fic: Boys That If You Had More Than One Life You Would Certainly (But Unfortunately...)
Title: Boys That If You Had More Than One Life You Would Certainly (But Unfortunately Your Days Are Numbered)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Taemin/Minho
Notes: Written for kpop_ficmix, remix of quid's firefly. Title modified from Italo Calvino's If on a winter's night a traveler. 3858w.
There are some indiscretions Minho can't afford.
The bouncer squinted at his ID, then peered deep into Minho’s eyes. Minho tried for his most winning smile, the one that landed him a year of toothpaste commercials and a drama contract before he’d even debuted, it was that good. He had faith in this smile. The bouncer, though, evidently did not, and it was with great reluctance that he lifted his muscle-roped arm to let him in.
Kibum got in with a jut of his chin and a move where he slid his sunglasses-never mind the fact that it was nearing eleven and pitch dark outside-down the bridge of his nose, looking haughty and 25, in a good way. He tucked the sunglasses in his shirt pocket when he got through, where Minho was waiting just at the mouth of the club, already feeling the slight tipsiness from the beer Kibum had made him shotgun before going out receding with every thump of bass.
A group of girls piled in next, one of them knocking into Kibum from behind.
“Sorry,” she yelled, though what they could hear of the music where they were wasn’t quite loud enough to warrant it. Her friend, dark-haired and bright-eyed, snickered, tugging at her elbow. “Hey, wait,” Minho could hear her saying as her friend lead her away. “I’m pretty sure that was SHINee’s-”
“You’re so drunk!” someone shrieked at her from the back of the pack. They all dissolved into giggles at that, and Minho winced, instinctively groping for a pair of sunglasses to slip on.
“Don’t worry,” Kibum said when he caught the edge of the grimace, taking Minho’s elbow. “Come on.”
It was harder not to worry, Minho thought, but he followed Kibum anyway. Someone stepped on his foot almost immediately and that was it, Minho was going to about-face and give up, but the grip Kibum had on his elbow was unforgiving. They made a pit stop at the bar, where the bartender’s eyes widened when she recognized Kibum, making her look all of the nineteen she probably was. All it took was a wink and a whisper to make her flush as red as her lipstick, and she was passing him a beer, hand poised over the tap as she looked at Minho, head tilted in a question.
“No thanks,” Minho tried to say, but Kibum got there before him, taking the beer and blowing her a kiss.
“Idiot,” Kibum said, voice low and clear in his ear despite the thrum of bass around them as he pushed Minho towards the far wall, nudging him with his shoulder so as not to spill the beer sloshing in his hands. “Who turns down free beer?”
I do, Minho wanted to argue, I have filming for Dream Team tomorrow afternoon. It had sounded fun when Kibum proposed the plan after dinner. Minho hadn’t been clubbing in a long time, and it was a rare free night for him and, coincidentally, Kibum. In retrospect, Kibum was probably the wrong person to go on this late-night excursion with, but at the time he’d made the most sense, knew the best way in and out of the dorms without getting caught. But then, suddenly, Minho was in too deep and Kibum was unstoppable when he put his mind to something. Currently that something was getting as fucked up and blissed out as possible-before curfew, or before they were supposed to wake up for their schedule the next morning, whichever came first.
“Open your mouth,” Kibum demanded, and rattled the pill case he’d taken out when Minho wasn’t looking under his nose. His upper lip was beer-slick, smudging the gloss their stylist had put on them earlier, as he pouted at him, leaning in.
“I’m not really,” Minho started, which gave Kibum just enough of an opening to shove a pill in his mouth. He almost choked biting into it, and then Kibum was laughing at him to swallow, passing him one of the plastic cups of beer.
“Swallow,” Kibum urged again, tipping the beer down his throat. Minho choked for real this time, but it did help with the chalky taste in his mouth, and he sucked down the beer. “There,” Kibum said with satisfaction, eyes bright despite the haze.
“What the fuck,” Minho was hissing before Kibum could look too pleased with himself. He crushed the plastic cup in his hand, making the girl texting next to them jump, expression on her face alarmed in the glow of her phone as she looked between the two of them. Kibum made a cheerful OK with his thumb and index finger at her behind Minho’s back. The smile she gave in return was uncertain, so Kibum grabbed Minho’s forearm, pulling them further into the shadows.
“Did you just give me-,” Minho whispered harshly, pitching his voice so Kibum can’t ignore him. “What the fuck, Kibum.”
When Kibum looked at him, his pupils were blown and rolling in that familiar, exasperated expression he always adopted around Minho. “Shut up,” he said lazily, “and loosen up. You’re twenty-one years old, Minho. Try to have some fun, alright? I’m going to get another drink.”
He gave Minho a quick shake, then slipped off before Minho could grab at him, the tail end of his artfully untucked shirt disappearing into the crush of bodies on the dance floor.
Minho let out an angry huff, stepping back against the wall. He tipped his head against it, ignoring the stickiness pulling at the short hairs on his nape. Already his stomach was revolting against the shitty beer he’d just poured into it, and he was pretty sure the pounding in his head was only thirty percent the fault of the music.
The party drugs, even recreational, were the worst of Kibum’s rebellious phases so far. They’re SM idols. Their legacy was alcoholism, depression, eventually a band breakup when they’re twenty-five, years left still to go on their contracts. Maybe a car crash somewhere in between or afterwards, a DUI at the very least. It wasn’t, to say the least, colorful pills stamped with dollar signs and artificial highs so different from the sluggish Sunday mornings Minho has spent in Hyukjae’s room, assorted collection of hyungs around him passing a joint back and forth. Their concept, SHINee’s concept, was contemporary by way of brightly colored jeans and upbeat pop-R&B, not nightclubs and a case full of pills Kibum bought off one of his many friends, who knows which, but certainly not any of the ones with whom Minho was also friends.
“Hey,” came a voice from around his shoulder. He looked down, surprised, eyes adjusting just enough to make sense of twin brown braids, clipped at the ends with glittery butterflies. “Aren’t you that guy in SHINee?”
His mouth was dry when he growled, “No.” He jammed down the stupid beanie Kibum had thrown at him at the last minute, clucking in disapproval as he’d looked up and down at Minho’s dark jeans and gray v-neck. Boring, he’d sing-songed, like an asshole, pulling at the brim of his own rhinestone-studded snapback.
Minho didn’t bother waiting for an answer before he pushed past her, head ducked.
*
An hour and a half later found Minho clinging to the bar like life support, grimly accepting the shots of whiskey the bartender had so thoughtfully lined up in front of him. He was reaching the point in the night when he could barely feel the burn of whiskey as he threw them back, but his mouth was parched, and at least the spinning in his head served somewhat as a distraction to the sweat dripping down his face. He was too hot; the room was too hot. His shirt was clinging to his back, and he could feel the sweat rings blooming below his armpits. He thought desperately of going to the bathroom and sticking his finger down his throat until he threw all the discomfort up. He was going to kill Kibum.
He was halfway through shot number four when something warm and bright haired crashed into his side.
“Minho,” Kibum shouted enthusiastically, winding an arm around his waist. He put his head on Minho’s shoulder, briefly, before drawing back. “Why are you so sweaty?” he asked, rubbing at the side of his face. And then, “Never mind. I want you to meet someone.”
I want you to fuck off and die, Minho thought but didn’t say. He contemplated throwing the next shot in Kibum’s face, then thought about throwing it in his own face. Maybe it’d help with the sweating.
“This is-” Kibum was saying, one hand shooting out to grab at an androgynous wrist. Whatever name he said next was unintelligible, drowned out as it was by the opening bars of the summer’s latest hit, courtesy of 4Minute. He was already turning away by the time Minho lifted his head a second too late, catching the aftermath of a laugh, a smudge of kohl.
“Nice to meet you,” Minho caught, just barely, before Kibum won the tug of war against the tide of the crowd and pulled him away. Minho got a better look this time, took in the slim hips, the hard line of his shoulders, the small, ineffectual auburn ponytail. Then the ponytail was gone, replaced by the soft lines of a remarkable mouth and a pair of eyes blinking wildly before they anchored to Minho’s.
He winked, and Minho felt it deep in the pit of his stomach, the jolt of desire catching him right where he was vulnerable. Minho was no sucker for pretty faces-there was no way he could be, in his line of business-but Kibum had always had a good eye. He had to admit, the wink left him a little breathless.
He managed to stop looking, but just barely. Groping around on the bar behind him, he threw back the first shot he could get his hands on, only to find it empty. His new best friend the bartender helpfully switched it out for a full one.
“Thank you,” he told her, dazed.
*
“Wow,” Kibum said cheerfully, his bony shoulder digging into Minho’s as he propped him up. One would’ve thought being outdoors would be some relief, but the waves of lazy, rolling heat did nothing for the swimming in his head. “You’re really fucked up.”
Minho’s head was swimming. Kibum was doing something awful to him-he was moving, that’s what he was doing. Lifting his head blearily, Minho sorted through what Kibum just said to him. “You’re really fucked up,” he finally muttered, lifting a sleeve to dry-heave into it.
Kibum, of all things, gave him a pat on the head. “There, there,” he cooed, adopting the sickly sweet twinge that shot a shiver right down Minho’s spine.
The cab Kibum called came just in time for Minho to take the path of mercy and vomit in the gutter instead of on his asshole bandmate’s shoes.
*
Two nights later, Minho remembered to ask.
“Hey,” Minho said, reaching out to snag at Kibum’s sleeve dangling above him. He was sprawled out on the floor on his back, game controller on his chest within reach of his chin. Kibum was facedown on the couch above him, letting the running alarm clock manager-hyung got during Jinki’s last musical circuit motor its way down the length of his spine. He had quite a system going on-by the time it’d chugged its way to the edge of his low-slung jeans, Kibum would reach back to turn it around, and then wait until it’d reached the top knob of his spine before doing it again. His sleeve kept brushing Minho’s forehead on the upswing and Minho gave up on FIFA two losses to Chelsea ago to watch the hilarious process.
“Yeah,” came Kibum’s muffled reply. “Hey, could you turn it around for me? My arm’s tired.”
Minho picked up the clock, letting its wheels whirr in midair before dropping it back down on Kibum’s back. Kibum let out a borderline obscene moan. “What was the name?” Minho asked, tapping a finger absentmindedly on Kibum’s back. “Of your friend at the club?”
“My friend?” Kibum asked blankly, lifting his head an inch.
“Your friend,” Minho agreed. He held a hand up to the back of his head. “You know, with the, with the-tiny ponytail.”
Kibum turned to stare at him at that, letting the alarm clock take a nosedive off the bony cliff of his ass. It hit the hardwood floor with an indignant squeak, before disappearing under the coffee table. “The tiny ponytail,” he repeated, mouth rounding with the effort of not laughing.
Minho fidgeted under the scrutiny of Kibum’s look. He’d never been good at being coy. Among other things, it was what made him an awful actor.
“I’m not telling you,” Kibum finally said, scooting up on his knees. He pulled his shirt down where it’d bunched up around his ribs, expression thoughtful. Minho just resisted shoving him, rolling his eyes instead. A grin spread slow and wicked across Kibum’s face, and he reached out a hand to touch Minho’s shoulder. “Hey, Minho,” he said, showing his teeth. “Wanna go out tonight?”
*
Minho was in the bathroom at the back of the club, which was surprisingly nice. He’d give this bathroom a solid seven, recommend it to a friend. He’d only had to step around one guy, barely conscious against the wall, on his way in. When Minho put a hand on his shoulder, he’d cracked an eye open, which was just enough sign of life for Minho.
The bathroom was blissfully quiet compared to the club, and Minho took a long, luxurious leak in the stall, shaking himself dry. He was stepping out, hands held out in front of him, when he noticed that, sometime during his self-indulgent pee, someone had slipped in, hovering over the sink.
The auburn hair was familiar; the metallic jacket was not. Neither was the bracelet he was adjusting on his wrist, which, if Minho squinted, looked an awful lot like rosary beads.
“Uh,” Minho managed, voice sticking.
The boy smiled, meeting Minho’s gaze in the mirror. He turned the faucet off with a flourish, backing away. He curled his wrists, as if to say, all yours.
“Uh, thanks.” Minho stepped around him, unable, suddenly, to look him full on. He nudged the faucet on again, pumped furiously at the chemical-pink soap dispenser, before he remembered. “Wait, what’s-”
His sentence, however he might have finished it, was swallowed by the music that curled into the bathroom. The door swung shut behind the metallic jacket, the jaunty, tiny ponytail waving a cheeky goodbye. Minho stared down at his hands, the stale smell of soap suddenly filling the room.
“Fuck this,” he said out loud. It took him half the towels in the stack to dry his hands, and then he was shouldering the door open, only to come nose-to-nose with the owner of that alluring ponytail. The guy who’d been slumped against the wall earlier was gone; Minho spent a fleeting second hoping he got home okay.
“Hi,” the boy in front of him said, teeth straight and white against the dark purple of the walls when he smiled at Minho, who gaped at him, probably unattractively. “Lee Taemin.”
“Lee Taemin,” Minho repeated, sounding out the syllables. He pulled himself together, then flashed him his best toothpaste smile, the one that (as legend had it) felled a thousand noonas. “I’m Minho.”
The wry twist of Taemin’s mouth alone was enough to send an unfamiliar desire careening down Minho’s throat. “I know,” he said, and the frankness was all Minho needed; he was stepping forward, crowding Taemin against the wall.
“Do you?” he murmured, not quite knowing what he was saying as he ran his hands up and down Taemin’s arms, bunching the fabric.
“Yeah,” Taemin said, the turn of his mouth bright and mischievous. “You going to kiss me or what?” He fisted one hand in the front of Minho’s shirt, and closed the distance.
*
Minho woke up in the middle of the night, head pounding and mouth parched. He groaned, fisting a hand in his sheets as he pulled them to his face. There was someone else in bed with him, he realized, freezing. The last thing he remembered-the last thing he remembered was falling into the cab, someone’s insistent, thin hands cold under his shirt as they took the roundabout way into the apartment, avoiding the saesang fans camped out on the main street. There might have been more than a few drinks at the club before that, and Taemin’s insistent tongue against his teeth before that.
His stomach lurched, both from panic and from alcohol. He was never this careless; none of them were. They were healthy young men in their twenties. No one expected celibacy from them, just sense, and integrity that came with their choice of career. Even Jonghyun, when he was with Sekyung, was only allowed on dates that went through so much company red tape he had to schedule them weeks in advance. They were well-behaved to a fault, Kibum’s rebellious phases-and even those were cute, nonthreatening, typical-notwithstanding. It was their charm point.
Maybe it was Kibum in bed with him. Their friendship wasn’t like that, and Kibum had never been so drunk that he’d gotten into bed with Minho, but anything was better than the alternative. Minho screwed his eyes shut, hunching in on himself. On his other side, hopefully-Kibum slept on. Please, Minho thought suddenly, fervently.
“Kibum?” he asked quietly, turning his head.
It wasn’t him. The first thing he registered was the russet brown, the second thing the sharp elbow that dug into his side as he tried to turn. It was Taemin, mouth slightly open as he slept, and as Minho’s eyes adjusted to the familiar darkness of his room, zeroing in on the fading acne scars on Taemin’s chin, he realized for the first time how young Taemin must be.
“Fuck,” he mouthed. And then, louder: “Fuck.”
*
Taemin was wearing a leather jacket, loose-fitted. There was a pack of cigarettes peeking out from the left pocket, but no lighter. Minho wasn’t sure if the jacket was actually his. He thought he might’ve remembered something silver, kind of metallic, but then again, what did it matter? With the cut he was sure to receive from Minho’s next paycheck, Taemin could buy himself a hundred replacement metallic jackets.
Their manager had been furious in a way Minho had never seen before when Minho shook him awake at five in the morning, wild-eyed and ashamed. He’d stammered his way through the beginnings of three different explanations, even though Jin-hyung had out and was pulling on a hoodie by the second. Minho had just worked his way up to an apology when Jin-hyung pushed past him towards his bedroom.
Jonghyun wandered out into the hallway thirty minutes later, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. He had a recording for an OST at six and hated it, which they all knew in intimate detail because he’d been complaining about it since he received the assignment two weeks prior. He stopped when he saw Minho on the couch, head in his hands, completely still.
“Minho?” he asked, and Minho didn’t have to look up to see the curious head tilt. “I didn’t know you had recording too.”
Minho raised his head, just as the door to his bedroom opened with a polite creak. Jonghyun’s head swiveled to look behind him, and Minho could see his mouth fall open as he caught sight of Jin-hyung, harried and crossed-looking, his hand firm on Taemin’s leather-clad elbow. Whatever product Taemin had put in his hair was making it lie flat on one side, and there was something purpling underneath the collar of his jacket. Taemin in the weak sunlight just peeking over the horizon looked particularly young and debauched. His mouth thin and his face turned away from Minho’s, he looked like a scandal waiting to happen.
“Thank you for your understanding, Taemin-sshi,” Jin-hyung said stiffly. “I will be in contact shortly regarding our agreement.”
Taemin, to his credit, lifted his bony chin, the bruise on his neck proud. There was something clinical about his dignity, and he pulled on his shoes with a self-profession Minho had no choice but to admire. He nodded once, tightly, at Jin-hyung, and then again at Jonghyun, whose mouth was still open.
When he looked at Minho, there was something in his eyes that increased Minho’s shame tenfold. The anger, he understood-the bitterness, too. There was more indignity ahead to be had for Taemin. He would be escorted to the back exit by Jin-hyung, where he would then be delivered to an SM security agent. What was sure to follow was a day of contracts, negotiations, and dry handshakes, legalese that Minho had never paid much attention to, sure that it would never be him. It was the pity, and the possibility that Minho shied away from, the gentleness that caged him and made him feel hunted.
*
The sky was startlingly clear for a summer morning, the ledge of their balcony damp from the early-morning condensation. Minho was on temporary house arrest, and Kibum’s next schedule wasn’t for another two hours.
“I’d thought I’d seen you,” Kibum said hesitantly. He was leaning on the balcony, looking away from Minho when he continued. “In the club. With Taeminnie, I mean.”
Despite the extreme unfunniness of the situation, Minho laughed anyway, shifting so Kibum could hear him. It came out sounding a little hollow. “Taeminnie,” he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I didn’t know you were friends like that.”
“I didn’t know you were-like that,” Kibum snapped back immediately, gaze sliding to glare at Minho. He tried again, a bit softer. “I thought you wanted it all, you know, the whole deal. Kisses goodnight, boring dates, and I love yous, some nice, normal girl you could settle down and have freakishly tall and good-looking children with.”
“So you admit I’m good-looking,” Minho finally said. It was weak, but he appreciated Kibum’s laugh anyway. “I just,” he said, fishing around for an excuse. The truth, when it hit him, was so simple he wanted to laugh, too. “I wanted him.”
He pushed his palms into his eyes, picturing Taemin. Hair dark with sweat, eyes dark with something less tangible, he was leaning against the wall just outside the bathroom after pulling away from the most chaste kiss Minho’s ever received. He was watching Minho draw closer, watching specifically the hand Minho had at his chest, as if this way, he could keep there the ghost of Taemin’s.
The desire had its grip tight around Minho’s stomach. He approached Taemin like a man possessed, uncaring, for once, if anyone was watching. When he reached Taemin, he thought he heard Taemin murmur something, well-meaning, but just a formality. Yes or no? soft against his mouth, and then Minho’s answer, or maybe encouragement: yes, yes, yes.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Taemin/Minho
Notes: Written for kpop_ficmix, remix of quid's firefly. Title modified from Italo Calvino's If on a winter's night a traveler. 3858w.
There are some indiscretions Minho can't afford.
The bouncer squinted at his ID, then peered deep into Minho’s eyes. Minho tried for his most winning smile, the one that landed him a year of toothpaste commercials and a drama contract before he’d even debuted, it was that good. He had faith in this smile. The bouncer, though, evidently did not, and it was with great reluctance that he lifted his muscle-roped arm to let him in.
Kibum got in with a jut of his chin and a move where he slid his sunglasses-never mind the fact that it was nearing eleven and pitch dark outside-down the bridge of his nose, looking haughty and 25, in a good way. He tucked the sunglasses in his shirt pocket when he got through, where Minho was waiting just at the mouth of the club, already feeling the slight tipsiness from the beer Kibum had made him shotgun before going out receding with every thump of bass.
A group of girls piled in next, one of them knocking into Kibum from behind.
“Sorry,” she yelled, though what they could hear of the music where they were wasn’t quite loud enough to warrant it. Her friend, dark-haired and bright-eyed, snickered, tugging at her elbow. “Hey, wait,” Minho could hear her saying as her friend lead her away. “I’m pretty sure that was SHINee’s-”
“You’re so drunk!” someone shrieked at her from the back of the pack. They all dissolved into giggles at that, and Minho winced, instinctively groping for a pair of sunglasses to slip on.
“Don’t worry,” Kibum said when he caught the edge of the grimace, taking Minho’s elbow. “Come on.”
It was harder not to worry, Minho thought, but he followed Kibum anyway. Someone stepped on his foot almost immediately and that was it, Minho was going to about-face and give up, but the grip Kibum had on his elbow was unforgiving. They made a pit stop at the bar, where the bartender’s eyes widened when she recognized Kibum, making her look all of the nineteen she probably was. All it took was a wink and a whisper to make her flush as red as her lipstick, and she was passing him a beer, hand poised over the tap as she looked at Minho, head tilted in a question.
“No thanks,” Minho tried to say, but Kibum got there before him, taking the beer and blowing her a kiss.
“Idiot,” Kibum said, voice low and clear in his ear despite the thrum of bass around them as he pushed Minho towards the far wall, nudging him with his shoulder so as not to spill the beer sloshing in his hands. “Who turns down free beer?”
I do, Minho wanted to argue, I have filming for Dream Team tomorrow afternoon. It had sounded fun when Kibum proposed the plan after dinner. Minho hadn’t been clubbing in a long time, and it was a rare free night for him and, coincidentally, Kibum. In retrospect, Kibum was probably the wrong person to go on this late-night excursion with, but at the time he’d made the most sense, knew the best way in and out of the dorms without getting caught. But then, suddenly, Minho was in too deep and Kibum was unstoppable when he put his mind to something. Currently that something was getting as fucked up and blissed out as possible-before curfew, or before they were supposed to wake up for their schedule the next morning, whichever came first.
“Open your mouth,” Kibum demanded, and rattled the pill case he’d taken out when Minho wasn’t looking under his nose. His upper lip was beer-slick, smudging the gloss their stylist had put on them earlier, as he pouted at him, leaning in.
“I’m not really,” Minho started, which gave Kibum just enough of an opening to shove a pill in his mouth. He almost choked biting into it, and then Kibum was laughing at him to swallow, passing him one of the plastic cups of beer.
“Swallow,” Kibum urged again, tipping the beer down his throat. Minho choked for real this time, but it did help with the chalky taste in his mouth, and he sucked down the beer. “There,” Kibum said with satisfaction, eyes bright despite the haze.
“What the fuck,” Minho was hissing before Kibum could look too pleased with himself. He crushed the plastic cup in his hand, making the girl texting next to them jump, expression on her face alarmed in the glow of her phone as she looked between the two of them. Kibum made a cheerful OK with his thumb and index finger at her behind Minho’s back. The smile she gave in return was uncertain, so Kibum grabbed Minho’s forearm, pulling them further into the shadows.
“Did you just give me-,” Minho whispered harshly, pitching his voice so Kibum can’t ignore him. “What the fuck, Kibum.”
When Kibum looked at him, his pupils were blown and rolling in that familiar, exasperated expression he always adopted around Minho. “Shut up,” he said lazily, “and loosen up. You’re twenty-one years old, Minho. Try to have some fun, alright? I’m going to get another drink.”
He gave Minho a quick shake, then slipped off before Minho could grab at him, the tail end of his artfully untucked shirt disappearing into the crush of bodies on the dance floor.
Minho let out an angry huff, stepping back against the wall. He tipped his head against it, ignoring the stickiness pulling at the short hairs on his nape. Already his stomach was revolting against the shitty beer he’d just poured into it, and he was pretty sure the pounding in his head was only thirty percent the fault of the music.
The party drugs, even recreational, were the worst of Kibum’s rebellious phases so far. They’re SM idols. Their legacy was alcoholism, depression, eventually a band breakup when they’re twenty-five, years left still to go on their contracts. Maybe a car crash somewhere in between or afterwards, a DUI at the very least. It wasn’t, to say the least, colorful pills stamped with dollar signs and artificial highs so different from the sluggish Sunday mornings Minho has spent in Hyukjae’s room, assorted collection of hyungs around him passing a joint back and forth. Their concept, SHINee’s concept, was contemporary by way of brightly colored jeans and upbeat pop-R&B, not nightclubs and a case full of pills Kibum bought off one of his many friends, who knows which, but certainly not any of the ones with whom Minho was also friends.
“Hey,” came a voice from around his shoulder. He looked down, surprised, eyes adjusting just enough to make sense of twin brown braids, clipped at the ends with glittery butterflies. “Aren’t you that guy in SHINee?”
His mouth was dry when he growled, “No.” He jammed down the stupid beanie Kibum had thrown at him at the last minute, clucking in disapproval as he’d looked up and down at Minho’s dark jeans and gray v-neck. Boring, he’d sing-songed, like an asshole, pulling at the brim of his own rhinestone-studded snapback.
Minho didn’t bother waiting for an answer before he pushed past her, head ducked.
*
An hour and a half later found Minho clinging to the bar like life support, grimly accepting the shots of whiskey the bartender had so thoughtfully lined up in front of him. He was reaching the point in the night when he could barely feel the burn of whiskey as he threw them back, but his mouth was parched, and at least the spinning in his head served somewhat as a distraction to the sweat dripping down his face. He was too hot; the room was too hot. His shirt was clinging to his back, and he could feel the sweat rings blooming below his armpits. He thought desperately of going to the bathroom and sticking his finger down his throat until he threw all the discomfort up. He was going to kill Kibum.
He was halfway through shot number four when something warm and bright haired crashed into his side.
“Minho,” Kibum shouted enthusiastically, winding an arm around his waist. He put his head on Minho’s shoulder, briefly, before drawing back. “Why are you so sweaty?” he asked, rubbing at the side of his face. And then, “Never mind. I want you to meet someone.”
I want you to fuck off and die, Minho thought but didn’t say. He contemplated throwing the next shot in Kibum’s face, then thought about throwing it in his own face. Maybe it’d help with the sweating.
“This is-” Kibum was saying, one hand shooting out to grab at an androgynous wrist. Whatever name he said next was unintelligible, drowned out as it was by the opening bars of the summer’s latest hit, courtesy of 4Minute. He was already turning away by the time Minho lifted his head a second too late, catching the aftermath of a laugh, a smudge of kohl.
“Nice to meet you,” Minho caught, just barely, before Kibum won the tug of war against the tide of the crowd and pulled him away. Minho got a better look this time, took in the slim hips, the hard line of his shoulders, the small, ineffectual auburn ponytail. Then the ponytail was gone, replaced by the soft lines of a remarkable mouth and a pair of eyes blinking wildly before they anchored to Minho’s.
He winked, and Minho felt it deep in the pit of his stomach, the jolt of desire catching him right where he was vulnerable. Minho was no sucker for pretty faces-there was no way he could be, in his line of business-but Kibum had always had a good eye. He had to admit, the wink left him a little breathless.
He managed to stop looking, but just barely. Groping around on the bar behind him, he threw back the first shot he could get his hands on, only to find it empty. His new best friend the bartender helpfully switched it out for a full one.
“Thank you,” he told her, dazed.
*
“Wow,” Kibum said cheerfully, his bony shoulder digging into Minho’s as he propped him up. One would’ve thought being outdoors would be some relief, but the waves of lazy, rolling heat did nothing for the swimming in his head. “You’re really fucked up.”
Minho’s head was swimming. Kibum was doing something awful to him-he was moving, that’s what he was doing. Lifting his head blearily, Minho sorted through what Kibum just said to him. “You’re really fucked up,” he finally muttered, lifting a sleeve to dry-heave into it.
Kibum, of all things, gave him a pat on the head. “There, there,” he cooed, adopting the sickly sweet twinge that shot a shiver right down Minho’s spine.
The cab Kibum called came just in time for Minho to take the path of mercy and vomit in the gutter instead of on his asshole bandmate’s shoes.
*
Two nights later, Minho remembered to ask.
“Hey,” Minho said, reaching out to snag at Kibum’s sleeve dangling above him. He was sprawled out on the floor on his back, game controller on his chest within reach of his chin. Kibum was facedown on the couch above him, letting the running alarm clock manager-hyung got during Jinki’s last musical circuit motor its way down the length of his spine. He had quite a system going on-by the time it’d chugged its way to the edge of his low-slung jeans, Kibum would reach back to turn it around, and then wait until it’d reached the top knob of his spine before doing it again. His sleeve kept brushing Minho’s forehead on the upswing and Minho gave up on FIFA two losses to Chelsea ago to watch the hilarious process.
“Yeah,” came Kibum’s muffled reply. “Hey, could you turn it around for me? My arm’s tired.”
Minho picked up the clock, letting its wheels whirr in midair before dropping it back down on Kibum’s back. Kibum let out a borderline obscene moan. “What was the name?” Minho asked, tapping a finger absentmindedly on Kibum’s back. “Of your friend at the club?”
“My friend?” Kibum asked blankly, lifting his head an inch.
“Your friend,” Minho agreed. He held a hand up to the back of his head. “You know, with the, with the-tiny ponytail.”
Kibum turned to stare at him at that, letting the alarm clock take a nosedive off the bony cliff of his ass. It hit the hardwood floor with an indignant squeak, before disappearing under the coffee table. “The tiny ponytail,” he repeated, mouth rounding with the effort of not laughing.
Minho fidgeted under the scrutiny of Kibum’s look. He’d never been good at being coy. Among other things, it was what made him an awful actor.
“I’m not telling you,” Kibum finally said, scooting up on his knees. He pulled his shirt down where it’d bunched up around his ribs, expression thoughtful. Minho just resisted shoving him, rolling his eyes instead. A grin spread slow and wicked across Kibum’s face, and he reached out a hand to touch Minho’s shoulder. “Hey, Minho,” he said, showing his teeth. “Wanna go out tonight?”
*
Minho was in the bathroom at the back of the club, which was surprisingly nice. He’d give this bathroom a solid seven, recommend it to a friend. He’d only had to step around one guy, barely conscious against the wall, on his way in. When Minho put a hand on his shoulder, he’d cracked an eye open, which was just enough sign of life for Minho.
The bathroom was blissfully quiet compared to the club, and Minho took a long, luxurious leak in the stall, shaking himself dry. He was stepping out, hands held out in front of him, when he noticed that, sometime during his self-indulgent pee, someone had slipped in, hovering over the sink.
The auburn hair was familiar; the metallic jacket was not. Neither was the bracelet he was adjusting on his wrist, which, if Minho squinted, looked an awful lot like rosary beads.
“Uh,” Minho managed, voice sticking.
The boy smiled, meeting Minho’s gaze in the mirror. He turned the faucet off with a flourish, backing away. He curled his wrists, as if to say, all yours.
“Uh, thanks.” Minho stepped around him, unable, suddenly, to look him full on. He nudged the faucet on again, pumped furiously at the chemical-pink soap dispenser, before he remembered. “Wait, what’s-”
His sentence, however he might have finished it, was swallowed by the music that curled into the bathroom. The door swung shut behind the metallic jacket, the jaunty, tiny ponytail waving a cheeky goodbye. Minho stared down at his hands, the stale smell of soap suddenly filling the room.
“Fuck this,” he said out loud. It took him half the towels in the stack to dry his hands, and then he was shouldering the door open, only to come nose-to-nose with the owner of that alluring ponytail. The guy who’d been slumped against the wall earlier was gone; Minho spent a fleeting second hoping he got home okay.
“Hi,” the boy in front of him said, teeth straight and white against the dark purple of the walls when he smiled at Minho, who gaped at him, probably unattractively. “Lee Taemin.”
“Lee Taemin,” Minho repeated, sounding out the syllables. He pulled himself together, then flashed him his best toothpaste smile, the one that (as legend had it) felled a thousand noonas. “I’m Minho.”
The wry twist of Taemin’s mouth alone was enough to send an unfamiliar desire careening down Minho’s throat. “I know,” he said, and the frankness was all Minho needed; he was stepping forward, crowding Taemin against the wall.
“Do you?” he murmured, not quite knowing what he was saying as he ran his hands up and down Taemin’s arms, bunching the fabric.
“Yeah,” Taemin said, the turn of his mouth bright and mischievous. “You going to kiss me or what?” He fisted one hand in the front of Minho’s shirt, and closed the distance.
*
Minho woke up in the middle of the night, head pounding and mouth parched. He groaned, fisting a hand in his sheets as he pulled them to his face. There was someone else in bed with him, he realized, freezing. The last thing he remembered-the last thing he remembered was falling into the cab, someone’s insistent, thin hands cold under his shirt as they took the roundabout way into the apartment, avoiding the saesang fans camped out on the main street. There might have been more than a few drinks at the club before that, and Taemin’s insistent tongue against his teeth before that.
His stomach lurched, both from panic and from alcohol. He was never this careless; none of them were. They were healthy young men in their twenties. No one expected celibacy from them, just sense, and integrity that came with their choice of career. Even Jonghyun, when he was with Sekyung, was only allowed on dates that went through so much company red tape he had to schedule them weeks in advance. They were well-behaved to a fault, Kibum’s rebellious phases-and even those were cute, nonthreatening, typical-notwithstanding. It was their charm point.
Maybe it was Kibum in bed with him. Their friendship wasn’t like that, and Kibum had never been so drunk that he’d gotten into bed with Minho, but anything was better than the alternative. Minho screwed his eyes shut, hunching in on himself. On his other side, hopefully-Kibum slept on. Please, Minho thought suddenly, fervently.
“Kibum?” he asked quietly, turning his head.
It wasn’t him. The first thing he registered was the russet brown, the second thing the sharp elbow that dug into his side as he tried to turn. It was Taemin, mouth slightly open as he slept, and as Minho’s eyes adjusted to the familiar darkness of his room, zeroing in on the fading acne scars on Taemin’s chin, he realized for the first time how young Taemin must be.
“Fuck,” he mouthed. And then, louder: “Fuck.”
*
Taemin was wearing a leather jacket, loose-fitted. There was a pack of cigarettes peeking out from the left pocket, but no lighter. Minho wasn’t sure if the jacket was actually his. He thought he might’ve remembered something silver, kind of metallic, but then again, what did it matter? With the cut he was sure to receive from Minho’s next paycheck, Taemin could buy himself a hundred replacement metallic jackets.
Their manager had been furious in a way Minho had never seen before when Minho shook him awake at five in the morning, wild-eyed and ashamed. He’d stammered his way through the beginnings of three different explanations, even though Jin-hyung had out and was pulling on a hoodie by the second. Minho had just worked his way up to an apology when Jin-hyung pushed past him towards his bedroom.
Jonghyun wandered out into the hallway thirty minutes later, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. He had a recording for an OST at six and hated it, which they all knew in intimate detail because he’d been complaining about it since he received the assignment two weeks prior. He stopped when he saw Minho on the couch, head in his hands, completely still.
“Minho?” he asked, and Minho didn’t have to look up to see the curious head tilt. “I didn’t know you had recording too.”
Minho raised his head, just as the door to his bedroom opened with a polite creak. Jonghyun’s head swiveled to look behind him, and Minho could see his mouth fall open as he caught sight of Jin-hyung, harried and crossed-looking, his hand firm on Taemin’s leather-clad elbow. Whatever product Taemin had put in his hair was making it lie flat on one side, and there was something purpling underneath the collar of his jacket. Taemin in the weak sunlight just peeking over the horizon looked particularly young and debauched. His mouth thin and his face turned away from Minho’s, he looked like a scandal waiting to happen.
“Thank you for your understanding, Taemin-sshi,” Jin-hyung said stiffly. “I will be in contact shortly regarding our agreement.”
Taemin, to his credit, lifted his bony chin, the bruise on his neck proud. There was something clinical about his dignity, and he pulled on his shoes with a self-profession Minho had no choice but to admire. He nodded once, tightly, at Jin-hyung, and then again at Jonghyun, whose mouth was still open.
When he looked at Minho, there was something in his eyes that increased Minho’s shame tenfold. The anger, he understood-the bitterness, too. There was more indignity ahead to be had for Taemin. He would be escorted to the back exit by Jin-hyung, where he would then be delivered to an SM security agent. What was sure to follow was a day of contracts, negotiations, and dry handshakes, legalese that Minho had never paid much attention to, sure that it would never be him. It was the pity, and the possibility that Minho shied away from, the gentleness that caged him and made him feel hunted.
*
The sky was startlingly clear for a summer morning, the ledge of their balcony damp from the early-morning condensation. Minho was on temporary house arrest, and Kibum’s next schedule wasn’t for another two hours.
“I’d thought I’d seen you,” Kibum said hesitantly. He was leaning on the balcony, looking away from Minho when he continued. “In the club. With Taeminnie, I mean.”
Despite the extreme unfunniness of the situation, Minho laughed anyway, shifting so Kibum could hear him. It came out sounding a little hollow. “Taeminnie,” he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I didn’t know you were friends like that.”
“I didn’t know you were-like that,” Kibum snapped back immediately, gaze sliding to glare at Minho. He tried again, a bit softer. “I thought you wanted it all, you know, the whole deal. Kisses goodnight, boring dates, and I love yous, some nice, normal girl you could settle down and have freakishly tall and good-looking children with.”
“So you admit I’m good-looking,” Minho finally said. It was weak, but he appreciated Kibum’s laugh anyway. “I just,” he said, fishing around for an excuse. The truth, when it hit him, was so simple he wanted to laugh, too. “I wanted him.”
He pushed his palms into his eyes, picturing Taemin. Hair dark with sweat, eyes dark with something less tangible, he was leaning against the wall just outside the bathroom after pulling away from the most chaste kiss Minho’s ever received. He was watching Minho draw closer, watching specifically the hand Minho had at his chest, as if this way, he could keep there the ghost of Taemin’s.
The desire had its grip tight around Minho’s stomach. He approached Taemin like a man possessed, uncaring, for once, if anyone was watching. When he reached Taemin, he thought he heard Taemin murmur something, well-meaning, but just a formality. Yes or no? soft against his mouth, and then Minho’s answer, or maybe encouragement: yes, yes, yes.