Four Weeks
Title: Four Weeks
Pairing: 2min
Rating: pg-13
Genre: au, fluff
Summary: What they have is an unlikely relationship.
Words: 1734
Warnings: borderline pedoho ahead, be warned
Taemin is on the sofa when Minho comes in, slung across it in a fashion that only growing teenage boys are able to accomplish. He’s a tangle of lanky arms and legs, limbs so long and thin that Minho wonders how exactly he manages to accomplish anything without tripping over himself at every turn.
“Hey, Choi,” Taemin says lazily, eyes only flickering to Minho before returning to the book-no, wait, comic, he doesn’t read books-he’s holding.
“Hi.” Minho is in Taemin’s dorm on the pretense of making a cleanliness spot check. He’s not stupid; he knows that he’s not checking up on anyone else and knows that he’s not actually concerned about the cleanliness of the dorm kitchen. He’s more interested in Taemin, in how his summer cotton superhero t-shirt covers his thin shoulders perfectly, how he can see the faintest outline of his collarbones through the fabric. At this point he won’t make a comment about how the same dishes have been in the sink for a week, because that would mean that not giving Taemin what he wants, which is all Minho does now.
Taemin doesn’t even look at Minho when he speaks again. “What are you doing?”
“Spot check.” Minho lies easily now. It’s a habit he’s not proud of, one that was born out of both want and necessity.
“Mm.”
Minho walks over to Taemin, sits down on the worn linoleum next to the equally faded sofa. Taemin looks perfect and out of place on it, young on old, bright yellow on red that’s turned pink through time. “Where’s everyone else?” He knows the answer to this already before Taemin tells him. This is a soccer camp that Taemin’s only attending because he was made to. He’s spent the entire time making excuses for not attending events, sneaking away from the games that the counselors set up in the sunny field a half hour’s walk away. Instead he spends most of his time buried in comics, reading and rereading them, blatantly unparticipative in the main goal of the summer camp.
Minho knows he should be more of a counselor to Taemin. He’s not supposed to help campers escape events, he’s supposed to ensure that they attend them. But after the first time he tried to make Taemin leave the dorm he was forced to resolve within himself the fact that he wasn’t going to be a good counselor. Not with Taemin.
“Is anyone here?” Minho isn’t expecting the dusty, sun-weathered cabin to have anyone in it. It’s the first day of the month-long soccer camp and the campers are all too excited and nervous to dare skip yet. It’s his duty to check though, and he’s also too new and nervous and excited to ditch away from anything as of this point in time, and so he goes about his rounds.
“Yeah,” someone replies. “I’m in here.” It comes from the split kitchen and living room.
The owner of the voice is a boy, half sitting up on the sofa, a stack of comics next to him on the floor. He’s dark eyed and haired, the latter not being a surprise since he looks to be only about fifteen or sixteen, the age when alternate colors are looked down upon by high schools. What makes Minho do a double-take, though, are his clothes: red jean shorts, an electric blue t-shirt with loud words strung across the front of it, and flip-flops that are only half on (and that are coincidentally completely useless for playing soccer in).
This was not a soccer boy.
“Name, please.”
“Lee Taemin.” There’s no hesitation. The boy doesn’t look nervous, more impatient to get back to the comic dangling in his right hand. “I don’t like soccer, so I’m not going to do anything. It’s not school, you know.”
Minho is unsure what exactly to do. This was blatant refusal. “You’ve got to go, Lee-“
“I’m not going.” He’s blunt, sure of himself and his decisions. “Nothing against you or anything, but I hate playing soccer. I’m really bad at it. Look at me. Do I look like someone who plays soccer?”
“Not really,” Minho says hesitantly, eyes tracing the slim body, not yet aware that by admitting this he’s just lost the entire war. “But-“
“Hey,” Taemin says seriously, sitting up completely and setting his comic book down. “I’m not going to cause trouble or anything. It’s not me who wanted to be here though, it was my mum who sent me and she…doesn’t need me at home right now. So I’m just here to stay out of her way. That’s it.”
There’s something in his eyes that makes Minho back down. “Listen, I’ll tell them that you’re feeling sick or something, okay? Take it easy today and come tomorrow.”
Taemin nods. That’s the first lie, for both of them.
Since that day things have changed a fair amount, yet somehow not at all. In two weeks they’ve gone from being camper Lee and counselor Choi to also being Taemin and Minho, two boys of fifteen and twenty-two respectively who like each other enough to lie for the other. Regularly.
“I should take one of those for tonight. I haven’t had a chance to read a comic since I started university.” He fingers the volume that Taemin’s holding, the closest he dares to get to him without it becoming indecent.
Taemin glances at him, and Minho feels a rush of pride for catching Taemin’s attention-it’s a constant battle between Minho and the comic, and for this moment Minho has won. “I thought university was supposed to be better than high school.”
“Nope,” Minho says cheerfully. “It’s just a more refined level of banging your head against walls.”
“Ugh,” Taemin moans, laying his comic down on his chest. Another point to Minho. “Remind me to not go when I’m done with school. I don’t want to have to do anything beside draw. That’s it. Draw and read comics.”
Minho drops his head onto the sofa beside Taemin, allowing himself to wish he was young again. In a strange way he misses the days when examinations were his biggest responsibility, when he could catch up on sleep missed on his desk from a night spent doing inane things like texting girls and reading comics.
Taemin is silent for a moment. “Yeah. I think I’ll just draw on streetcorners for a living.”
Past the musty odor of the couch there’s a sweet scent, a lingering aroma of Taemin and blue sky and… “You smell like pancakes,” Minho says, then blinks, unsure of how he managed to let that slip through his filter.
“Really?” Taemin laughs, bright as the colors he wears. “I made pancakes hours ago. I shouldn’t still smell like them.”
“I bet it’s in your skin.” He’s suddenly edging on a thin line, one he’s been carefully been avoiding toeing throughout the tens of hours he’s managed to spend with Taemin over the past two weeks. “You probably taste like a pancake too. If you smell like one still it’s got to be a part of who you are.”
“Absolutely not,” Taemin says, swatting at Minho’s head. “You’re pulling my leg. I don’t taste or smell like a pancake.”
This time Minho laughs, unable to not tease him. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that you smell like pancakes all the time. It’s not just right now…”
“I smell like shampoo,” Taemin says. He attempts to raise his eyebrow, stops when it fails miserably. “I think, at least. I know I don’t taste like pancakes though, seriously.” And to prove his point he licks his finger, and then Minho is teetering precariously on an edge of whether or not-because there’s Taemin’s skin right in front of him, taut across his hipbone, gapping tauntingly between his shorts and his shirt.
“Yep, just skin,” Taemin proclaims, then picks up his comic again. “I win.”
Minho is too close, so he leans in, carefully slides his tongue across the sliver of gold. Taemin is right-he’s warm and tastes of skin, scrubbed clean with soap and sun.
There’s a long, very pregnant silence in which Minho slowly leans back, aware that he’s accidentally stepped into territory that he wasn’t supposed to ever go into. He’s Taemin’s counselor and he’s six years older than him. And he’s just licked his hipbone and liked how Taemin tasted.
“Yeah,” Minho says, slowly standing up, throat dry. His jeans suddenly felt too tight, the neck of his white camp t-shirt too constricting. He needs to get away from Taemin now before he somehow manages to step further where he was never supposed to be in the first place.
Taemin’s confused. Minho can see it on his face, in how his long, thin fingers are clenched around his comic. “Listen, I’m sorry,” he says, stepping backward, kicking himself for not thinking and for getting too close. “That wasn’t good of me to do. I didn’t mean to. It…I…it just happened.”
“Minho?” Taemin sits up and gets off the couch, walks over to Minho. “It wasn’t bad of you. You don’t have to go. It’s gonna be really quiet here if you leave now.”
Then Taemin’s grasping at Minho’s shirt, pulling him closer. He’s stronger than he looks, or perhaps that’s just Minho not wanting to leave at all. Whatever the reason though, they’re suddenly closer than they’ve ever been before and Minho is finding out that Taemin is a full head shorter than him. He’s small and the perfect height to hold, and really, he’d just invited himself into the same territory that Minho had been trying to stay away from, so this was no longer just his fault. (He was getting quite good at lying, not just to other people but to himself as well.
“Yeah, well, that’s not a bad thing, really,” Minho says, but he’s already slipping his hand behind Taemin’s head and pulling him in closer.
Taemin’s kisses taste of pancakes and sugar-sweet syrup, and they’re as tempting and addictive as the taste of his skin. And with his breathy sighs against Minho’s mouth, the slip of his tongue and the imprints of his hands on Minho’s skin, his burning heat through the cotton of his shirt, they’re both stepping across the line.
There are still two weeks of lies left, beautiful and perfect.
Pairing: 2min
Rating: pg-13
Genre: au, fluff
Summary: What they have is an unlikely relationship.
Words: 1734
Warnings: borderline pedoho ahead, be warned
Taemin is on the sofa when Minho comes in, slung across it in a fashion that only growing teenage boys are able to accomplish. He’s a tangle of lanky arms and legs, limbs so long and thin that Minho wonders how exactly he manages to accomplish anything without tripping over himself at every turn.
“Hey, Choi,” Taemin says lazily, eyes only flickering to Minho before returning to the book-no, wait, comic, he doesn’t read books-he’s holding.
“Hi.” Minho is in Taemin’s dorm on the pretense of making a cleanliness spot check. He’s not stupid; he knows that he’s not checking up on anyone else and knows that he’s not actually concerned about the cleanliness of the dorm kitchen. He’s more interested in Taemin, in how his summer cotton superhero t-shirt covers his thin shoulders perfectly, how he can see the faintest outline of his collarbones through the fabric. At this point he won’t make a comment about how the same dishes have been in the sink for a week, because that would mean that not giving Taemin what he wants, which is all Minho does now.
Taemin doesn’t even look at Minho when he speaks again. “What are you doing?”
“Spot check.” Minho lies easily now. It’s a habit he’s not proud of, one that was born out of both want and necessity.
“Mm.”
Minho walks over to Taemin, sits down on the worn linoleum next to the equally faded sofa. Taemin looks perfect and out of place on it, young on old, bright yellow on red that’s turned pink through time. “Where’s everyone else?” He knows the answer to this already before Taemin tells him. This is a soccer camp that Taemin’s only attending because he was made to. He’s spent the entire time making excuses for not attending events, sneaking away from the games that the counselors set up in the sunny field a half hour’s walk away. Instead he spends most of his time buried in comics, reading and rereading them, blatantly unparticipative in the main goal of the summer camp.
Minho knows he should be more of a counselor to Taemin. He’s not supposed to help campers escape events, he’s supposed to ensure that they attend them. But after the first time he tried to make Taemin leave the dorm he was forced to resolve within himself the fact that he wasn’t going to be a good counselor. Not with Taemin.
“Is anyone here?” Minho isn’t expecting the dusty, sun-weathered cabin to have anyone in it. It’s the first day of the month-long soccer camp and the campers are all too excited and nervous to dare skip yet. It’s his duty to check though, and he’s also too new and nervous and excited to ditch away from anything as of this point in time, and so he goes about his rounds.
“Yeah,” someone replies. “I’m in here.” It comes from the split kitchen and living room.
The owner of the voice is a boy, half sitting up on the sofa, a stack of comics next to him on the floor. He’s dark eyed and haired, the latter not being a surprise since he looks to be only about fifteen or sixteen, the age when alternate colors are looked down upon by high schools. What makes Minho do a double-take, though, are his clothes: red jean shorts, an electric blue t-shirt with loud words strung across the front of it, and flip-flops that are only half on (and that are coincidentally completely useless for playing soccer in).
This was not a soccer boy.
“Name, please.”
“Lee Taemin.” There’s no hesitation. The boy doesn’t look nervous, more impatient to get back to the comic dangling in his right hand. “I don’t like soccer, so I’m not going to do anything. It’s not school, you know.”
Minho is unsure what exactly to do. This was blatant refusal. “You’ve got to go, Lee-“
“I’m not going.” He’s blunt, sure of himself and his decisions. “Nothing against you or anything, but I hate playing soccer. I’m really bad at it. Look at me. Do I look like someone who plays soccer?”
“Not really,” Minho says hesitantly, eyes tracing the slim body, not yet aware that by admitting this he’s just lost the entire war. “But-“
“Hey,” Taemin says seriously, sitting up completely and setting his comic book down. “I’m not going to cause trouble or anything. It’s not me who wanted to be here though, it was my mum who sent me and she…doesn’t need me at home right now. So I’m just here to stay out of her way. That’s it.”
There’s something in his eyes that makes Minho back down. “Listen, I’ll tell them that you’re feeling sick or something, okay? Take it easy today and come tomorrow.”
Taemin nods. That’s the first lie, for both of them.
Since that day things have changed a fair amount, yet somehow not at all. In two weeks they’ve gone from being camper Lee and counselor Choi to also being Taemin and Minho, two boys of fifteen and twenty-two respectively who like each other enough to lie for the other. Regularly.
“I should take one of those for tonight. I haven’t had a chance to read a comic since I started university.” He fingers the volume that Taemin’s holding, the closest he dares to get to him without it becoming indecent.
Taemin glances at him, and Minho feels a rush of pride for catching Taemin’s attention-it’s a constant battle between Minho and the comic, and for this moment Minho has won. “I thought university was supposed to be better than high school.”
“Nope,” Minho says cheerfully. “It’s just a more refined level of banging your head against walls.”
“Ugh,” Taemin moans, laying his comic down on his chest. Another point to Minho. “Remind me to not go when I’m done with school. I don’t want to have to do anything beside draw. That’s it. Draw and read comics.”
Minho drops his head onto the sofa beside Taemin, allowing himself to wish he was young again. In a strange way he misses the days when examinations were his biggest responsibility, when he could catch up on sleep missed on his desk from a night spent doing inane things like texting girls and reading comics.
Taemin is silent for a moment. “Yeah. I think I’ll just draw on streetcorners for a living.”
Past the musty odor of the couch there’s a sweet scent, a lingering aroma of Taemin and blue sky and… “You smell like pancakes,” Minho says, then blinks, unsure of how he managed to let that slip through his filter.
“Really?” Taemin laughs, bright as the colors he wears. “I made pancakes hours ago. I shouldn’t still smell like them.”
“I bet it’s in your skin.” He’s suddenly edging on a thin line, one he’s been carefully been avoiding toeing throughout the tens of hours he’s managed to spend with Taemin over the past two weeks. “You probably taste like a pancake too. If you smell like one still it’s got to be a part of who you are.”
“Absolutely not,” Taemin says, swatting at Minho’s head. “You’re pulling my leg. I don’t taste or smell like a pancake.”
This time Minho laughs, unable to not tease him. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that you smell like pancakes all the time. It’s not just right now…”
“I smell like shampoo,” Taemin says. He attempts to raise his eyebrow, stops when it fails miserably. “I think, at least. I know I don’t taste like pancakes though, seriously.” And to prove his point he licks his finger, and then Minho is teetering precariously on an edge of whether or not-because there’s Taemin’s skin right in front of him, taut across his hipbone, gapping tauntingly between his shorts and his shirt.
“Yep, just skin,” Taemin proclaims, then picks up his comic again. “I win.”
Minho is too close, so he leans in, carefully slides his tongue across the sliver of gold. Taemin is right-he’s warm and tastes of skin, scrubbed clean with soap and sun.
There’s a long, very pregnant silence in which Minho slowly leans back, aware that he’s accidentally stepped into territory that he wasn’t supposed to ever go into. He’s Taemin’s counselor and he’s six years older than him. And he’s just licked his hipbone and liked how Taemin tasted.
“Yeah,” Minho says, slowly standing up, throat dry. His jeans suddenly felt too tight, the neck of his white camp t-shirt too constricting. He needs to get away from Taemin now before he somehow manages to step further where he was never supposed to be in the first place.
Taemin’s confused. Minho can see it on his face, in how his long, thin fingers are clenched around his comic. “Listen, I’m sorry,” he says, stepping backward, kicking himself for not thinking and for getting too close. “That wasn’t good of me to do. I didn’t mean to. It…I…it just happened.”
“Minho?” Taemin sits up and gets off the couch, walks over to Minho. “It wasn’t bad of you. You don’t have to go. It’s gonna be really quiet here if you leave now.”
Then Taemin’s grasping at Minho’s shirt, pulling him closer. He’s stronger than he looks, or perhaps that’s just Minho not wanting to leave at all. Whatever the reason though, they’re suddenly closer than they’ve ever been before and Minho is finding out that Taemin is a full head shorter than him. He’s small and the perfect height to hold, and really, he’d just invited himself into the same territory that Minho had been trying to stay away from, so this was no longer just his fault. (He was getting quite good at lying, not just to other people but to himself as well.
“Yeah, well, that’s not a bad thing, really,” Minho says, but he’s already slipping his hand behind Taemin’s head and pulling him in closer.
Taemin’s kisses taste of pancakes and sugar-sweet syrup, and they’re as tempting and addictive as the taste of his skin. And with his breathy sighs against Minho’s mouth, the slip of his tongue and the imprints of his hands on Minho’s skin, his burning heat through the cotton of his shirt, they’re both stepping across the line.
There are still two weeks of lies left, beautiful and perfect.