felt it and his eyes darkened again, openly this time. There was admiration in the way Chan looked at Minho, he knew that. He had not expected to be looked at like this in return, as if Minho had peeled the shirt off him and found something better than he was prepared for. It made Chan shy in a completely different direction. He wanted to cover himself and spread his legs wider at the same time.

"Do you want me to stop?" Minho asked.

Chan shook his head quickly. "No. I just wanted to warn you. I will probably come so hard, so sorry in advance."

Minho kissed him once, almost sweet except for the hand still holding his cock through the sweatpants. Chan chased his mouth when he pulled away. Minho let him get one more kiss, then caught his lower lip between his teeth and drew back until it stung. Chan's eyes closed. Minho laughed under his breath, but his fingers had already found the knot at Chan's waistband. Minho worked the knot loose with annoyed little pulls, shoulders hunched in concentration. Chan stared at the top of his head. His hair looked absurdly soft under the yellow parking lot light filtering through the glass, individual brown strands caught over his forehead. Chan wanted to run his fingers through it. He tried. Minho caught his wrist without looking.

"Behave for ten fucking seconds."

The knot finally gave. Minho pulled Chan's waistband down with the gym shorts and underwear underneath. Chan's cock came free, heavy and hard. Cool air hit wet skin. Chan hissed. Minho stopped moving. There it was again, that stare. Minho sat back on Chan's thighs and looked at him with no performance of politeness, no joke ready. His eyes moved over the thick shaft resting against Chan's stomach, over the exposed head already wet at the slit, then down to the base and up again. His small hand hovered for a second before closing around Chan. Minho's lips parted, he stroked once, slow, watching the shaft move under his palm. Chan's stomach jumped under his other hand.

"Oh," Minho said.

Chan's face burned. "What does that mean?"

Minho stroked again. His thumb swept the wetness across the head, gaze following it. "It means shut up."

Chan tried, he really did. Minho's grip went lower and tightened, then pulled up, leaving the head bare at the top of his fist. He studied every reaction. The tightening stomach, the twitch through his thighs, the way his breathing stopped whenever Minho's thumb circled the rim. His other hand was still on Chan's upper body, moving now from his chest down to his abs, pressing into each hard line when Chan tensed. Minho looked so attracted it was almost embarrassing for both of them, but only Chan was making noise about it.

"You wanted to see me," Chan said.

Minho's hand stopped. "I am looking because it's in front of me. Do you want me to close my eyes while stroking your dick?"

"You made me take my shirt off."

"And now you're ruining it by talking."

Minho bent and kissed him. He kept stroking while they kissed, which ended the conversation better than any argument could have. Chan gripped Minho's covered thighs and tried not to thrust into his hand. The seat gave a soft creak every time his hips failed. Minho's fist was slick now, partly from precum, partly because he had spat into his palm without breaking eye contact and gone right back to it. He kissed Chan's mouth between each change of pressure. He kissed his cheek beside the bruise. He pressed his forehead to Chan's for a second and watched him from close enough that their lashes nearly touched. Chan could see the bright little points in Minho's eyes, could see his own reflection inside them if he focused, which he could not because Minho twisted his wrist on the next stroke and Chan's head fell back.

"Fuck. Wait."

Minho slowed but did not let go. "Oh my god, what again?"

Chan had to swallow twice. "Wait. Like, give me one second to not embarrass myself."

"I think that ship died at the gym."

"Please."

Minho's expression flickered. The word got to him. Chan watched it happen, watched the cold face slip for one breath and hunger show underneath. Then Minho tightened his fist and stroked from base to head in one firm pull.

"No."

Chan groaned. Minho kissed the sound out of him. He moved faster now, not jerking him roughly for no reason, just with a clean, ruthless rhythm, the loose skin of the shaft shifting slickly beneath his grip while the head remained fully exposed. Chan's whole body locked. His fingers sank into Minho's thighs through the sweatpants, and Minho used his free hand to take one wrist away, pinning Chan's palm against the window beside his head. Minho liked him there. Chan knew it from the way Minho looked at his arm, the bicep tight under the position, then down at his chest and stomach again. Minho's own breathing had gone uneven. He was not detached, he was not doing charity work, he looked turned on enough to bite.

"Minho, I'm gonna–"

"Come! Come already! Why are you making it so long?"

Chan stared at him. Minho's hand did not slow. "Where?"

"On me. I don't care. Fuck, I can't think."

Minho shifted closer, angled Chan's cock against his bare stomach, then kissed him again. Chan came halfway through the kiss. His hips jerked up hard enough to move Minho in his lap. The first spill hit low across Minho's fist and Chan's stomach, the next striped higher over his abs. Minho kept stroking, eyes dropping to watch each pulse while Chan lost every remaining piece of sanity directly under him. Chan tried to hide his face in Minho's neck. Minho caught his hair and made him stay where he could be seen.

"No. Look at me."

Chan looked. Minho's eyes were wide and glossy, his lips swollen from kissing, and he watched Chan like this was the most interesting thing that had happened to him all week. His free hand moved over Chan's chest, slow now, almost calming, but the possessive way his fingers spread kept it from becoming soft. Chan's orgasm dragged on in smaller pulses until the hand around him finally eased. Minho ran his thumb once under the head and Chan nearly climbed out through the closed door.

"Enough. Enough, fuck, please."

Minho let go immediately. Chan sagged against the seat, chest lifting under the mess, one hand still trapped beside his head until Minho remembered and released it. The car was quiet except for rain and Chan trying to recover his breathing skills. Minho sat over his thighs and looked at what he had done. His own cock was obvious through the purple sweatpants now, a hard line pressed against Chan's lower stomach. Chan saw it and reached it. Minho caught his wrist.

"Later."

The word should not have hit as hard as it did. Later meant this was not over. Chan had assumed, in the loose useless place after orgasm, that Minho would climb off, fix his clothes, possibly laugh at him, and ride away on the motorcycle while Chan sat half naked in his car thinking about changing gyms. Instead Minho got off his lap and reached between the front seats. He found the lever on the passenger seat and pulled. The seatback dropped forward too fast, smacking the dashboard with a dull thud. Chan winced. Minho shoved the whole seat as far forward as the rails allowed, then folded the back down until it made a sloped platform toward the rear. His knee hit the console in the process. He swore at it, and looked over his shoulder when Chan laughed.

"Do you want to keep going?"

Chan stopped laughing. "Yes."

"Then be quiet."

Chan pressed his lips together. Minho went back to the task. The purple sweatpants had slipped low on his hips while he leaned, showing the line of his lower back above the waistband and the solid soft shape of his waist when he twisted. Chan's cock gave an exhausted twitch. He looked down at it in betrayal. Minho turned at exactly the wrong time and saw.

"No fucking way."

"You're bending over in front of me."

Minho glanced behind himself like the position had been imposed by another party. "I don't care about the concussion anymore, just go and see a urologist."

Minho’s jacket was already tangled in the front footwell, leaving him in the loose charcoal t-shirt underneath, old and soft looking, sleeves almost to his elbows. He hooked both thumbs into the waistband of the purple sweatpants and pushed them down. The fabric slid over Minho's hips and gathered around the thickest part of his thighs. He had black underwear underneath, plain, already pushed forward by his erection. Minho kicked the sweatpants off one boot at a time, threw them toward the driver's footwell. Minho sat back in only the oversized t-shirt and underwear, brown hair falling over his eyes, thighs completely bare. They looked even fuller without the boxing shorts cutting across them. Smooth skin, faint marks from elastic, a couple yellowing bruises from training. Real legs, strong legs, soft enough at rest that Chan's fingers already hurt with wanting.

Minho looked at the mess drying across Chan's stomach and reached for it. He collected the first streak with two fingers. Chan watched those tiny fingers move through his cum, the fingertips shiny when Minho lifted them. The sight made a hot pulse start at the base of his cock again, almost painful. Minho saw that too. His face changed. He hooked his thumbs under his underwear and pushed it down, his own cock springing free against the hem of the shirt, flushed and wet. Chan looked for one second, then Minho shifted and the thick inside of his thigh took up his whole vision.

Minho spread Chan's cum over it slowly. Two fingers drew a wet line from high near the crease down toward the middle of his thigh, then Minho used his whole palm, smoothing the mess over the soft skin until it shined under the dirty parking lot light. He gathered more from Chan's stomach and did the other thigh, pushing his fingers in firmly enough to move the flesh. Chan's cock, which had been attempting a reasonable retreat after orgasm, filled again against his stomach. It happened so quickly Minho actually stopped rubbing. They both looked at it.

"That is very embarrassing," Minho said.

Chan covered his face with one hand. "I know."

"You just came."

"I was there."

"And now you're harder."

"Can you please not narrate it?"

Minho reached down and closed his slick hand around Chan again. Chan's entire body jumped. "Oh, so now you're shy."

"I've been shy the whole time. You're just… Very hard to stay shy and quiet around."

Minho stroked him once, watching the shaft thicken fully in his small fist. His expression said he had won something. His eyes said something else. They moved over Chan's naked upper body again, caught on the muscles tightening in his stomach, then stayed on his face. There was no mockery in that look. Minho wanted him. The fact sat there so plainly that Chan almost could not stand it. Minho wanted the body under him, liked the shape of it, liked making it react. He bent and kissed the center of Chan's chest again, right above the sticky mess he had not collected, then licked a short wet path over one line of muscle. Chan put his hands behind himself against the seat so he would not grab too hard.

"You don't have to act like you're not into me," Chan said.

Minho lifted his head. "I took my pants off in your car."

"You still act like you're doing an experiment."

Minho's fingers tightened around his cock. "Hmm, current result is that you're extremely easy."

"Only for you, apparently."

Minho's face turned pink all at once. Not only the ears this time. Color moved across his cheeks and down his neck, visible above the loose collar of the t-shirt. He looked away, which was the first genuinely shy thing Chan had seen him do since they got in the car. Chan should have spared him. He did not have enough character for that.

"You look at me too," Chan said.

Minho grabbed him by the jaw and kissed him. It worked. Chan stopped talking because Minho's tongue was in his mouth, because the slick hand around his cock had started moving again, because the other hand was spread over his chest and stroking upward while they kissed. Minho's embarrassment had made him aggressive. Chan was fine with that, more than fine. He kissed back with everything he had, one hand finally finding Minho's bare waist under the t-shirt. The shape filled his palm differently than the thighs, firmer through the sides but warm and soft enough at the front to give when Chan's thumb pressed. He moved both hands there. Minho shivered, then climbed over Chan's legs and pushed him farther down the backseat.

The position took work. Chan sat deep in the corner of the backseat with his legs spread into the cleared footwell, shoulders against one door and hips angled toward the folded passenger seat. Minho crawled over his thighs facing him, one knee knocking Chan's hip, and lowered himself across Chan's legs. Then he leaned back against the folded passenger seat, the slope holding his shoulders while his ass stayed in Chan's lap. His t-shirt rode up to his ribs. He pushed it back down with an annoyed hand, not taking it off, and the oversized fabric fell around the waist that narrowed without ever looking delicate, making the bare thighs below look even thicker. Chan's brain stalled. Minho was half dressed in the stupidest possible way and had never looked hotter.

"Is this okay?" Minho asked.

Chan checked the angle because he could still do that much. Minho's back was supported, the passenger seat latch held, their knees had somewhere to go, nothing important was trapped under a buckle.

"Yeah. Are you comfortable?"

"No. We're in a fucking car." Minho shifted once, testing. "But good enough."

He reached down, took Chan's cock at the base and lifted it away from his stomach. Chan sucked in a breath. Minho's hand still carried the slick mess from his thighs. He stroked once to spread it. Then he lifted both legs together. Chan helped, one hand under Minho's knees, one behind his ankles. Minho placed his joined legs over Chan's right shoulder, the calves resting along his back, knees bent only slightly so their faces stayed close. The weight of them pressed him down. One thick thigh lay against Chan's cheek. The other met it underneath, both inner thighs glossy where Minho had spread Chan's come. Minho reached between them, guided Chan's cock high against the crease, then closed his legs around it. Chan made a noise that humiliated his entire family line.

Minho laughed, breath catching with it. "That good already?"

The pressure was nothing like Chan's hand. Soft skin surrounded him from both sides, hot and close, the muscle underneath tightening when Minho squeezed. His cock lay trapped along the upper inside of Minho's thighs, angled toward his groin, the wet head just visible whenever Chan pushed forward. The cum Minho had spread there made the first movement slick. It was warm, messy friction made from Chan's first orgasm, and understanding that nearly ended the second round before it began. Chan turned his face and kissed the thigh against his cheek. One kiss, then another. Chan opened his mouth against it, tongue touching the soft surface before he sucked. Not hard enough to bruise. He had enough awareness for that. Minho's legs tightened around his cock anyway.

Chan kissed higher, as far as he could reach without losing the angle. He licked the wet inner part where Minho had spread the come, then kissed it because apparently he had no line between filthy and reverent anymore. His hand stroked from Minho's ankle down the outside of both calves, over the knees, and up to the full curve of the thighs. Minho watched him, face flushed, mouth parted. The cold expression was gone. He looked shy now and only now, under the attention, like he had offered the body but had not planned for Chan to be this fucking sincere about wanting it.

"They're so pretty," Chan said against his skin.

Minho's face tightened. "Do not call my legs pretty while your dick is between them."

Chan sucked gently at the inside of his thigh and felt Minho's whole body move on the folded seat.

"Chan, move before I kick you out of the car."

Chan smiled against him. "With these legs? I'd probably enjoy it."

Minho covered his own face for one second. "You're so fucking embarrassing."

"You knew that before you took your pants off."

Minho lowered his hand and looked at him. His eyes had gone glossy, bright points trembling in the low light every time the car shifted. Chan wanted to say something about them and knew, for once, that it might be too much. He moved instead. A slow push of his hips slid his cock between Minho's closed thighs. The head appeared near the top of the channel, brushing Minho's hand where he held his own cock out of the way. Chan pulled back until only the head remained inside the pressure. Minho squeezed. Chan's mouth fell open against his leg.

"Again," Minho said.

Chan obeyed. Forward, wet and tight, back, slower because his body wanted to rush. Minho's calves shifted over his shoulder, keeping both legs close, while Minho used the hand around his own thigh to change the pressure. Face to face made everything worse. Chan could not hide in Minho's neck or close his eyes without Minho seeing. Every thrust dragged them a little closer together. Minho's body slid down the folded seat until their mouths were near enough to meet, and then Chan kissed him because there was no reason not to. Minho kissed back hard. His tiny hand caught the back of Chan's head. The other kept moving over Chan's chest, stroking muscle, fingernails scraping lightly down his stomach whenever Chan thrust deep into the squeeze of his thighs. Chan lost rhythm in under a minute. He would push forward, get distracted by Minho's mouth, kiss him until the movement stopped, then remember where his cock was and make a desperate short thrust that dragged a sound out of both of them. Minho started laughing into one kiss. Chan felt it against his tongue.

"Stop making out with my knee."

Chan turned and kissed the inside of the knee resting beside his ear, purely to be difficult. "But I can't resist it, it's right there."

"So is my mouth."

That sounded almost needy. Minho seemed to realize it when Chan did. His eyes shifted away for a second. Chan leaned over him as much as the legs on his shoulder allowed and kissed those pink lips again. Slower this time. Minho's hand moved over the back of his neck, then across one shoulder, feeling the muscle flex as Chan held himself up. His hips rolled at the same time and squeezed Chan's cock between his thighs. Chan broke the kiss with a moan.

"There," Minho said.

He did the same movement again, using his legs rather than waiting for Chan's thrust. The inner thighs slid around the shaft, spreading the cooling slickness into a new wet layer. Chan's hips followed automatically. Minho watched that too. Every time he moved, Chan answered. It seemed to please him in some deep, quiet way. His hand returned to Chan's chest, palm over his heart like he wanted to feel how fast it was going.

"You're shaking," Minho said.

"I came five minutes ago and I don't know how to be normal in this situation."

Minho's thumb moved over Chan's nipple. Chan's hips jerked. 

"Don’t worry, you weren't normal before this either."

"How could I be normal about you?"

Minho smiled. A real one this time, small and unfairly pretty, his upper lip curving deeper than the lower. Chan stared, Minho's expression changed as he understood what Chan was doing, shyness tightening the smile away.

"Your mouth is really pretty."

"Chan."

"And your eyes. They do this sparkly thing. I know that sounds insane."

"I’m not gonna mention concussion again."

"You're beautiful."

Minho's thighs clenched around him. Chan groaned so hard the word broke apart. "See? You like it."

"I like making you shut up."

Minho grabbed his hair and pulled him into another kiss. He was rougher now, embarrassed enough to make it Chan's problem. Chan loved it. He thrust through the tight channel of Minho's thighs while their mouths slipped and caught, lips wet, teeth knocking once. Minho bit his lower lip and Chan returned it carefully to Minho's upper one, sucking until Minho made a low irritated sound. Chan could feel Minho getting more aroused. Not only the cock against his stomach, though that was obvious, hard and leaking where the t-shirt had ridden up. Minho's whole body had become restless. His waist shifted under Chan's hand. His legs changed pressure constantly. His tiny fingers moved from Chan's hair to his chest to his stomach and back, unable to settle because there was too much he wanted to touch. He kept looking at Chan's shoulders, bunched under the effort, at the flex of his abs every time he drove forward, down at Chan's cock disappearing between his own thighs. Every glance landed like a hand. Chan caught one of Minho's hands and brought it to his mouth. Minho tried to pull away on reflex. Chan let the grip loosen at once, but Minho stopped withdrawing. He left the hand there. Chan kissed the center of the palm, then the base of each finger, warm mouth over the pink skin.

"They're so small," Chan said.

Minho's eyes narrowed, though his thighs tightened again. "They put your ass on the floor."

Chan kissed the first two knuckles, the ones that had landed inside the glove. "That's why I'm obsessed with them."

"You need a job or a hobby, something like that."

"Boxing was the hobby. Look where it got me."

Minho laughed, breathless this time, and curled his fingers around Chan's mouth. Chan sucked the tip of one gently. That ended the laugh. Minho stared at him, face bright red now, and Chan watched the exact moment the attention became too much. Minho pulled the wet finger out, caught Chan by the chin and forced his face up.

"Fuck me properly or stop."

Chan's stomach pulled tight. "Tell me how."

The words came out lower than Chan meant. Minho's pupils widened. He shifted on the folded seat, brought his legs tighter together over Chan's shoulder and pressed the whole smooth length of his thighs around Chan's cock. The channel narrowed until Chan felt every beat of his own pulse caught inside it.

"Harder. Don't pull all the way out."

Chan set one hand at Minho's waist under the shirt and the other high on his joined thighs. He pushed forward. The head slid between slick skin, stopped close to Minho's groin, then dragged back without leaving the pressure. He did it again, harder. Their bodies rocked in opposite directions: Chan driving up and forward, Minho rolling down to meet him, squeezing at the end of each stroke. The cum between Minho's thighs made a wet sound that should have embarrassed Chan. It only made him move faster.

"Like that?"

"Yes. Don't lose it because you're busy making out with my fucking leg."

Chan kissed the leg anyway, mouth open against the soft inside while his hips kept the rhythm this time. The impact pushed Minho's thigh against his lips on every thrust. He licked where he could, sucked a mark low enough to hide under shorts, then soothed it with his tongue. Minho swore and pulled his hair. Chan's whole body answered, cock swelling harder between the wet grip of Minho's legs.

"Your thighs are fucking insane."

"Shut up."

"They're soft." Chan pushed deep and held there while Minho squeezed. "And strong. And you know exactly what you're doing with them."

Minho's hand flattened over Chan's mouth. Chan kissed the palm again. Minho shivered so obviously he could not insult him for it, and that seemed to annoy him even more. He left the hand there, maybe because the pressure kept Chan quiet, maybe because Chan's lips on his palm were doing something he did not want named. Chan kept thrusting, shorter and faster now. His second orgasm was building differently, slower because he had already come, heavier because every nerve felt used open. Minho's legs trembled on his shoulder. Chan's right arm shook from supporting them, but he would have let it fall off before asking Minho to move. Minho's cock dragged over his stomach with every roll of his hips. Chan closed his fist around him. Minho was hard and hot, the shaft smooth except for the raised vein under Chan's thumb, the head wet enough that the first stroke spread slickness down. Chan remembered the earlier instruction and kept his grip firm below the head, not covering it, but Minho caught his fingers and changed them anyway.

"Higher."

Chan obeyed. "Like this?"

Minho's head went back against the folded seat. "Yeah. Same pressure."

Doing both at once should have been impossible in the cramped angle. It nearly was. Chan thrust between Minho's thighs while stroking him, one rhythm ruining the other every few seconds. When Chan's own pleasure got too sharp, his hand slowed. When Minho's face broke open on a stroke, Chan forgot to move his hips. Minho corrected him with impatient touches: fingers in his hair, heel nudging his shoulder, small hand around Chan's wrist forcing the pace back where he wanted it. Chan followed every correction. He liked being useful. Liked that his muscled body, the thing he had built to be solid and in control, could be turned into something Minho directed with a few words and a squeeze of his thighs.

He also liked Minho touching him back, too much. Minho never stopped, his free hand slid over Chan's shoulder and down his chest, tracing the hard ridge of muscle with the same hungry curiosity as before. He caught Chan's nipple between two fingers, scraped his nails down the center of his stomach, put his palm over the flexing lower abs where Minho's cock kept brushing and watched the muscles jump under both sensations. Minho's face was soft with arousal now, pink mouth open, hair stuck to his forehead, those pretty eyes wet and fixed on Chan like he was the one worth staring at. Chan had spent a month feeling like a creep for noticing everything and Minho was learning his body in one night with both hands.

"You like my body," Chan said, breath breaking around the words.

Minho looked at him with absolutely no shame left. "Obviously."

The answer almost made Chan come. "Fuck."

Minho's mouth curled. "You have a mirror, don't you?"

"Yeah, but you're–"

Chan stopped. He did not know how to finish without turning it into the exact speech Minho hated. You're the one I want looking. You're the one whose eyes matter. You're the reason this body feels good right now instead of merely useful. All true. All too much for a fogged car behind a boxing gym. Minho saw the unsaid part anyway. His expression shifted. He grabbed Chan by the back of the neck and pulled him down into a kiss before either of them had to deal with it. The kiss got messy. Their lips slipped. Chan breathed into Minho's mouth and Minho swallowed the sound, tongue pressing deep, hand tight at his nape. Chan moved harder between his thighs. The slick pressure dragged over his cock in long wet pulls. Minho's thighs slapped lightly against Chan's stomach where they met, his calves tightening over Chan's right shoulder. Chan's fist worked Minho at the same pace, the head rubbing high against his thumb. Minho kissed like he was trying to take control of Chan's breathing too. It worked, Chan gasped when Minho let him.

"I'm close," Minho said against his mouth.

Chan's grip faltered. "Tell me what you need."

"Just look at me."

Chan did. He would have obeyed that one if Minho had asked it from another room. Minho's eyes stayed on his while Chan stroked him and thrust between the thighs pressed around his cock. The control in Minho's face broke slowly. His brows pulled together. His lower lip caught between his teeth, then slipped free when he made a sound. His waist tightened under Chan's hand. The body Chan had called soft did not become less soft when it strained, it became more itself, firm under his palm and still warm, still giving where he held it. Chan kissed him once, quick, then again because one was impossible.

"You're beautiful," Chan said into the third kiss.

Minho's eyes closed. "Shut up."

Chan kissed him instead. Minho came into his fist with their mouths still touching, cock pulsing hard against Chan's palm. Minho's thighs clamped so hard around Chan's cock that Chan groaned into the kiss and nearly came with him. He kept the same pressure because Minho had told him not to change it, stroked through each pulse until Minho caught his wrist.

"Enough."

Chan stopped. His hips did too, though it took the rest of his body a second to understand. Minho lay against the folded passenger seat breathing hard, legs still over Chan's shoulder, face completely open from orgasm. Chan stared because he could not not. Minho noticed after maybe three breaths and the cold expression began rebuilding itself piece by piece.

"Don't look at me like that."

Minho slid one hand down Chan's chest. The fingers were messy. He spread his own cum over Chan's stomach almost absent mindedly, eyes following the movement, then looked at Chan's cock still hard between his thighs. The shaft jumped under Minho's gaze, slick with the remains of the first orgasm and all the friction since. Minho moved his thighs once around it. Chan folded forward with a broken sound.

"Oh, you're still here, can you keep going?" Minho asked.

Chan nodded too quickly, "Yes, I want to keep going. I'm close."

Minho's expression softened for a second, then he shifted his legs higher on Chan's shoulder and made the channel tighter. Chan put his hand back on that firm waist, fingers spreading under the shirt. Minho covered the hand with his own. Tiny fingers over Chan's larger knuckles, guiding his grip harder into the softness.

"Then use me," Minho said.

Chan's eyes almost rolled back. He managed one rough thrust, then another. Minho met him with the movement of his hips, holding the pressure exactly where it broke Chan apart fastest. Chan's body had no patience left. His strokes turned short and desperate, cock driving through the wet slide of Minho's thighs, head rubbing free for half a second before being swallowed by pressure again. He kissed whatever was close: knee, inner thigh, the small hand covering his, Minho's mouth when Minho pulled him forward. There was no system anymore. There had probably never been one. Chan just wanted his mouth on every part of Minho that had let him this near.

"Minho, fuck. You– Your legs."

"Yes, Chan. We've established I have legs."

"No, you don't understand."

Minho laughed, exhausted and filthy, and Chan kissed the laugh straight out of his mouth. "They're so fucking good. You're so soft."

Minho's face went pink again even after everything they had done. "Come before I regret this."

Chan tried to answer. The next squeeze of Minho's thighs erased the sentence. His second orgasm hit harder in a completely different way, pulled from an already tender body until it felt almost too sharp. He pushed forward and held there, cock pulsing between Minho's clenched thighs, cum spilling hot into the same slick channel Minho had made with the first. Minho watched his face. He kept one hand at Chan's chest and the other over Chan's hand on his waist, holding him in place while Chan shook through it. Chan heard himself say Minho's name twice, maybe three times. One of them broke into a noise so embarrassing he would remember it while trying to sleep for the next six years. Minho stroked Chan's hair back from his forehead with slow fingers while Chan came, looked at him with those bright wet eyes and a softness. Chan finished in weak pulses, hips making small helpless pushes into the pressure of Minho's thighs until sensitivity turned each one into a flinch. Minho loosened his legs immediately.

"Done?"

Chan nodded, forehead dropping against Minho's knee. Minho's hand moved through his hair once more. A pat this time, almost condescending, almost gentle. Chan closed his eyes under it like the world's most embarrassing dog. He would think about that later and hate himself. Right then he leaned into the palm. Minho felt him do it. His fingers paused. Then they scratched lightly at Chan's scalp, one small pass before he pulled his hand away and started untangling his legs from Chan's shoulder. Both of them hissed when Chan's softening cock slipped out from between his thighs. The mess stretched wetly between skin and broke. Minho looked down at his own legs. Chan's cum shined across his inner thighs, new and old mixed together, and the sight made Chan's spent cock twitch once more against its own better judgment.

"I swear to God, if you get hard again–"

"I'm not doing it on purpose."

"Tell it to calm down."

Chan looked at himself. "Hmm, it said no."

Minho stared at him, then laughed so suddenly his head fell back against the passenger seat. Chan laughed too, which hurt his bruised jaw and made him wince. Minho's expression changed at once. He reached for Chan's face, stopped before touching the bruise, and let his hand settle on the side of Chan's neck instead. The concern was quick, hidden badly. Chan kissed the inside of his wrist before Minho could take it away. Minho left his wrist there for another second anyway. For a while neither of them spoke. Rain ran over the roof. The windows had fogged, turning the parking lot into blurred orange and blue shapes. Chan's jaw hurt, his right shoulder hurt from holding Minho's legs, and one foot had gone numb somewhere around the first orgasm. Minho stayed reclined against the folded passenger seat with his t-shirt pushed crooked over his stomach and his thighs shining obscenely in the dark. The car smelled like sweat, smoke, wet fabric and sex. It was gross. Chan felt amazing.

Minho came back to himself first, or at least started pretending first. He sat up. The movement put his face close to Chan's again, and for one confused second both of them looked at each other's mouths like they might restart the whole problem. Chan's body made a brave but deeply unrealistic attempt. Minho glanced down.

"You need to be neutered."

Chan started laughing. Minho reached past him for the glove box instead. They needed tissues. Chan had none in the backseat. Minho told him to move, climbed awkwardly over his legs and leaned between the front seats with Chan still half naked behind him. He opened the glove box and dropped the registration papers all over the passenger floor.

"Responsible adult," Chan said.

Minho looked over one shoulder. "Responsible adult who has only six tissues and three expired parking receipts. Shut up."

The tissues were the cheap kind that dissolved the second they got wet. Minho wiped the inside of one thigh and left a line of white paper stuck to his skin. Chan reached to help. Minho slapped his wrist away, then reconsidered when another piece tore between his fingers.

"Fine. Get it off."

Chan did not need to be told twice. He pinched the paper away carefully, then used a clean corner of the tissue to wipe lower. Minho watched his face the whole time, maybe waiting for him to make it weird. Chan was capable of restraint. Not much, but some. He cleaned the mess from one thigh, then the other, trying not to think about how the same skin had felt around him. His thumb made one slow pass after the tissue was gone anyway. Minho caught it.

"Just clean it and leave me alone. Freak."

Minho's voice had no sharp edge left. Chan kissed the inside of his knee. Minho pushed his forehead away with one tiny hand, but he was smiling. Chan found an old cotton emergency towel under the blanket and checked it twice before handing it over. They cleaned themselves with it in turns. When Minho finished, he pulled his underwear up first, then reached into the front footwell for the purple sweatpants. He put them on sitting sideways because standing was impossible. The waistband settled low on his hips. The legs bunched loose around him again, hiding everything Chan had just been allowed to see, and somehow Minho immediately looked soft in a different way. Purple fabric, oversized t-shirt, brown hair going everywhere, pretty pink mouth bitten darker. Chan knew what those thighs could do now. He knew exactly how firm Minho's waist felt under the softness and how those small hands looked wrapped around him. The clothes did not return innocence to anything.

Minho caught him staring while he tied the drawstring. "You look devastated."

"They disappeared," Chan pouted.

Minho shook his head, crawled over and sat beside him. “If I hadn't punched you earlier…”

Chan pulled his own clothes up with much less success. His sweatpants were twisted, his underwear had rolled under the waistband, and when he tried to fix the knot his fingers kept missing. Minho watched for maybe five seconds, sighed, and took the drawstring from him. Chan held still while Minho fixed his waistband and retied the knot. Minho's knuckles brushed the lower part of Chan's stomach, right above his spent cock, and Chan went warm all over like an idiot anyway. Minho looked up. Their faces were close. His eyes moved over Chan's naked chest one more time, slower now, then he touched the hard line of muscle above Chan's hip with the back of two fingers.

"Shirt," Minho said.

Chan did not move fast enough. Minho found the t-shirt near the door and pushed it into his chest.

"Before you catch a cold and somehow make it my fault."

Chan pulled it on. Minho helped free the back of the collar where it had folded under, fingers brushing Chan's neck. Then, once Chan was dressed and sitting there with his hair ruined, his face bruised, his mouth swollen and his entire mind apparently left somewhere between Minho's thighs.

Minho put a hand on top of his head. He patted him twice. Not stroked or held. Patted, like Chan had completed a difficult but ultimately manageable task. Chan looked up at him. Minho's mouth trembled with the effort not to laugh.

"Good job."

Chan closed his eyes. Minho patted him once more. Chan leaned into the hand before he could stop himself. Minho went quiet. His fingers rested in Chan's hair, no longer joking, and scratched lightly once at his scalp. Then he pulled away first. The embarrassment kicked in properly. Great. Chan sat back against the door with his mouth sore from kissing and his cheek getting darker by the minute. Minho sat beside him smoothing the purple sweatpants over his thighs like his hair was not sticking up in six directions. Chan had kissed his hands, stomach, waist, both thighs, neck, chest and probably every bit between that he could reach without dislocating something. He had begged Minho not to touch his cock, immediately taken it back, come into Minho's hand, watched Minho spread it over his own legs and then got harder than before. He had come a second time between those thighs while saying they were beautiful. 

He did not regret it. His face was hot and he knew he had been embarrassingly uncool, but he had liked all of it. Being dropped. Not the pain, really. The surprise, the control. He liked following Minho. Liked asking and waiting for the answer. He liked the mismatch between them too, though mismatch was probably the wrong word. Chan looked hard because he trained to look hard without meaning to. Minho looked soft because that was simply how beauty sat on him. Neither appearance told the full truth. Minho had put him on the mat and then taken his shirt off with his eyes. Chan had let himself be directed and still held Minho carefully through every awkward angle. Maybe this was a kink. He did not need to make a fucking slideshow about it tonight. He could sit there with one numb foot and deal. Beside him, Minho wiped a circle in the fogged window and tried to use the dark glass as a mirror. He pushed his soft hair down. It came back up. He pushed the other side and made the first side worse. Chan watched for almost a minute before risking a comment.

"You look pretty."

Minho's gaze moved to the bruise. His expression changed slightly, enough that Chan could tell he was thinking about it.

"That'll look bad tomorrow," Minho said.

Chan touched his cheek. "It'll be fine."

Minho gave him the same look as before. "You need a new word."

"Worth it?" Chan asked.

Chan immediately wondered if that sounded too serious. Minho's face went unreadable. Then he reached over and pressed two fingers very gently under the bruise, checking the swelling. Chan stayed still. He had to stop himself from turning to kiss it again. Minho noticed that effort.

Minho removed his hand. "Ice it when you get home. If you get dizzy, don't go to sleep."

Chan nodded.

"And if you throw up, go to the hospital," Minho added.

"I know concussion protocol, I have first aid something," Chan said.

Minho zipped his jacket. "You also walked around the parking lot with your dick visible, so I don't really trust your judgment."

Chan laughed, then winced because laughing pulled at his jaw. Minho's hand moved toward him again and stopped halfway. Chan saw it. Then they went quiet. Minho found the keys in the footwell, remembered they were Chan's and dropped them into his lap. He tugged one purple cuff back over his boot, checked the door and pulled his jacket around himself. They had not even exchanged numbers. Chan wanted to ask, obviously. He also did not want to turn one very clear thing Minho had chosen into a negotiation afterward just because Chan had gone soft in the head. So he kept his mouth shut. For almost ten seconds.

"Minho," he said anyway.

Minho paused with one hand on the latch. "What?"

Chan had several questions and no clean way to ask any of them. Do you want to do this again sounded too direct. Will I see you Tuesday sounded stupid because of course he would see him if they both came to the gym. Can I have your number sounded like Chan had forgotten how adults worked. He settled on the only thing that had started as a reasonable concern.

"Your hand. Ice it if it swells."

Minho stared at him for a second. Then something in his face loosened. "Your face too," he said.

Chan nodded. "I will."

Minho opened the door and cold air rushed into the car. The rain had softened to a fine mist. He climbed out, straightened the loose purple sweatpants and pulled the jacket down over his hips. It took maybe three breaths for him to become the man from the gym again. Cold expression, hands in his pockets, hair still a mess, though no stranger would know who had made it that way. Chan watched from the backseat and felt like Minho had taken every usable thought with him. Minho closed the door. Through the half fogged glass, Chan watched him cross toward the awning and pick up his gym bag and motorcycle helmet. He tucked the helmet against one hip, walked a few steps toward the bike, then stopped. Chan sat forward. Minho turned around slowly.

Minho shifted the helmet under one arm. Then, in the wet parking lot, wearing heavy boots and oversized purple sweatpants, he bent one knee and lifted his foot behind him like a princess in a stupid movie. The pose was so sweet and unserious. Minho pressed his hand to his cute mouth and sent a flying kiss at the car, one foot still in the air. Eyes sparkling because he knew exactly how stupid Chan would look receiving it. Chan's mouth fell open. Minho looked delighted for one second, lowered his boot and put the cold face back.

Chan reached for the door handle, but Minho was already walking backward toward the next row. He lifted one hand. "Try not to drop your guard next time."

He turned, swung one leg over the motorcycle and pulled on his helmet before Chan found a reply that did not sound like begging for exactly that. The engine caught with a low rough sound. Minho backed the bike out, glanced once toward the car through the dark visor and rode away into the mist. Chan stayed in the backseat. His cheek hurt, his mouth was swollen, the back windows were still fogged, and his car needed to be aired out before morning. Minho had left him no number, no plan, no normal sentence he could use to explain the night to himself. Only the bruise, the memory of small hands moving over his chest, the pressure of those thighs and that fucking princess kiss in the parking lot. Chan leaned his head back carefully, looked at the wet roof lining and started laughing. Quiet at first, then harder, until his jaw hurt enough to make him stop. He still had no idea what the fuck had just happened. He knew he would be at the gym on Tuesday.

Notes:

this fic happened because my brain saw boxing minchan, THE punch, minho's flying kiss, that boxing bubble picture, i put them together and this came out.

also, this one is a little experimental for me. my boyfriend read the first chapter of my longfic and said present tense wasn’t really his thing, and he also suggested i try writing chan pov sometime, so this became my past tense, chan pov experiment.

about the car position: i tried to write it as clearly as possible, but if it gets confusing, i’m sorry. tmi but i did test the general mechanics because at one point i genuinely thought “wait, can they even kiss like this?” and yes. unfortunately. they can.

hope you enjoy <3