(no subject)
█ ✫ MOUSEION ··· ( oneshot )
█ pairing: Minkey
█ rating: G
█ genre: Romance - Fluff
█ summary:
All he wants to do is play tourist and melt his credit cards in Soho.
✫ ··· author's note:
I've been working on this story on-and-off for, quite literally, months. It's something I've been plunking away at whenever I've had the chance and inclination, so it might be a little disjointed. I'm still not quite over my goddamned writing block, but I managed to give it an ending in celebration of the upcoming end to my school year and the possibility of an actual, paying summer job. It's a little weaker than I'd like but hey, it's something, right? Also, this takes place in the future, under the guise of a second SMTown in NYC. Enjoy my delusions~
The echo of their footfalls was sharp and hollow. It was startling, how effectively they broke though the quiet, and unsettling when the silence returned like a blanket. If there was any place in the world that could equal the absence of sound in a museum, Key thought, it was probably a grave; walking through the foyer of the building felt like trespassing on sacred ground, and made it seem as if speaking here would upset some sort of precarious balance in the air around them. It made him nervous, but at the same time he bounced on the balls of his feet, anxious to explore.
The silence was shattered when a pair of children ran hand-in-hand through the hallway, their laughter amplified by the acoustics. Startled, he coughed dryly into the mask over his face, his throat prickling with each expulsion of breath. His cold was the entire reason he missed out on the regular excursion with the rest of the band the day before, their manager insisting he stay at the hotel and rest even though it wasn't serious. If you rest now, it won't get worse, he had insisted, ushering the rest of the group down the hallway of their hotel, Just concentrate on getting well in time for the concert.
Key did as he was told. He lazed around the hotel room for the entire day, drinking as much orange juice as he could stomach, and complained bitterly to the empty space about how unfair life was. His fever - laughably moderate to begin with - had broken before the sun had even set. Even so, his manager still didn't think it was a good idea for him to wander the city with the rest, and he was ordered to be confined to his hotel room until he was back at one hundred percent.
Though internally livid, Key had every intention of complying with his imprisonment. It was Minho's fault, really - his idea entirely. Who was Key to put a damper on the boyish smile that greeted him at the door that evening, to squash the thrill in his voice as he whispered, Kibum, get dressed and follow me, without any further explanation?
It was nearing evening when they slipped from the hotel, Minho pressing a finger against his lips as they smuggled themselves down the staircase. Jonghyun, Onew and Taemin deflected the attention of fans in the lobby by signing a few autographs, leaving them in the clear. They managed to slink unseen to a waiting yellow taxi, where Minho smiled at the driver and asked for the Museum of Natural History in accented English. Key squeaked excitedly, clapping his hands in swift, short bursts. He spent the entire car ride chattering to Minho about where he wanted to go first once they got there, brandishing the souvenir program Taemin had brought back for him the day before; there were marks all over it in red pen, arrows and notes and zealous cartoon faces scribbled in the margins. Minho just smiled at him.
“You wanted to see the dinosaur stuff first,” Minho's voice spooked Key in present time - he blamed it on that eerie museum feeling - but at least this time he didn't cough. “Right?”
“In the fossil area,” Key replied, unfolding his program and laying a finger on the map, “There are two halls of dinosaurs. Skeletons!” Minho just smiled that old man's smile again - the one that said he knew more than he was saying - and allowed Key to drag him by the hand in the appropriate direction.
The exhibit was a lot less crowded than Key was expecting. This was mostly because the museum had less than an hour left before it closed, and families and their children had either already left, or were in the process of doing so. The day before Minho had scoured these two halls, having Onew do his best to explain what he understood of the panels and displays that were not self-explanatory. Key's English was better, though, and he fluttered between the individual exhibits, squinting at the information provided with them and translating it as quickly as he could. Minho's research was null.
“Minho!” he called, nearly hopping in place in his excitement, “Come look at this!” Key was pouring over a display panel in front of an enormous skeleton, one that took up nearly the entire length of the hall. “It's called an... A-pa-to-sa-u-rus. Apatusayurus? Apatto... How the hell are you supposed to say this?”
“Apatosaurus,” said Minho, chuckling softly. When Key gave him an unfathomable look, he shrugged in return. “They told us on the tour yesterday.”
“Smart ass.” Key's tone was sour, but Minho could see the way his cheeks swelled beneath his eyes, the smile hidden behind the crinkled white mask he wore. He swatted at him anyhow, watching as Key ducked away with an impish squeak, slinking further down the hall to one of the smaller displays. Minho followed at his own pace, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans, content to observe the way Key gravitated between different podiums and charts and diagrams like a pinball.
The other boy's trajectory was erratic and unpredictable, his excitement making him restless as he poured over pictures and artifacts. Even with the paper mask drawn across his mouth, his slim frame drowning in an oversized sweater and cable-knit scarf, Minho was surprised - as he always managed to be - at how magnetic he found him. Key was like a jar of sunlight, bathing the world around him with his effortless radiance. Sometimes all Minho wanted to do was settle himself in the brightness of it, curled in on himself as he absorbed Key's warmth like a lazy house cat.
Here, with the eyes of the media scattered and unfocused - Asians were not exactly a commodity in New York, and even if they were famous to a select few they had more anonymity here than they really knew what to do with - Minho knew he would never get a better chance than this. Key's sudden illness had thrown a wrench in his original plans, but the rest of his bandmates were happy to accommodate him, if not with a little more teasing than was absolutely necessary.
Now that Key had been given a while to digest their surroundings, the taller man took a deep, steadying breath, his mind replaying the scenario he had imagined countless times.
He stood beside Key, who coughed quietly into his mask. “Are you all right?” Asked Minho, earning himself a roll of Key's eyes.
“I'm fine,” he laughed dryly, shaking back his sleeves - the sweater kept covering the tips of his fingers, and each time he rolled them up they just slid right back down, “I'm not going to break or something, just because I have a frigging cold.”
“I know,” Minho offered hastily, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender, “I know. Just asking.” Sighing heavily, Key dropped his eyes back to the display of fossilized talons in front of them.
“I know. I'm just - I dunno,” he half-shrugged, no commitment in the gesture, dragging a distracted finger across the plastic case with the claws in it, “We're in New York - New fucking York, Minho, you know I love this city - and I got stuck in the hotel room chucking wads of fancy embossed notepaper at the waste basket and watching episodes of something called Maury that I'm pretty sure has scarred me for life. What about Soho? I didn't get to go last time, and this time around was supposed to be all shopping, all the time. And, well...” Kissing the back of his teeth with his tongue, he tugged his sleeves up over his elbows again, only to have them slip back over his wrists almost immediately. He frowned at them from behind his mask, mumbling, “I'm worried I won't be better in time for the concert.”
“You'll be fine,” assured Minho, absently wiping his suddenly-sweaty palms across the thighs of his jeans, “You're not stuck in the hotel room now, at least. Plus, you've been sick at concerts way worse than you are now, and you've - ” his voice got stuck, and he had to clear his throat before he continued, “You've always been perfect.”
Obviously caught off guard, Key fixed him with a searching look. There was something small and hopeful in his eyes that Minho clung to, and he hinged the remainder of his confidence on it as Key's eyes flicked back to the display. Thanks to the mask, Minho couldn't tell what Key was feeling as easily as he usually could. Fingers itching, Minho shoved his hands back into his pockets because he couldn't figure out what the hell else to do with them. Jonghyun's earlier words echoed in his ears as he steeled himself, desperately hoping he wouldn't make a fool of himself.
It's now or never, hot shot. Go for gold.
He had hit him for the last part.
“Kibum.” He didn't meant it to be a statement, but meeting eyes with Key again took the words from his mouth. That little glimmer was still there, twinkling in the darkest part of his irises, and Minho got a little lost in it for a moment. Once he'd pulled himself up and out of the depths of Key's eyes, he tried to pick up where he left off. “The English word for museum - do you know what it means?”
The smallest crease settled between Key's eyebrows, and his expression changed marginally, barely noticeable. “No. What?”
“Museums never used to be... This,” Minho gestured around them with a hand before hooking it in the lip of his pant pocket, “They used to be places of learning, like universities. Places you could go to actually learn about the world, rather than just look at bits and pieces of it from under cases and behind velvet ropes. In ancient Greece, they were places people could go to find inspiration. The word then was mouseion, not museum.”
“Mouseion?” Key's mouth stumbled over the word, and he frowned, mouthing it to himself a few times. Minho smiled.
“Yeah. In Greece, people thought that every idea, every creative thought, was given in part by a group of deities called the Muses. Mouseion is a word that means 'seat of the Muses' - a place where the Muses gave learning and insight to the world.”
Letting his little speech settle over them, Minho shifted on his heels, scuffing the floor with his toe. Beside him, Key had him fixed with an amused smile, peering up at him from beneath his lashes. “So, professor Choi,” the shorter boy said, an amused expression sliding across his face, “Get to your point. If you have one?” Minho wanted to bite back that he did so have a point, but thought better of actually saying that aloud. Instead he fixed Key with a teasing glare - which was met with a challenging quirk of Key's upper lip - and continued.
“The Muses are also where the English word muse comes from.”
“That one I've heard before,” Key stressed, glad of a word he can actually claim to know in the midst of all the Greek in the room. Minho chuckled, but carried on.
“Muses have driven people to create some of the most beautiful things in the world. Music, art, inventions - a lot of them owe their existence to muses, and the names of most of those muses aren't even known.”
Key was still listening - there was a familiar quirk to his eyebrows that Minho recognized as such - but he was looking at the display in front of them. Mustering up his courage, Minho hooked his first two fingers in the crook of Key's elbow, a gentle signal to turn and face him that Key followed.
“I'm lucky. Whenever I have to write something, be it for one of our songs or just for myself, I've got a muse of my own that I can draw inspiration from.”
This seemed to pique Key's curiosity more than anything. His eyes widened expectantly, waiting for Minho to dish out a name that Key could put a face to. It was self-satisfying in its own way for Minho to leave him hanging.
“If I'm stuck, or I'm out of ideas, I just remember the little things. A pair of lips, the glitter of dark irises behind darker lashes. Just things like that, you know? And suddenly, I'm writing without even having to think about the words I'm putting on the page. It comes out of me like it's been there the whole time. I've wondered for a long time why that was, and I felt... Kind of stupid when I figured it out,” Minho laughed at himself a little, rubbed at the back of his neck with his palm as he ploughed onward with his speech, “But it made sense, at the same time. I guess a lot of the time, people fall for their muses. It must be hard not to; a person that can affect someone else like that would be all too easy to love without meaning to.”
“So you're in love, then?” There was an affectionate lilt to Key's voice, like Minho was his baby brother admitting to his first crush and he had every intention of taunting until he ended up blue in the face. Minho shrugged a little, feeling sheepish and embarrassed under the eager shimmer in Key's gaze.
“Maybe. I'm not sure yet. All I know is, my own muse has come to mean more to me than any other person I know. It scares me sometimes, how easy it is to think about them without really intending to. Sometimes I snap out of it and it's been half an hour with me staring off into space, just remembering the way they move, or the way they laugh. It doesn't even have to be me thinking about an individual part, though - it can just be... them. Just them. Everything and nothing about them at once.”
“Sap,” Key teased him, pushed his arm lightly with both hands, and Minho offered him a cheeky grin. Eyebrows high on his forehead, Key put his hands on his hips. “Well? Do I not get a name out of this impromptu history lesson?”
“You do, but on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“Close your eyes.”
When Key gave him a dubious look Minho folded his arms across his chest, like the subject was not up for debate. Curiosity was plain, burning in the edges of Key's eyes, and Minho chuckled softly, nervously.
“Just do it. I'm gonna get all red and embarrassed, so I'm only going to tell you if you can't see me. I know damn well you'll try and get a jab in about my tomato-face, otherwise.”
Key sighed as if compliance caused him distress, but let his lids fall any how. After waving a hand in front of his face, Minho performed a quick scan of the area to make sure no one remaining was paying attention to them. Satisfied that they had no audience, he took a step into Key's personal space and levelled his mouth with the boy's ear.
“Remember, Kibum; this is a secret. Okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Key mumbled, and Minho wondered if he was pouting under his mask, “Think I'm stupid or something? I'm not Jonghyun.”
“Good.”
Key furrowed his eyebrows when he felt Minho draw away, but kept his eyes shut as he'd agreed to. After a moment of waiting, he started to wonder if Minho left him standing around like a fool for a laugh. “Min- ?”
He was cut off by pressure against the surface of his mask, and suddenly his lower lip was being smushed against his teeth by something soft and warm. His eyes flew open, startled, only to be greeted by Minho's tilted face and shut eyes. It was off the mark, too low and slightly too far to the left to be in the ideal position, but it was undeniably a kiss.
When it ended and Minho pulled back, they remained close enough for their toes to nearly be touching. Key's eyes were wide, unblinking; Minho's kept flicking away nervously only to return and catch Key's once more, and his cheeks, neck and ears were scorched scarlet.
After what felt like hours, Minho's eyes stopped their straying. “S-say something.”
Key finally blinked.
“You,” he said, slow and thick, as if his tongue was swollen and heavy in his mouth, “Need to work on your aim.”
“My aim,” parroted Minho, looking rather shell-shocked.
“Yes, your aim,” Key's words had a little more footing this time. “And your timing. Next time I don't want some stupid germy mask in the way.”
Shaking back his sleeves again Key spun gracefully on his heel, his boots thudding gently against the tile as he walked on to the next exhibit and disappeared into the next hall. After a moment he reappeared, poking his head back around the wall to take in Minho's sagging jaw. He flicked his bangs from over his eyes.
“Close your mouth, Choi. You look like a demented fish.”
This time when he slunk away Minho followed at a jog, a wide smile splitting his face almost perfectly in two.
█ pairing: Minkey
█ rating: G
█ genre: Romance - Fluff
█ summary:
All he wants to do is play tourist and melt his credit cards in Soho.
✫ ··· author's note:
I've been working on this story on-and-off for, quite literally, months. It's something I've been plunking away at whenever I've had the chance and inclination, so it might be a little disjointed. I'm still not quite over my goddamned writing block, but I managed to give it an ending in celebration of the upcoming end to my school year and the possibility of an actual, paying summer job. It's a little weaker than I'd like but hey, it's something, right? Also, this takes place in the future, under the guise of a second SMTown in NYC. Enjoy my delusions~
The echo of their footfalls was sharp and hollow. It was startling, how effectively they broke though the quiet, and unsettling when the silence returned like a blanket. If there was any place in the world that could equal the absence of sound in a museum, Key thought, it was probably a grave; walking through the foyer of the building felt like trespassing on sacred ground, and made it seem as if speaking here would upset some sort of precarious balance in the air around them. It made him nervous, but at the same time he bounced on the balls of his feet, anxious to explore.
The silence was shattered when a pair of children ran hand-in-hand through the hallway, their laughter amplified by the acoustics. Startled, he coughed dryly into the mask over his face, his throat prickling with each expulsion of breath. His cold was the entire reason he missed out on the regular excursion with the rest of the band the day before, their manager insisting he stay at the hotel and rest even though it wasn't serious. If you rest now, it won't get worse, he had insisted, ushering the rest of the group down the hallway of their hotel, Just concentrate on getting well in time for the concert.
Key did as he was told. He lazed around the hotel room for the entire day, drinking as much orange juice as he could stomach, and complained bitterly to the empty space about how unfair life was. His fever - laughably moderate to begin with - had broken before the sun had even set. Even so, his manager still didn't think it was a good idea for him to wander the city with the rest, and he was ordered to be confined to his hotel room until he was back at one hundred percent.
Though internally livid, Key had every intention of complying with his imprisonment. It was Minho's fault, really - his idea entirely. Who was Key to put a damper on the boyish smile that greeted him at the door that evening, to squash the thrill in his voice as he whispered, Kibum, get dressed and follow me, without any further explanation?
It was nearing evening when they slipped from the hotel, Minho pressing a finger against his lips as they smuggled themselves down the staircase. Jonghyun, Onew and Taemin deflected the attention of fans in the lobby by signing a few autographs, leaving them in the clear. They managed to slink unseen to a waiting yellow taxi, where Minho smiled at the driver and asked for the Museum of Natural History in accented English. Key squeaked excitedly, clapping his hands in swift, short bursts. He spent the entire car ride chattering to Minho about where he wanted to go first once they got there, brandishing the souvenir program Taemin had brought back for him the day before; there were marks all over it in red pen, arrows and notes and zealous cartoon faces scribbled in the margins. Minho just smiled at him.
“You wanted to see the dinosaur stuff first,” Minho's voice spooked Key in present time - he blamed it on that eerie museum feeling - but at least this time he didn't cough. “Right?”
“In the fossil area,” Key replied, unfolding his program and laying a finger on the map, “There are two halls of dinosaurs. Skeletons!” Minho just smiled that old man's smile again - the one that said he knew more than he was saying - and allowed Key to drag him by the hand in the appropriate direction.
The exhibit was a lot less crowded than Key was expecting. This was mostly because the museum had less than an hour left before it closed, and families and their children had either already left, or were in the process of doing so. The day before Minho had scoured these two halls, having Onew do his best to explain what he understood of the panels and displays that were not self-explanatory. Key's English was better, though, and he fluttered between the individual exhibits, squinting at the information provided with them and translating it as quickly as he could. Minho's research was null.
“Minho!” he called, nearly hopping in place in his excitement, “Come look at this!” Key was pouring over a display panel in front of an enormous skeleton, one that took up nearly the entire length of the hall. “It's called an... A-pa-to-sa-u-rus. Apatusayurus? Apatto... How the hell are you supposed to say this?”
“Apatosaurus,” said Minho, chuckling softly. When Key gave him an unfathomable look, he shrugged in return. “They told us on the tour yesterday.”
“Smart ass.” Key's tone was sour, but Minho could see the way his cheeks swelled beneath his eyes, the smile hidden behind the crinkled white mask he wore. He swatted at him anyhow, watching as Key ducked away with an impish squeak, slinking further down the hall to one of the smaller displays. Minho followed at his own pace, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans, content to observe the way Key gravitated between different podiums and charts and diagrams like a pinball.
The other boy's trajectory was erratic and unpredictable, his excitement making him restless as he poured over pictures and artifacts. Even with the paper mask drawn across his mouth, his slim frame drowning in an oversized sweater and cable-knit scarf, Minho was surprised - as he always managed to be - at how magnetic he found him. Key was like a jar of sunlight, bathing the world around him with his effortless radiance. Sometimes all Minho wanted to do was settle himself in the brightness of it, curled in on himself as he absorbed Key's warmth like a lazy house cat.
Here, with the eyes of the media scattered and unfocused - Asians were not exactly a commodity in New York, and even if they were famous to a select few they had more anonymity here than they really knew what to do with - Minho knew he would never get a better chance than this. Key's sudden illness had thrown a wrench in his original plans, but the rest of his bandmates were happy to accommodate him, if not with a little more teasing than was absolutely necessary.
Now that Key had been given a while to digest their surroundings, the taller man took a deep, steadying breath, his mind replaying the scenario he had imagined countless times.
He stood beside Key, who coughed quietly into his mask. “Are you all right?” Asked Minho, earning himself a roll of Key's eyes.
“I'm fine,” he laughed dryly, shaking back his sleeves - the sweater kept covering the tips of his fingers, and each time he rolled them up they just slid right back down, “I'm not going to break or something, just because I have a frigging cold.”
“I know,” Minho offered hastily, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender, “I know. Just asking.” Sighing heavily, Key dropped his eyes back to the display of fossilized talons in front of them.
“I know. I'm just - I dunno,” he half-shrugged, no commitment in the gesture, dragging a distracted finger across the plastic case with the claws in it, “We're in New York - New fucking York, Minho, you know I love this city - and I got stuck in the hotel room chucking wads of fancy embossed notepaper at the waste basket and watching episodes of something called Maury that I'm pretty sure has scarred me for life. What about Soho? I didn't get to go last time, and this time around was supposed to be all shopping, all the time. And, well...” Kissing the back of his teeth with his tongue, he tugged his sleeves up over his elbows again, only to have them slip back over his wrists almost immediately. He frowned at them from behind his mask, mumbling, “I'm worried I won't be better in time for the concert.”
“You'll be fine,” assured Minho, absently wiping his suddenly-sweaty palms across the thighs of his jeans, “You're not stuck in the hotel room now, at least. Plus, you've been sick at concerts way worse than you are now, and you've - ” his voice got stuck, and he had to clear his throat before he continued, “You've always been perfect.”
Obviously caught off guard, Key fixed him with a searching look. There was something small and hopeful in his eyes that Minho clung to, and he hinged the remainder of his confidence on it as Key's eyes flicked back to the display. Thanks to the mask, Minho couldn't tell what Key was feeling as easily as he usually could. Fingers itching, Minho shoved his hands back into his pockets because he couldn't figure out what the hell else to do with them. Jonghyun's earlier words echoed in his ears as he steeled himself, desperately hoping he wouldn't make a fool of himself.
It's now or never, hot shot. Go for gold.
He had hit him for the last part.
“Kibum.” He didn't meant it to be a statement, but meeting eyes with Key again took the words from his mouth. That little glimmer was still there, twinkling in the darkest part of his irises, and Minho got a little lost in it for a moment. Once he'd pulled himself up and out of the depths of Key's eyes, he tried to pick up where he left off. “The English word for museum - do you know what it means?”
The smallest crease settled between Key's eyebrows, and his expression changed marginally, barely noticeable. “No. What?”
“Museums never used to be... This,” Minho gestured around them with a hand before hooking it in the lip of his pant pocket, “They used to be places of learning, like universities. Places you could go to actually learn about the world, rather than just look at bits and pieces of it from under cases and behind velvet ropes. In ancient Greece, they were places people could go to find inspiration. The word then was mouseion, not museum.”
“Mouseion?” Key's mouth stumbled over the word, and he frowned, mouthing it to himself a few times. Minho smiled.
“Yeah. In Greece, people thought that every idea, every creative thought, was given in part by a group of deities called the Muses. Mouseion is a word that means 'seat of the Muses' - a place where the Muses gave learning and insight to the world.”
Letting his little speech settle over them, Minho shifted on his heels, scuffing the floor with his toe. Beside him, Key had him fixed with an amused smile, peering up at him from beneath his lashes. “So, professor Choi,” the shorter boy said, an amused expression sliding across his face, “Get to your point. If you have one?” Minho wanted to bite back that he did so have a point, but thought better of actually saying that aloud. Instead he fixed Key with a teasing glare - which was met with a challenging quirk of Key's upper lip - and continued.
“The Muses are also where the English word muse comes from.”
“That one I've heard before,” Key stressed, glad of a word he can actually claim to know in the midst of all the Greek in the room. Minho chuckled, but carried on.
“Muses have driven people to create some of the most beautiful things in the world. Music, art, inventions - a lot of them owe their existence to muses, and the names of most of those muses aren't even known.”
Key was still listening - there was a familiar quirk to his eyebrows that Minho recognized as such - but he was looking at the display in front of them. Mustering up his courage, Minho hooked his first two fingers in the crook of Key's elbow, a gentle signal to turn and face him that Key followed.
“I'm lucky. Whenever I have to write something, be it for one of our songs or just for myself, I've got a muse of my own that I can draw inspiration from.”
This seemed to pique Key's curiosity more than anything. His eyes widened expectantly, waiting for Minho to dish out a name that Key could put a face to. It was self-satisfying in its own way for Minho to leave him hanging.
“If I'm stuck, or I'm out of ideas, I just remember the little things. A pair of lips, the glitter of dark irises behind darker lashes. Just things like that, you know? And suddenly, I'm writing without even having to think about the words I'm putting on the page. It comes out of me like it's been there the whole time. I've wondered for a long time why that was, and I felt... Kind of stupid when I figured it out,” Minho laughed at himself a little, rubbed at the back of his neck with his palm as he ploughed onward with his speech, “But it made sense, at the same time. I guess a lot of the time, people fall for their muses. It must be hard not to; a person that can affect someone else like that would be all too easy to love without meaning to.”
“So you're in love, then?” There was an affectionate lilt to Key's voice, like Minho was his baby brother admitting to his first crush and he had every intention of taunting until he ended up blue in the face. Minho shrugged a little, feeling sheepish and embarrassed under the eager shimmer in Key's gaze.
“Maybe. I'm not sure yet. All I know is, my own muse has come to mean more to me than any other person I know. It scares me sometimes, how easy it is to think about them without really intending to. Sometimes I snap out of it and it's been half an hour with me staring off into space, just remembering the way they move, or the way they laugh. It doesn't even have to be me thinking about an individual part, though - it can just be... them. Just them. Everything and nothing about them at once.”
“Sap,” Key teased him, pushed his arm lightly with both hands, and Minho offered him a cheeky grin. Eyebrows high on his forehead, Key put his hands on his hips. “Well? Do I not get a name out of this impromptu history lesson?”
“You do, but on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“Close your eyes.”
When Key gave him a dubious look Minho folded his arms across his chest, like the subject was not up for debate. Curiosity was plain, burning in the edges of Key's eyes, and Minho chuckled softly, nervously.
“Just do it. I'm gonna get all red and embarrassed, so I'm only going to tell you if you can't see me. I know damn well you'll try and get a jab in about my tomato-face, otherwise.”
Key sighed as if compliance caused him distress, but let his lids fall any how. After waving a hand in front of his face, Minho performed a quick scan of the area to make sure no one remaining was paying attention to them. Satisfied that they had no audience, he took a step into Key's personal space and levelled his mouth with the boy's ear.
“Remember, Kibum; this is a secret. Okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Key mumbled, and Minho wondered if he was pouting under his mask, “Think I'm stupid or something? I'm not Jonghyun.”
“Good.”
Key furrowed his eyebrows when he felt Minho draw away, but kept his eyes shut as he'd agreed to. After a moment of waiting, he started to wonder if Minho left him standing around like a fool for a laugh. “Min- ?”
He was cut off by pressure against the surface of his mask, and suddenly his lower lip was being smushed against his teeth by something soft and warm. His eyes flew open, startled, only to be greeted by Minho's tilted face and shut eyes. It was off the mark, too low and slightly too far to the left to be in the ideal position, but it was undeniably a kiss.
When it ended and Minho pulled back, they remained close enough for their toes to nearly be touching. Key's eyes were wide, unblinking; Minho's kept flicking away nervously only to return and catch Key's once more, and his cheeks, neck and ears were scorched scarlet.
After what felt like hours, Minho's eyes stopped their straying. “S-say something.”
Key finally blinked.
“You,” he said, slow and thick, as if his tongue was swollen and heavy in his mouth, “Need to work on your aim.”
“My aim,” parroted Minho, looking rather shell-shocked.
“Yes, your aim,” Key's words had a little more footing this time. “And your timing. Next time I don't want some stupid germy mask in the way.”
Shaking back his sleeves again Key spun gracefully on his heel, his boots thudding gently against the tile as he walked on to the next exhibit and disappeared into the next hall. After a moment he reappeared, poking his head back around the wall to take in Minho's sagging jaw. He flicked his bangs from over his eyes.
“Close your mouth, Choi. You look like a demented fish.”
This time when he slunk away Minho followed at a jog, a wide smile splitting his face almost perfectly in two.