SSS 2012: For lemon_skies
For: lemon_skies
From: Your Secret Santa
Title: Tit for Tat
Pairing: Minho/Key
Rating: R
Warnings: Drugs, violence, language
Authors’ Notes: 3069 words. crime!AU, where Minho is trying to work his way up through the ranks and Kibum is his golden ticket.
It all started because Kibum was too stupid to take the right glass.
Minho wasn't sure where this kid had grown up--or, on second review, if he even had. Kim Kibum was known around town for being one of the most difficult, hard-to-please, spoiled little brats in the underground scene, and it didn't take a genius to figure out why: Kim Kibum had always gotten everything he'd wanted, so packed full of his father's drug money that if he toppled over the edge of a building, all the bills would simply soften his fall. Minho didn't know what it felt like to be that way. He didn't know what it was like to not have a care in the world. To not have to worry. To never be looking over your shoulder for when the deal you arranged went bad and your fingers were asked for in repentance. (Although, for the record, he'd never lost a single digit. Work was serious to Minho. He always went in with his bases covered.)
So maybe he was a little bitter or maybe he just wanted a promotion. He was tired of having to deal; he was tired of having to arrange his schedule just to fit drug drops, to spend hours meticulously counting cash for pick up. He wasn't a user himself, so being so intimately involved with the back and forth of the trade held no allure to him. It was good money--which was why he'd gotten into it in the first place. Still, there was better money to be had in the upper ranks, in managing people, organizing, putting everything together. Minho thought he'd be better suited for it. The Boss told him he had to earn it.
Kim Kibum, this kid's father apparently wasn't gifted with as much brains as cash, because he got greedy. Instead of sticking to the outlines of distribution that had been drawn up years ago, Kim Kibum's stupid prick of a father decided that it was worth his time and money to try to expand his operation. He started swallowing up smaller groups, soaking up their land and product, only to move onto the next. If he had his way, surely he would be the only dealer in this part of Seoul. But he'd overstepped his boundaries. Minho wasn't a big fan of people who took more than they deserved. Was there even a person that deserved to take other people's livelihood away? Why was it so hard to be happy with what you had?
Not that Minho wasn't just as guilty of the same thoughts. If only I had a bit more money, he used to tell himself, as he paid hospital bills. If only I had a bit more for this, he'd say as he shook his head, looking at new clothes. Sports equipment. Cell phones. Computers. If only there was a way to have just a little more...Just a little more....
It was called New Haven--a trendy little club that had gotten more and more activity as the word of the underground gambling ring beneath it went around. Young girls came to party or make a little cash on the side, guys came to drink and browse product, and men came for the adrenaline that accompanied high risk behavior downstairs. One of the higher ups, just a level or two above Minho, was the owner now, after the last one was knifed down by an angry customer. Minho didn't envy the guy that had to fill his shoes. After all, as his eyes scanned around the room, keen to the movements of other people, he realized that the real gamble was in running the place. Clubs, like people, were so unpredictable. It was easy to run into the wrong groups and get the operation tanked. For a split second, Minho reveled in the fact that he wasn't burdened with that sort of responsibility. Still, he was there for a reason, and it would be just as detrimental to him if he came out with nothing to show for it.
Kim Kibum, in all of his prissy pride, had taken up a fondness for New Haven. Maybe it was the fact that it played nonstop techno or maybe it was the fact that the drinks always had more liquor than mixer. Either way, he'd been showing his face around the dance floor for about three weeks now. Minho had been following him. Surprisingly, stalking a target was much akin to following a drug supply. Check to see that it makes its drop points, check the times the drops happen, re-check the next day in confirmation. After all, to Minho, Kim Kibum was not a person. He was a product. He was the way that Minho was going to advance in this business. He was the way that Minho was going to have the money to afford to live the way that he should be able to live, not forced to pinch pennies because his own father had gotten their house repossessed and stuck his mother in the hospital. Kim Kibum was just a ticket out of this life.
Maybe he was feeling particularly vicious as he finished off his second drink. He was a vodka guy, straight up, with or without ice. Something about the cool burn of the liquor down his throat always made him feel more suave, like he was capable of anything. Sometimes he actually believed he was capable of anything. Kidnapping someone, well, that required very little skill at all. As long as he got the kid to where he'd agreed to get him, without much damage, he'd consider it a job well done. It didn't matter to him what Kim Kibum's life was like, if he was going to school, if there were things he'd be missing. A girlfriend, maybe? Or even just a pet at home. Minho didn't really give a fuck about anything that Kim Kibum would be missing, because the point wasn't him, it was his father. Because the ransom for such a precious son should be enough to teach the idiot not to be greedy. Because the ransom would have a cut percentage for Minho. Because this was the way you advanced in the business.
Of course, getting to that point was easier said than done.
"Another round," Minho asked of the bartender, his elbows up on the fake marble. In the back of the bar, reflected to him through the faces of countless bottles, were the fluorescent lights of the club, which blinked red and green and purple and flashed with the soar of an overhead light, pounding through with the bass from the stereo. Sighing, Minho's long fingers lifted to press up against his temples. The sound was going to give him a headache before he even made it out of there. He wasn't much for dancing, and he preferred less bass heavy remixes than the ones they were playing that night. Still, everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves. That was good for business. His fingertips pinched the bridge of his nose.
When his hand fell, Minho was face to face with his new drink. "Thank you," he said softly. The bartender knew not to charge him. The ice clunked against his glass, and as he lifted it, he scanned the crowd again, looking for the familiar face he'd been tracking out there. Kim Kibum had been dressed in his typical avant garde fashion; a pair of jeans that were practically painted on and done up in that terrible acid wash style that Minho hated, and an oversized black shirt sprayed in glitter to look like the face of a tiger, accented here and there with random buttons and pins. Minho had winced at the sight, but after tailing Kibum for so long, his fashion sense was of little question. Sometimes Minho figured that the kid just threw on whatever clothes he found, in the dark, and tried to make some kind of sense out of all of it. For Minho, his style was more understated; even that night, he was dressed casual, a pair of jeans and a crisp button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. As he took another sip, he realized, quite acutely, that Kim Kibum, who had been jumping up to the beat of some high-pitched dubstep remix only seconds ago, was nowhere to be found. Immediately, Minho shot up on his stool.
A quick turn of his head, and Minho's eyes were scanning every inch of the club, perusing through the crowds, the couples standing off to the side, the men making fools of themselves at tables with pretty women. When his gaze came back to the bar, he found that it was not alone. Across from his dark brown eyes, piercing him with a cat-like curiosity, was Kim Kibum, leaning his arms against the marble as though to soak up the cold there for his overheated body.
What a fool he'd been--Minho swept his tongue over his lips, suddenly feeling nervous. But what the hell did he have to feel nervous for? He had rehearsed this plan too many times in his head for it to fall apart now. With a soft smirk, planted and played upon his features, Minho leaned into the bar himself, flagging down the tender with a practiced ease.
"Can we get two shots of patron?" Minho said, before he let his eyes meet Kibum's again. Right on cue, Kibum's brows lifted up into his dyed blonde strands, interested, and Minho simply grinned. "One for me, and one for the Cool Cat," he continued, eyes falling down to Kibum's shirt before darting back up again. The brat seemed to think that was funny, because his mouth started to twist into one of those looks that meant he was trying too hard to fight back a smile. Also practiced, the bartender nodded. Minho pushed a crisp bill across the bar top, just for show, and waiting for the shots, he planted his chin in his palm, glancing at Kibum as though trying to size him up. Kibum inched closer.
"What's the occasion?" the other asked of him. Minho was sure that Kibum had drinks purchased for him all night; he probably had a whole list of lines to use when given the opportunity. By his calculations, Minho would say that Kibum was probably on Coy Remark #12 for that night alone. Shifting back a little in his seat, Minho shook his head.
"Do I have to have a reason to treat a pretty face?" Minho murmured, his low voice doing him justice. Kibum grinned at him. Minho was starting to wonder if there was something behind that smile that he wasn't supposed to see.
"No," Kibum said simply, as the bartender returned with their shots. Minho eyed them purposefully for a moment. The deal had been to lace only one of them with GHB; once intoxicated with the drug, it would become much easier to cart Kibum around as he liked. It was a cleaner, happier version than the tried and true method of stalking the kid out of the door only to chloroform him and drag him behind the dumpster. Minho liked more natural scenarios. Grinning, he reached out a hand to tug one of the shots closer to himself. Inside the rim he could see the subtle chip in the glass that indicated his was the safe one. His shoulders began to relax.
"Wait a minute," Kibum said plainly. Minho immediately tensed up.
It would have been awkward for him to hoard his glass closer to himself. He had to watch, pitifully, as Kibum reached over, took the shot, and started to swerve both of the glasses together on the bar, seeming to enjoy the little play, like a game of cups with a coin hidden beneath them. When Minho started to pale, Kibum's lips curved into that grin again, feline and a little too dangerous to be considered a result of compliments or an attractive guy buying him a drink.
"Do you think I'm stupid?" Kibum murmured, and Minho barely caught the words over the sound of the music. When one of the shot glasses came sliding down the bar back to him, Minho caught it wordlessly with the palm of his hand. He swallowed. Kibum leaned towards him, clinking their glasses together. It was Russian Roulette, fifty-fifty chance, and Minho, in all of his stubbornness, in all of his drive to win, to never be defeated, was irked by the challenge. It would be unnatural to decline drinking a shot he'd purchased. When he looked down at the glass, he saw a little sliver in the rim of it. That was enough proof for him. Tossing the patron back, Minho let out a sharp sound, nose wrinkling, and expectantly, he watched as Kibum downed his. Success.
Pleased with himself, Minho pushed the empty shot glass away thoughtlessly, and opened his mouth to start conversation. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" he murmured, and Kibum chuckled at him, sweeping his bangs out of his eyes. The reflection of the dance floor lights hit the back of the bar and filtered over the other's features. Minho decided that maybe, at some other time, had he been some other person, Kim Kibum could be slightly attractive. At least enough that kidnapping him wasn't going to be as miserable as he'd thought.
"Want to dance?" Kibum asked him. Minho couldn't say no--now that he'd dangled the bait, he had to keep Kibum hooked on it, at least until the drugs took effect. Sliding off his stool, he smoothed out the line of buttons on his shirt and moved around the bar. When Kibum took him by the hand, Minho's nose immediately wrinkled. He didn't want to go, but the further they went, the more Minho was enveloped by the heart of the club, the bass starting to work through his limbs, each pulse making them feel like rubber, like it was too loud to even process the thoughts to move. But underneath the lights that shone only to prove that the darkness lingered longer than anything else, Minho let Kibum put an arm around his shoulders, let his legs move, let his eyes close and work with the music.
A couple songs passed. Minho wasn't sure how much time had gone by. He was dizzy, from the vodka or from his anxiety or from something else entirely. His feet stopped moving. There, in the middle of the dance floor, with Kibum nearly pressed up against his chest, he realized that if it had really been a roulette, if there had been a gun with five empty chambers and one solid bullet, his brains would have been splattered out along the back wall.
"Do you think I haven't been watching you follow me?" Kibum said, in a voice that would be considered a whisper, what with the pulse of the club, and rather than hear the words, Minho felt them, even saw them. The colors of the club blurred together. Get a fucking hold of yourself, Choi Minho.
"Do you think that I'm really that clueless, Choi Minho?"
Could Kibum read his thoughts? How did he know his name? The idea made him actually giggle. Kibum was grinning at him again, and Minho found his arms wrapped around the other's waist quicker than he could question it. So this is what drugs feel like, he thought, and the thoughts melted into the strobe lights. When Kibum kissed him, Minho's jaw went slack. He felt giddy, amused, entirely too wrapped up in what was going on to care that there were bodies bumping into his, people around him still dancing, still moving, and very much unappreciative of his innate desire to make out with the stupid bratty kid he'd been assigned to kidnap.
Kibum's tongue tasted like liquor and loneliness. Minho would have laughed at that too, except wait, being lonely wasn't funny. Minho, now, Minho was a guy who knew about being lonely. Lonely, alone, lonely, always alone. Kibum's hips pressed up against his and Minho's knees wobbled. God, and it had been so long since he'd had a good fuck. What was the point of life when he didn't have money or love or, even the most basic of basics, he didn't even have sex? Why was he even doing this in the first place?
Maybe Kibum was just a guy like him. Whoa, that was a startling thought. It seemed to spark wings inside his head, fluttering around impatiently, and he laughed, into Kibum's mouth, and Kibum laughed right back. The hallucinations, well, he could do without, but this great sense of the world being just right beneath his fingertips, like where Kibum's slim hips were, he liked that feeling. He liked it a lot.
Three hours later, Minho woke up with a headache in the men's room.
Kim Kibum was nowhere to be found--unless of course, the hickey on his neck was supposed to be any sort of indication.
It was the first, and last, assignment he would ever royally fuck up.
It was also the first, and last, time he would ever lose a finger.
From: Your Secret Santa
Title: Tit for Tat
Pairing: Minho/Key
Rating: R
Warnings: Drugs, violence, language
Authors’ Notes: 3069 words. crime!AU, where Minho is trying to work his way up through the ranks and Kibum is his golden ticket.
It all started because Kibum was too stupid to take the right glass.
Minho wasn't sure where this kid had grown up--or, on second review, if he even had. Kim Kibum was known around town for being one of the most difficult, hard-to-please, spoiled little brats in the underground scene, and it didn't take a genius to figure out why: Kim Kibum had always gotten everything he'd wanted, so packed full of his father's drug money that if he toppled over the edge of a building, all the bills would simply soften his fall. Minho didn't know what it felt like to be that way. He didn't know what it was like to not have a care in the world. To not have to worry. To never be looking over your shoulder for when the deal you arranged went bad and your fingers were asked for in repentance. (Although, for the record, he'd never lost a single digit. Work was serious to Minho. He always went in with his bases covered.)
So maybe he was a little bitter or maybe he just wanted a promotion. He was tired of having to deal; he was tired of having to arrange his schedule just to fit drug drops, to spend hours meticulously counting cash for pick up. He wasn't a user himself, so being so intimately involved with the back and forth of the trade held no allure to him. It was good money--which was why he'd gotten into it in the first place. Still, there was better money to be had in the upper ranks, in managing people, organizing, putting everything together. Minho thought he'd be better suited for it. The Boss told him he had to earn it.
Kim Kibum, this kid's father apparently wasn't gifted with as much brains as cash, because he got greedy. Instead of sticking to the outlines of distribution that had been drawn up years ago, Kim Kibum's stupid prick of a father decided that it was worth his time and money to try to expand his operation. He started swallowing up smaller groups, soaking up their land and product, only to move onto the next. If he had his way, surely he would be the only dealer in this part of Seoul. But he'd overstepped his boundaries. Minho wasn't a big fan of people who took more than they deserved. Was there even a person that deserved to take other people's livelihood away? Why was it so hard to be happy with what you had?
Not that Minho wasn't just as guilty of the same thoughts. If only I had a bit more money, he used to tell himself, as he paid hospital bills. If only I had a bit more for this, he'd say as he shook his head, looking at new clothes. Sports equipment. Cell phones. Computers. If only there was a way to have just a little more...Just a little more....
It was called New Haven--a trendy little club that had gotten more and more activity as the word of the underground gambling ring beneath it went around. Young girls came to party or make a little cash on the side, guys came to drink and browse product, and men came for the adrenaline that accompanied high risk behavior downstairs. One of the higher ups, just a level or two above Minho, was the owner now, after the last one was knifed down by an angry customer. Minho didn't envy the guy that had to fill his shoes. After all, as his eyes scanned around the room, keen to the movements of other people, he realized that the real gamble was in running the place. Clubs, like people, were so unpredictable. It was easy to run into the wrong groups and get the operation tanked. For a split second, Minho reveled in the fact that he wasn't burdened with that sort of responsibility. Still, he was there for a reason, and it would be just as detrimental to him if he came out with nothing to show for it.
Kim Kibum, in all of his prissy pride, had taken up a fondness for New Haven. Maybe it was the fact that it played nonstop techno or maybe it was the fact that the drinks always had more liquor than mixer. Either way, he'd been showing his face around the dance floor for about three weeks now. Minho had been following him. Surprisingly, stalking a target was much akin to following a drug supply. Check to see that it makes its drop points, check the times the drops happen, re-check the next day in confirmation. After all, to Minho, Kim Kibum was not a person. He was a product. He was the way that Minho was going to advance in this business. He was the way that Minho was going to have the money to afford to live the way that he should be able to live, not forced to pinch pennies because his own father had gotten their house repossessed and stuck his mother in the hospital. Kim Kibum was just a ticket out of this life.
Maybe he was feeling particularly vicious as he finished off his second drink. He was a vodka guy, straight up, with or without ice. Something about the cool burn of the liquor down his throat always made him feel more suave, like he was capable of anything. Sometimes he actually believed he was capable of anything. Kidnapping someone, well, that required very little skill at all. As long as he got the kid to where he'd agreed to get him, without much damage, he'd consider it a job well done. It didn't matter to him what Kim Kibum's life was like, if he was going to school, if there were things he'd be missing. A girlfriend, maybe? Or even just a pet at home. Minho didn't really give a fuck about anything that Kim Kibum would be missing, because the point wasn't him, it was his father. Because the ransom for such a precious son should be enough to teach the idiot not to be greedy. Because the ransom would have a cut percentage for Minho. Because this was the way you advanced in the business.
Of course, getting to that point was easier said than done.
"Another round," Minho asked of the bartender, his elbows up on the fake marble. In the back of the bar, reflected to him through the faces of countless bottles, were the fluorescent lights of the club, which blinked red and green and purple and flashed with the soar of an overhead light, pounding through with the bass from the stereo. Sighing, Minho's long fingers lifted to press up against his temples. The sound was going to give him a headache before he even made it out of there. He wasn't much for dancing, and he preferred less bass heavy remixes than the ones they were playing that night. Still, everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves. That was good for business. His fingertips pinched the bridge of his nose.
When his hand fell, Minho was face to face with his new drink. "Thank you," he said softly. The bartender knew not to charge him. The ice clunked against his glass, and as he lifted it, he scanned the crowd again, looking for the familiar face he'd been tracking out there. Kim Kibum had been dressed in his typical avant garde fashion; a pair of jeans that were practically painted on and done up in that terrible acid wash style that Minho hated, and an oversized black shirt sprayed in glitter to look like the face of a tiger, accented here and there with random buttons and pins. Minho had winced at the sight, but after tailing Kibum for so long, his fashion sense was of little question. Sometimes Minho figured that the kid just threw on whatever clothes he found, in the dark, and tried to make some kind of sense out of all of it. For Minho, his style was more understated; even that night, he was dressed casual, a pair of jeans and a crisp button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. As he took another sip, he realized, quite acutely, that Kim Kibum, who had been jumping up to the beat of some high-pitched dubstep remix only seconds ago, was nowhere to be found. Immediately, Minho shot up on his stool.
A quick turn of his head, and Minho's eyes were scanning every inch of the club, perusing through the crowds, the couples standing off to the side, the men making fools of themselves at tables with pretty women. When his gaze came back to the bar, he found that it was not alone. Across from his dark brown eyes, piercing him with a cat-like curiosity, was Kim Kibum, leaning his arms against the marble as though to soak up the cold there for his overheated body.
What a fool he'd been--Minho swept his tongue over his lips, suddenly feeling nervous. But what the hell did he have to feel nervous for? He had rehearsed this plan too many times in his head for it to fall apart now. With a soft smirk, planted and played upon his features, Minho leaned into the bar himself, flagging down the tender with a practiced ease.
"Can we get two shots of patron?" Minho said, before he let his eyes meet Kibum's again. Right on cue, Kibum's brows lifted up into his dyed blonde strands, interested, and Minho simply grinned. "One for me, and one for the Cool Cat," he continued, eyes falling down to Kibum's shirt before darting back up again. The brat seemed to think that was funny, because his mouth started to twist into one of those looks that meant he was trying too hard to fight back a smile. Also practiced, the bartender nodded. Minho pushed a crisp bill across the bar top, just for show, and waiting for the shots, he planted his chin in his palm, glancing at Kibum as though trying to size him up. Kibum inched closer.
"What's the occasion?" the other asked of him. Minho was sure that Kibum had drinks purchased for him all night; he probably had a whole list of lines to use when given the opportunity. By his calculations, Minho would say that Kibum was probably on Coy Remark #12 for that night alone. Shifting back a little in his seat, Minho shook his head.
"Do I have to have a reason to treat a pretty face?" Minho murmured, his low voice doing him justice. Kibum grinned at him. Minho was starting to wonder if there was something behind that smile that he wasn't supposed to see.
"No," Kibum said simply, as the bartender returned with their shots. Minho eyed them purposefully for a moment. The deal had been to lace only one of them with GHB; once intoxicated with the drug, it would become much easier to cart Kibum around as he liked. It was a cleaner, happier version than the tried and true method of stalking the kid out of the door only to chloroform him and drag him behind the dumpster. Minho liked more natural scenarios. Grinning, he reached out a hand to tug one of the shots closer to himself. Inside the rim he could see the subtle chip in the glass that indicated his was the safe one. His shoulders began to relax.
"Wait a minute," Kibum said plainly. Minho immediately tensed up.
It would have been awkward for him to hoard his glass closer to himself. He had to watch, pitifully, as Kibum reached over, took the shot, and started to swerve both of the glasses together on the bar, seeming to enjoy the little play, like a game of cups with a coin hidden beneath them. When Minho started to pale, Kibum's lips curved into that grin again, feline and a little too dangerous to be considered a result of compliments or an attractive guy buying him a drink.
"Do you think I'm stupid?" Kibum murmured, and Minho barely caught the words over the sound of the music. When one of the shot glasses came sliding down the bar back to him, Minho caught it wordlessly with the palm of his hand. He swallowed. Kibum leaned towards him, clinking their glasses together. It was Russian Roulette, fifty-fifty chance, and Minho, in all of his stubbornness, in all of his drive to win, to never be defeated, was irked by the challenge. It would be unnatural to decline drinking a shot he'd purchased. When he looked down at the glass, he saw a little sliver in the rim of it. That was enough proof for him. Tossing the patron back, Minho let out a sharp sound, nose wrinkling, and expectantly, he watched as Kibum downed his. Success.
Pleased with himself, Minho pushed the empty shot glass away thoughtlessly, and opened his mouth to start conversation. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" he murmured, and Kibum chuckled at him, sweeping his bangs out of his eyes. The reflection of the dance floor lights hit the back of the bar and filtered over the other's features. Minho decided that maybe, at some other time, had he been some other person, Kim Kibum could be slightly attractive. At least enough that kidnapping him wasn't going to be as miserable as he'd thought.
"Want to dance?" Kibum asked him. Minho couldn't say no--now that he'd dangled the bait, he had to keep Kibum hooked on it, at least until the drugs took effect. Sliding off his stool, he smoothed out the line of buttons on his shirt and moved around the bar. When Kibum took him by the hand, Minho's nose immediately wrinkled. He didn't want to go, but the further they went, the more Minho was enveloped by the heart of the club, the bass starting to work through his limbs, each pulse making them feel like rubber, like it was too loud to even process the thoughts to move. But underneath the lights that shone only to prove that the darkness lingered longer than anything else, Minho let Kibum put an arm around his shoulders, let his legs move, let his eyes close and work with the music.
A couple songs passed. Minho wasn't sure how much time had gone by. He was dizzy, from the vodka or from his anxiety or from something else entirely. His feet stopped moving. There, in the middle of the dance floor, with Kibum nearly pressed up against his chest, he realized that if it had really been a roulette, if there had been a gun with five empty chambers and one solid bullet, his brains would have been splattered out along the back wall.
"Do you think I haven't been watching you follow me?" Kibum said, in a voice that would be considered a whisper, what with the pulse of the club, and rather than hear the words, Minho felt them, even saw them. The colors of the club blurred together. Get a fucking hold of yourself, Choi Minho.
"Do you think that I'm really that clueless, Choi Minho?"
Could Kibum read his thoughts? How did he know his name? The idea made him actually giggle. Kibum was grinning at him again, and Minho found his arms wrapped around the other's waist quicker than he could question it. So this is what drugs feel like, he thought, and the thoughts melted into the strobe lights. When Kibum kissed him, Minho's jaw went slack. He felt giddy, amused, entirely too wrapped up in what was going on to care that there were bodies bumping into his, people around him still dancing, still moving, and very much unappreciative of his innate desire to make out with the stupid bratty kid he'd been assigned to kidnap.
Kibum's tongue tasted like liquor and loneliness. Minho would have laughed at that too, except wait, being lonely wasn't funny. Minho, now, Minho was a guy who knew about being lonely. Lonely, alone, lonely, always alone. Kibum's hips pressed up against his and Minho's knees wobbled. God, and it had been so long since he'd had a good fuck. What was the point of life when he didn't have money or love or, even the most basic of basics, he didn't even have sex? Why was he even doing this in the first place?
Maybe Kibum was just a guy like him. Whoa, that was a startling thought. It seemed to spark wings inside his head, fluttering around impatiently, and he laughed, into Kibum's mouth, and Kibum laughed right back. The hallucinations, well, he could do without, but this great sense of the world being just right beneath his fingertips, like where Kibum's slim hips were, he liked that feeling. He liked it a lot.
Three hours later, Minho woke up with a headache in the men's room.
Kim Kibum was nowhere to be found--unless of course, the hickey on his neck was supposed to be any sort of indication.
It was the first, and last, assignment he would ever royally fuck up.
It was also the first, and last, time he would ever lose a finger.