Coffee Makes the World Go Round
Title: Coffee Makes the World Go Round
Pairing: 2min
Rating: pg
Genre: fluff, light fantasy
Summary: Minho the librarian has been shot.
Words: 1055
Minho likes the library because of its endless sun and swirling dust motes and shelves upon shelves of books, so high that even he couldn't reach the topmost shelf without a ladder. He doesn't go every day, but he makes a point of frequenting it-sometimes once, sometimes, twice, sometimes three times a week.
He started in the comics section a year back, then realized that there was a new-novels section that had some interesting covers. From there he graduated to action novels from the actual adult novels, then to novels that sounded interesting. Then somehow he started researching online, taking recommendations on what to read from the librarian, volunteering every-other weekend when he wasn't coaching kiddie soccer.
It's been a journey, but somehow in just year he's gone from being Choi I-read-manhwa Minho to Choi just-ask-me-if-you-can't-find-anything, I've-memorized-all-of-the-call-numbers Minho.
He still appreciates the outdoors, still needs to feel the stretch and burn in his limbs. It's just that he's discovered that his mind is just as demanding of a muscle, and that reading is the best way to exercise it.
Minho sees everyone who comes in the doors, but somehow he doesn't notice the slight, fair-skinned, golden-haired boy until he's shot in the back. It's an arrow, an honest-to-got arrow with a stinging, red tip that nicks his back before bouncing off and landing somewhere between Roberts and Chase.
Rubbing his shoulder bemusedly he picks it up, turning around to see who on earth thinks it's a good idea to shoot a weapon in a public library at six twenty-two in the morning.
The culprit is a boy, probably around his age, perched (that's the only word for how he's sitting) lightly on a ladder, small bow held loosely in his hand.
Minho waves the arrow at him. “Why are you shooting weapons in here? We don't allow that.” He frowns as his shoulder twinges. “You hurt me.”
The boy's face lights up. “Oh, good. Did it draw blood?”
What sort of a reaction was that? 'Oh, good, did it draw blood'? Minho's usually silent temper flares a bit. “That's not the point. The point is you shouldn't be doing that in here.”
“Did it?”
“Well--” Minho sputters. “Yeah, but--”
“Yes! Apparently my terrible aim won't be the end of me.” He narrows his eyes at Minho, tilting his head to the side. “I think someone small and light on their feet who can keep up with you would be a good idea. Someone who likes to talk, probably.”
Minho gapes like a fish, his mouth opening and closing stupidly, somehow unable to find words. This boy and his sweet features has more gall than anyone he's ever met. Not to mention his very probable insanity with the amount of nonsense he's spouted in the last two minutes.
He leaps off of the ladder, landing gracefully on his feet, hand outstretched.
It's the smaller boy's fault that he's too pretty and distracting for his own good, but it's Minho's fault that he doesn't realize that he's not reaching for the arrow but for Minho's hand, outstretched to shake it in greeting. It's both of their faults though that neither looks away from the other's face in time to realize that the baby-faced scoundrel is grasping the tip of the arrow rather than Minho's hand, the point barely piercing his palm.
His reaction shouldn't have been so huge. There's a flurry of motion, and Minho suddenly finds himself wondering if he's dreaming, because were those wings? But no, they must not have been because Taemin is still and he's still small and blonde and wingless, but he's staring at his hand in clear shock. “I wanted to shake your hand. Like, hello, my name is Taemin, what's yours? Not hello, stab me with an arrow, good day!”
“You shot me with one,” Minho says, not sure whether he should be feeling embarrassed or pleased with the situation (after all he has just gotten his revenge, even if it was in a slightly unethical manner).
“That's different. Now we're, were...”
“We're what?” Minho steps closer, suddenly feeling mistrustful. “A librarian and a practical joker who obviously needs to take his weaponry elsewhere?”
The boy-Taemin-looks contemplative again. “You're handsome,” he says finally, looking like he's mostly talking to himself. “So I suppose it's not the worst thing in the world. And anyway, my aim has always been a bit on the bad side. It won't be terrible to retire even though I'm only eighteen.”
“If you could speak my language that would be--” then his words stop, because Taemin has taken his hand, lacing his slim fingers through Minho's, and Minho's heart is falling faster than he can register. It's now residing in his palm, heartbeat matching with Taemin's, and suddenly everything is senseless and beautiful in the world.
And Taemin is looking at him, eyes wider than anything Minho's ever seen before.
“What was your name again?” he sounds--and looks--positively floored.
It's what Minho feels like, too.
“Minho,” says Minho.
He realizes then that they're still holding hands, but when he tries to let go Taemin only holds on more tightly, and suddenly his stomach isn't even a stomach anymore because it's erupted into butterflies and it scares him more than anything he's experienced in his twenty years of life.
“Let's get coffee,” Taemin says when the emotions start cartwheeling across Minho's open book of a face, tugging on Minho's hand, trying to lead him toward the door. “Coffee makes everything make sense. I promise. I drink four cups a day. Not the small ones either, the big ones. It's what makes the world go round.”
“Does that mean that coffee is love?” Minho asks, mind only vaguely connecting the dots as he lets himself be led out of the double doors and into the morning sunlight.
Taemin laughs and swings their hands in response, and Minho finds that the casual movement makes him feel better about being terrified.
//
They're in a small cafe, bumping knees under the table nonchalantly as they wait for breakfast and coffee to arrive, when Minho has a revelation.
“I know what you are,” he tells Taemin, pointing a finger at him.
Taemin blinks, looking almost worried. “You did?”
“Yeah,” Minho says, beyond pleased with himself. It's perfect and it reeks of the truth and his grin is stretching his face, only spurred on by Taemin's blatant shock. “You're coffee.”
A/n to clear up any confusion:
coffee makes the world go round --> love makes the world go round, therefore coffee=love. Taemin is cupid and cupid is love, so if coffee is love, then Cupid must be coffee, right?
This is how my brain functions.
Pairing: 2min
Rating: pg
Genre: fluff, light fantasy
Summary: Minho the librarian has been shot.
Words: 1055
Minho likes the library because of its endless sun and swirling dust motes and shelves upon shelves of books, so high that even he couldn't reach the topmost shelf without a ladder. He doesn't go every day, but he makes a point of frequenting it-sometimes once, sometimes, twice, sometimes three times a week.
He started in the comics section a year back, then realized that there was a new-novels section that had some interesting covers. From there he graduated to action novels from the actual adult novels, then to novels that sounded interesting. Then somehow he started researching online, taking recommendations on what to read from the librarian, volunteering every-other weekend when he wasn't coaching kiddie soccer.
It's been a journey, but somehow in just year he's gone from being Choi I-read-manhwa Minho to Choi just-ask-me-if-you-can't-find-anything, I've-memorized-all-of-the-call-numbers Minho.
He still appreciates the outdoors, still needs to feel the stretch and burn in his limbs. It's just that he's discovered that his mind is just as demanding of a muscle, and that reading is the best way to exercise it.
Minho sees everyone who comes in the doors, but somehow he doesn't notice the slight, fair-skinned, golden-haired boy until he's shot in the back. It's an arrow, an honest-to-got arrow with a stinging, red tip that nicks his back before bouncing off and landing somewhere between Roberts and Chase.
Rubbing his shoulder bemusedly he picks it up, turning around to see who on earth thinks it's a good idea to shoot a weapon in a public library at six twenty-two in the morning.
The culprit is a boy, probably around his age, perched (that's the only word for how he's sitting) lightly on a ladder, small bow held loosely in his hand.
Minho waves the arrow at him. “Why are you shooting weapons in here? We don't allow that.” He frowns as his shoulder twinges. “You hurt me.”
The boy's face lights up. “Oh, good. Did it draw blood?”
What sort of a reaction was that? 'Oh, good, did it draw blood'? Minho's usually silent temper flares a bit. “That's not the point. The point is you shouldn't be doing that in here.”
“Did it?”
“Well--” Minho sputters. “Yeah, but--”
“Yes! Apparently my terrible aim won't be the end of me.” He narrows his eyes at Minho, tilting his head to the side. “I think someone small and light on their feet who can keep up with you would be a good idea. Someone who likes to talk, probably.”
Minho gapes like a fish, his mouth opening and closing stupidly, somehow unable to find words. This boy and his sweet features has more gall than anyone he's ever met. Not to mention his very probable insanity with the amount of nonsense he's spouted in the last two minutes.
He leaps off of the ladder, landing gracefully on his feet, hand outstretched.
It's the smaller boy's fault that he's too pretty and distracting for his own good, but it's Minho's fault that he doesn't realize that he's not reaching for the arrow but for Minho's hand, outstretched to shake it in greeting. It's both of their faults though that neither looks away from the other's face in time to realize that the baby-faced scoundrel is grasping the tip of the arrow rather than Minho's hand, the point barely piercing his palm.
His reaction shouldn't have been so huge. There's a flurry of motion, and Minho suddenly finds himself wondering if he's dreaming, because were those wings? But no, they must not have been because Taemin is still and he's still small and blonde and wingless, but he's staring at his hand in clear shock. “I wanted to shake your hand. Like, hello, my name is Taemin, what's yours? Not hello, stab me with an arrow, good day!”
“You shot me with one,” Minho says, not sure whether he should be feeling embarrassed or pleased with the situation (after all he has just gotten his revenge, even if it was in a slightly unethical manner).
“That's different. Now we're, were...”
“We're what?” Minho steps closer, suddenly feeling mistrustful. “A librarian and a practical joker who obviously needs to take his weaponry elsewhere?”
The boy-Taemin-looks contemplative again. “You're handsome,” he says finally, looking like he's mostly talking to himself. “So I suppose it's not the worst thing in the world. And anyway, my aim has always been a bit on the bad side. It won't be terrible to retire even though I'm only eighteen.”
“If you could speak my language that would be--” then his words stop, because Taemin has taken his hand, lacing his slim fingers through Minho's, and Minho's heart is falling faster than he can register. It's now residing in his palm, heartbeat matching with Taemin's, and suddenly everything is senseless and beautiful in the world.
And Taemin is looking at him, eyes wider than anything Minho's ever seen before.
“What was your name again?” he sounds--and looks--positively floored.
It's what Minho feels like, too.
“Minho,” says Minho.
He realizes then that they're still holding hands, but when he tries to let go Taemin only holds on more tightly, and suddenly his stomach isn't even a stomach anymore because it's erupted into butterflies and it scares him more than anything he's experienced in his twenty years of life.
“Let's get coffee,” Taemin says when the emotions start cartwheeling across Minho's open book of a face, tugging on Minho's hand, trying to lead him toward the door. “Coffee makes everything make sense. I promise. I drink four cups a day. Not the small ones either, the big ones. It's what makes the world go round.”
“Does that mean that coffee is love?” Minho asks, mind only vaguely connecting the dots as he lets himself be led out of the double doors and into the morning sunlight.
Taemin laughs and swings their hands in response, and Minho finds that the casual movement makes him feel better about being terrified.
//
They're in a small cafe, bumping knees under the table nonchalantly as they wait for breakfast and coffee to arrive, when Minho has a revelation.
“I know what you are,” he tells Taemin, pointing a finger at him.
Taemin blinks, looking almost worried. “You did?”
“Yeah,” Minho says, beyond pleased with himself. It's perfect and it reeks of the truth and his grin is stretching his face, only spurred on by Taemin's blatant shock. “You're coffee.”
A/n to clear up any confusion:
coffee makes the world go round --> love makes the world go round, therefore coffee=love. Taemin is cupid and cupid is love, so if coffee is love, then Cupid must be coffee, right?
This is how my brain functions.