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wherevermyway · 3 years

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we’re professional. (2/??) // minbin // 18+

❄ part of yuki’s favourites! ❄

we’re professional. chapter two: concealed series navigation: [desktop] [mobile]

pairing: lee minho x seo changbin rating: explicit! 18+ warnings/tags: slow burn, angst, eventual sexual content, age difference, art student changbin, artist minho, fake dating AU. chapter warnings: heavy angst, implied masturbation, alcohol word count: 10,141 also on AO3

originally posted: 21 december 2020

series summary: Lee Minho, or Minho: The Heartless, is a famous artist, which comes with an annoying entourage of paparazzi that are very invested in his life.

Two years ago, a piece at UBC's annual student's exhibit catches Minho's eye: "arranged: in black", a series of greyscale paintings crafted by sophomore Seo Changbin. Minho talks with Changbin at length for hours, then offers to help him financially if they pretend to date for a while, so Minho can please the press. Naturally, a walking exhibit of the "starving artist" stereotype, Changbin accepts the offer wholeheartedly.

There are no strings attached: Changbin can leave at any time. Hell, Minho doesn't even ask him for sex in exchange for the money, just companionship and occasional skinship. Changbin knows that Minho is emotionally damaged from several bad relationships in the past, so to have someone pay him just for providing them company is nice. Sure, he could go off and date someone and work on settling down, but he just doesn't want to. Minho is too interesting, too valuable.

Eventually, something's gotta give. When it does, it could potentially damage their relationship and careers forever.

disclaimer: this is a work of fiction! any reference to persons in this work of fiction are purely coincidental. the characters referenced from Stray Kids are interpretations loosely based on their personalities in the group and do not represent the real people behind the personas. if this, or any of the content included in the warnings above make you uncomfortable, please stop reading now.

chapter summary: Two nights: one containing a lie, the other containing a truth. Both end up changing Changbin's life, but is it for the better?

There were two nights that changed Seo Changbin’s life forever, both involving his best friend, Seungmin. The first night that changed his life was the night of his sophomore showcase.

It was the night where Seungmin lied.

“‘arranged: in black’ is a stupid name for this set, isn’t it?” Changbin stood in front of the bright white wall, his posture slightly askew. He stared at four small square canvases with a silhouette painted in varying shades of black and white oils, trying to convey the varying degrees of grey he felt his life was consumed in. The canvases tilted to the left, he tilted to the right.

Something didn’t fit: was it the art, or the artist?

A young, neon pink-haired man behind him loudly snapped his gum right in Changbin’s ear and hummed loudly as he stared at the paintings. “Sounds pretentious.”

“Oh,” Changbin raised his eyebrows and gave the man a cocky look. “Yeah, and a self portrait painted in watered down red wine with the name ‘Dead Energy’ isn’t pretentious? Come on, Seungmin.”

Seungmin shrugged, turning back around to adjust the aforementioned painting on the wall behind him. “You asked for my opinion, dude.”

Changbin took a step towards his paintings, making the most minute adjustments to how they were situated against the wall. “No, I asked you if it was a stupid name. Not for you to give me your terrible opinion.”

“Okay,” Seungmin drawled out, as if he were about to prove a point, “then, fine, it’s a horrible name and I think you should change it.” To anyone that didn’t know the dynamic between Seungmin and Changbin, the banter may have come off harsh, but this was what worked best for them.

“Well,” Changbin rolled his eyes at his friend as he laughed. “I think your opinion sucks and I’m in too deep to go and fix my placards.”

In all honesty, Changbin had been looking for an excuse to change the name of his set. Seungmin’s reassurance, while masqueraded as an insult, helped give him the small amount of encouragement he needed to believe in the project, name and all.

Later that night, Changbin was aimlessly chatting with Seungmin when two well-dressed men walked past them. One was a blond that dressed in a simple black suit set, similar to the art professors: stylistically flat, but professional. Deliberately plain, so as not to distract from the art on display.

The other, however, caught Changbin’s eye. His aura was distracting Changbin from his conversation. The man, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, had dressed like he was a piece on display: everything placed on him was deliberate and purposeful. He was wearing a graphite turtleneck, a single earring that had a shiny silver safety pin and chain dangling from his earlobe, and a rose gold necklace adorned with a skirt-shaped onyx that nestled into the middle of his clavicle. He even wore fake, half-rimmed black glasses. Everything about him screamed out-of-place, yet oddly intriguing and untouchable.

“Wait a sec, Chan,” the intricately decorated man paused, taking a step back as he found himself unable to tear his eyes off of Changbin’s paintings. The strange man approached the canvases, and it made Changbin start to sweat. The way that the brunette pored over his work was different than the way his classmates or professors looked at it.

This strange man was analyzing his work, not just staring beyond it.

“Oh no,” Seungmin muttered, his expression dropping as he watched the two strange men hover in Changbin’s area.

“What?” Changbin nervously rubbed his thumbs into his palms and tried to stay composed. “Why did you say ‘oh no’? Seungmin, dude, what?”

The pink haired man stood in awe and shook his head. “You’re fucked, man,” he turned away, trying to get Changbin to stop staring. “Dude, I think that’s The Heartless.”

The black-haired man squinted in confusion. “‘The Heartless’? What the hell are you talking about? What does that have to do with me?”

Seungmin rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh. He leaned in, trying to make it less obvious that they were staring. “He’s brutal, that’s all I know. He’s a famous artist that’s got a lot of power in every gallery in Vancouver, owns all of the galleries in Victoria, helps manage several in Montréal and Toronto…” His voice tapered off as the both watched the two strange men observe Changbin’s paintings. “He’s really harsh on artists, even those that have work in his galleries. You’re fucked.”

“Shut up,” Changbin grumbled under his breath, digging his elbow into Seungmin’s rib cage. If it were anyone less intriguing, Changbin would never have let his body move on its own, drawn to the stranger like a magnet. Once he had gotten back into his own area, he lost all confidence he had somehow mustered up, the fancy brunette turning around at the sound of footsteps.

“Can I help you?” The brunette’s voice was cold, arrogant. Fitting, based on his appearance.

Changbin froze, trying to stutter out some sort of introduction. He could practically feel Seungmin cringing from a few metres away.

“Oh,” the mysterious man pointed over his shoulder, “you created these, didn’t you?”

It felt like all of the air in the gallery had been sucked through a vacuum. Everything was dreadfully silent. Changbin could only meekly nod twice, swallowing hard as he tried not to show panic on his face.

“Figures. The aura just kind of… fits.” The man turned back around, bringing his index finger between his teeth as he pondered.

The blond man next to the stranger smirked, eyeing the paintings, then the brunette. “You’re not really going to—“

A hand came in between the brunette and the blond, as the well-dressed man haphazardly drew his fingers out towards his compatriot. “Hush.” His gaze on the paintings remained unbroken as his eyes fluttered around each of the four small canvases. “Tell me,” he cleared his throat, looking at the placard stuck up next to the bottom right canvas, “Changbin, why did you pick the name ‘arranged: in black’ for this set?”

Changbin had a habit of being a bit too brash when he was nervous, almost as if it were a coping strategy for stressful situations. “Do you want the fake answer or the real one?”

The blond sucked some air in through his teeth, deliberately looking away from the situation, biting back a smirk.

The brunette with the fake glasses raised an eyebrow, then slowly turned his head to make eye contact with the student, his gaze intimidating and strong, like a criminal investigator. “So, you have two reasons. Interesting.” He licked his bottom lip, then folded his arms across his chest. “I want the boring answer first, then the fun answer. If I can guess the true answer, then I’ll surprise you.”

Despite the fact that Changbin was terrified, he managed to shake his nerves out as he folded his arms, mirroring the strange man in front of him. “The boring answer is that I liked the way it looked on the placards.” The stranger cocked his head to the side, clearly unimpressed with that response.

“The interesting answer is,” Changbin looked past the brunette as he casually walked over to his canvases, adjusting them to be neat and orderly again. “It’s how I arrange myself to best fit the way I blend in during any situation at hand.” He turns his torso a bit towards the brunette, but does not move closer, afraid that the stranger would smell his vulnerability and tear into him like a vulture. “How much white do I need to make my black match the graphite shade of your turtleneck, how much black I need to blend together with white to make the sterling silver shade of your safety pin earring. How much I need to arrange myself to conform. Hence, 'arranged: in black'.”

There is a very long, drawn out pause. The stranger chews on his index finger as he studies Changbin’s face, pondering something, but hiding his true expression. Seungmin takes a step forward, but quickly rescinds it as Changbin looks up at him and squints.

“Cat eyes.” The brunette says with a devious grin.

Changbin makes contact with the stranger again, cocking his head to the side in confusion. “Cat eyes?” He repeats, slowly and carefully.

The stranger takes a step forward and offers his hand out. “My name is Minho, from the Lee Family. I run a few galleries across Canada, but Vancouver and its eclectic artists refuse to relinquish me from its talons.” His face falls for a moment, then he offers a soft, albeit somewhat fake smile. “I want to buy these paintings from you. The character, the brutal honesty behind them is something I don’t see in many people, much less undergraduate artists.”

“Holy shit.” Changbin can hear Seungmin’s quiet interjection from afar. He looks down to Minho’s thin, bony hand, then accepts it without thinking.

Minho’s hand is cold. “Changbin. Seo Changbin, as I’m sure you’ve gathered.” He firmly shakes Minho’s icy hand, then shakes his head. “You seriously want to buy my paintings?”

A wide smile spreads on Minho’s face. “Absolutely.” He pulls out a thin wallet from his back pocket, rifling his fingers around it as he nods at the blond. “Chan, you’ve got a pen, right?”

“Yeah,” the other man reaches inside of his jacket, pulling out a weighty-looking pen. He presents it to the brunette, who accepts it with haste. Minho takes a step towards the wall, pulling a card from his hand, then proceeds to write something on the back of it.

As he turns around, he holds his hand out towards Changbin, card tucked neatly between his index and middle fingers. The younger man takes it, shoving it into his back pocket a bit haphazardly without looking it over. As Changbin fumbles with the card and his pocket, Minho takes a few steps closer, lightly grabbing on to Changbin’s upper arm as he leans into his ear. “Text me in a half hour. We can talk more later.”

As quickly as Changbin registers the words Minho says, the mysterious brunette and blond duo disappear, off beyond a white partition holding up a classmate’s draped canvas. “What the fuck was that?” Seungmin whispers in shock as he approaches Changbin.

“That was Lee Minho,” the black-haired man breathed, a relieved, yet nervous, grin curling up on his face. “He actually wants my paintings. I don’t know why, but I’ll take it as a win.”

As requested, Changbin sends off a text to the number written on the back of Minho’s business card. The young man bites his lip as he moves to tuck his phone into his back pocket, but it vibrates in his hand. “That was fast,” he sighs as he unlocks his phone.

20:46 | Unknown Sender: I’ll be there soon. Alone. 20:46 | Unknown Sender: I’d prefer it if you were alone, too.

Changbin’s heart skipped at the possible intention of Minho’s text message. Should he have shooed Seungmin away, against the younger man’s protests? Probably not, but he figured that it was a public area, and Minho likely wouldn’t do something shady.

Probably.

He aimlessly nibbled at his bottom lip as he stared at some of the mistakes on his paintings, likely imperfections that his mind was hallucinating to keep him busy. Why exactly was such a well-renowned artist interested in such simple paintings, anyways?

“They’re quite lovely,” Minho’s voice crept up, startling Changbin. The brunette didn’t react to Changbin’s visceral response, instead engrossing himself further in the brushstrokes that blended black and white into shades of muted grey.

“You startled me,” Changbin mumbled, regaining his composure. He stared at the same spot that he assumed Minho was looking at, noticing that there was an extra stroke of thin black in a sea of deep grey, somewhere it shouldn’t have been. His brow furrowed in irritation as Minho turned to meet his gaze.

The older man bit back a smile. “You’re looking for every imperfection, aren’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Not really,” Minho turns away from Changbin, folding his arms as he lets his eyes slowly scan every individual canvas. “I just know from personal experience.” He gingerly reaches his lean fingers out to the corner of one of the canvases, causing Changbin to tense in anticipation. “Pouring your soul into something for hours, days — hell, even weeks, for some projects — only to find everything possibly imperfect with it as soon as it’s presented to the public.” Minho delicately nudges the corner up a bit, evening out the canvas so all four looked even.

Changbin unclenches his fists, feeling sweat bead at his brow as he looks at Minho. The older man turns his head slightly, looking down at the black-haired man, scanning his appearance.

“When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t ramen or something frozen? You’re as grey as your silhouettes.”

The question was jarring. Did Changbin really look that unwell? “I mean,” he awkwardly moved to scratch the back of his head. “I usually have leftovers from the kitchen at work every night, so, last night, probably?”

Minho frowned in response. “Here I thought the ‘starving artist’ trope was just an aesthetic you were going for, match the grungy brushstrokes of your painting.” He dug into his pocket and spun on his heel. “Come on, we can discuss this somewhere a little bit more appropriate.”

Changbin knew all of the things he risked following a stranger — a well-known stranger that likely had many connections — away from the UBC campus, away from the same area of town he had been so familiar with for two years. He threw caution to the wind as he stepped into Minho’s black Tesla.

There was an air of relief that washed over Changbin as he watched Minho input directions towards downtown Vancouver. However, that relief turned into nervousness as he really took in the interior of the car. Everything about it screamed everything that Minho was, and Changbin was not: confident, financially stable, mature.

“What about your friend?” Changbin questioned, just to ease a bit of the awkward silence as they left UBC.

The brunette rolled his neck a bit, adjusting his seatbelt. “Chan? He drove here himself. Nearly subzero temperatures and he still wants to ride his stupid fucking motorcycle.” Minho laughed once, then the awkward silence came back with a vengeance.

Something wasn’t adding up, and it caused an uneasy ball of tension to form in Changbin’s stomach. “Why didn’t you tear into my paintings?” The younger man nervously blurted out as they drove down Fourth Avenue, not thinking before he spoke yet again.

Minho smirked as he looked over his shoulder, merging into a different lane. “So,” he chuckled as he turned back around, “I take it you’ve heard the rumours, then?”

“‘Minho, the Heartless”, yeah.” Changbin intertwined his fingers together, staring down at the way he was rubbing his thumb against his hand. “My friend Seungmin told me a bit about you before I approached you. That you’re brutal towards new artists, and even those that have their works on display in your galleries.”

“Figures,” the brunette tutted, rapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “That’s not…” he pauses, squinting a bit as he takes in a breath, “that’s not the real reason I’m labelled as ‘the heartless’, but it plays a key factor into it all.”

Changbin looks up, taking in the side profile of the man, watching the way passing streetlights would highlight his face in a warm shade of orange, contrasting with the harsh blue lights of the car’s displays.

“Rumour has it,” Minho brought his arm up to the door, then rested his head against his fist, “that I’m too cold to everyone. I’m rude to my clients, to my patrons, hell, that I had to have been brutal to my exes, because they never stuck around.” He tries to stifle s scoff into his fist. “Look, Changbin, I’m going to be honest.”

As they neared Granville Island, the warm yellow street lights turned into cold, blueish white LEDs that matched the lights in the car. The ball of tension in Changbin’s stomach expanded, constricting his lungs and causing his chest to tighten.

Minho tilted his head to the side, just enough to peer at Changbin over his false lenses, then back to the road. “I’m not interested in dating. I don’t do…” he pauses, spinning his fingers into an awkward circle to help him find the right word, “relationships in general: professional, personal, I try to avoid it all. Honestly, I just don’t like people.”

Somehow, Changbin was partially relieved, but that somehow left him with more questions.

“I’ve been burned by too many artists in the past, so don’t take it personally. But,” Minho paused and shrugged his shoulders, “your paintings pulled me in, made me want to get to know you just a little more. Maybe have you as a model for a sketch or two, buy that set of yours, help you out financially a bit. Student and mentor.”

“I couldn’t…” Changbin frantically interrupted, but lost his confidence quickly. Taking on too many shifts at the restaurant was killing him. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept for more than three or four hours a night. There was no way he had it in him to turn down such an opportunity, even if it hurt his pride a bit.

Minho smiled as Changbin went silent. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you for anything weird or sexual. I just have this itching feeling like I’m not giving back to the community that propped me up when I was low. You don’t have to give me an answer tonight or even tomorrow. Let’s just celebrate your talent and get you something that will give you more than just salt and simple carbohydrates.”

They spent their first unofficial date getting to know each other. Minho was 29, had lived in Vancouver for his whole life. He did his first two years of his Bachelor’s of Fine Arts at the University of Toronto, then came back to Vancouver when the vibes of Toronto stopped meshing with him. “It’s a hellhole, really,” Minho kept the prongs of his fork between his teeth as he reminisced. “Clearly, so is Vancouver, but at least Vancouver feels like home.”

Changbin shrugged his shoulders, still a bit tense. He felt like he didn’t fit in at this high-end restaurant. The large plates with small amounts of food distracted him too much, like it was a mockery of how the wealthy always had to over-embellish even the smallest things in their possession.

“You’ve lived here your whole life, right, Changbin?” Minho set his fork down on the tablecloth, then clasped his hands together and rested his chin on the bridge his fingers made. The overhead spotlight illuminated his brown hair, highlighting the undertones of orange and black in certain spots. If Changbin was ever going to be interested in dating again, he would have considered Minho as a potential suitor.

Dating, however, was something Changbin wasn’t sure he’d ever be interested in again. Everyone thought that he and Felix would stay together forever, since that’s what high school sweethearts should do, and Changbin agreed for the longest time. He agreed with the sentiment, until he found one of their classmates in the bed he shared with Felix.

Love was dead, and Changbin believed it should stay that way.

“Vancouver?” He perked up, taking a sip of water from his glass, awkwardly looking away from Minho’s gaze. “Yeah, mostly. Lived in Nanaimo for a couple years until my parents split and my dad moved back here. I missed it too much to stay away.” It was mostly the truth, but that wasn’t relevant. Why bother spilling any more information on someone he barely knew?

“Interesting.” The way that Minho squinted at him, staring him up and down, stayed in Changbin’s mind for too long. There was a methodical, yet mindless way that Minho grazed his teeth against his bottom lip when he listened to Changbin ramble something off. If it really enraptured his attention, he would bring his index finger between his teeth and nod his head a couple of times.

Minho was attractive, not because of his physical features, but because of the way that he drank in the way that Changbin interacted with him. It was one-sided and a bit foolish, but that was the fun of it. He could toy with the idea of it in his head, flirt with the idea of what ifs, with none of the repercussions or demands of an actual relationship.

At the end of the night, when Minho dropped Changbin off at his dorm nearly two hours later, the younger man agreed to see him again the next weekend, where they’d discuss the more technical agreements of their arrangement.

Tonight, however, Changbin would let ideas run through his head, ideas of how Minho’s voice would sound in his ear, how his breath would brush up on his neck, and how his fingers would dance over his body. The black-haired man sighed as he nestled himself in between his sheets, allowing his mind to creatively extrapolate on some details as he hooked his thumbs into his waistband.

Nothing else mattered tonight.

The second night that changed Changbin’s life was the Sunday night after the fake engagement story went live.

It was the night where Seungmin told the truth.

“Look, dude,” Seungmin frowned as he sat on the opposite side of Changbin’s couch. “I wanted to say something a while ago, but I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. I just… I knew. It was obvious. Changbin,” he paused, trying to duck into the bluenette’s line of vision, “you’re in love with Minho. It’s kinda gross, not gonna lie. I haven’t seen you this infatuated over anyone in years. Genuinely thought you were gonna die alone with me or something.”

Changbin brought his knees up to his chest, staring aimlessly at his fingernails, like he could get lost in the sunsets hidden away in his cuticles, anything to avoid actually addressing how he was starting to feel over Minho. He could ignore it, hope that everything would go away, hope that Seungmin was just wrong and overanalyzing.

“Come on, Binnie, it was going to happen eventually,” Seungmin’s voice is quiet, like he was afraid of how Changbin would react. He leaned in, resting a hand on the bluenette’s arm. “Changbin.” The older man sucked his cheek in between his teeth as he pensively looked up at his friend. “This is gonna go one of two ways, probably. You’re either going to keep going through with all of this, say nothing, then end up heartbroken years down the line when he wants nothing to do with you out of the blue. Or…”

“Or?” Changbin tipped his head down, wincing as he looked at the younger man.

Seungmin sighed, shaking his head and closing his eyes. “You can risk it. Tell Minho you care about him, more than you agreed upon initially. See what his reaction is, probably suppress some of the inevitable heartbreak.”

The bluenette stared down at his hands, gaze getting caught in the pinkish groove between two of the diamonds in his new ring. How much distance was there between the gap of ‘friendship’ and ‘lovers’, between ‘casual’ and ‘professional’? “You think it’s a bad idea, don’t you?” He doesn’t look away as he timidly questions Seungmin. The question felt rhetorical as the words left his lips.

Seungmin runs a hand through his auburn hair, then grabs Changbin’s wrist as he softly smiles. “I want you to be happy.”

“So, you definitely think it’s a bad idea,” Changbin laughs as he sinks into the couch.

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Seungmin laughed, playfully slapping Changbin’s arm. “I think it’d be a bad idea if you didn’t tell him. I don’t know him very well, but Minho does seem to genuinely care about you, from the little I’ve seen, especially over the last year.”

Changbin’s lips flutter as he sighs in frustration. “That’s the worst part. I know he cares, but I don’t have any hard evidence of it. It’s all a gut feeling, and the uncertainty of that just makes me queasy.”

“The ring, though,” the younger man grabs the hand Changbin won’t stop staring at. “You really think that someone that didn’t care about you would have put in that much effort and money for something like this? For it to all be a fluke?”

Seungmin had a point. He always did: he knew people well, especially Changbin and people that interacted with him. He was the first to suggest that his ex wasn’t as innocent as he came off as, and he was the first to offer a shoulder to cry on when Changbin eventually got burned.

“Look, you should tell him. Maybe tell him after the engagement party, since that’s already all planned out and, hey, free publicity if it fails, I guess.” Seungmin suggested, then pulled Changbin into an awkward, but much needed, hug. “If he rejects you, I’ll help you get a crab pot and we can throw him overboard somewhere far past Vancouver Island.”

They both laughed hard enough to cause tears to roll down their faces.

“This is why you’re my best friend, Seung. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

Seungmin shrugged his shoulders and scoffed. “You’d be bored, but I would be too.”

Neither Changbin nor Minho sent inane texts to the other throughout the day like they used to. There were a few messages here and there, but an obvious rift had developed between the two of them since the last time they spoke.

It was stupid, really. Changbin shouldn’t have gotten upset over how much Minho had dropped on a real engagement ring for a fake relationship.

“That’s almost as much as my tuition!” The bluenette shrieked when he heard how much the ring was worth. “Five and a half thousand dollars? Minho, what the fuck?”

This was the first time that Minho was upset in front of Changbin, the first time where it felt realistic, like there was a passionate drive behind his anger. “Why are you so obsessed with the cost of this? Aren’t you in this for the money, anyways?”

Changbin shook his head a couple of times, physically taken aback by Minho’s wording. The older man stumbled on his words as he tried to form an apology, but the bluenette pulled away, storming off of the bed. He slipped his button-up shirt on from the day prior and continued shaking his head.

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t mean it, right?” Changbin scoffed, gathering his things as he made his way to the door. “You didn’t mean to indirectly accuse me of just being a whore, right?”

To some extent, though, it was true. He knew it as the realization sank to the bottom of his heart. There was nothing physical going on between the two of them, just a professional mentorship and financial transactions. There were no budding feelings, especially not when Changbin would wake up to Minho’s soft hands on his shoulders. There were no burning feelings, definitely not when Minho would pull Changbin into a soft, tight embrace as he bid him farewell, lingering a moment too long every time they parted.

Strictly professional, Changbin. He had to keep repeating it in his head.

If he repeated it enough, that meant it was true, right?

He consistently reminded himself over the two weeks that had passed, and it felt like it was working, even with the engagement party coming up on Saturday.

“Strictly professional,” the young man sighed under his breath as he stared at his phone, staring down at the reminder that popped up. Tomorrow was the day where they were going to formally announce their engagement at a party downtown in a high-end restaurant that one of Minho’s friends owned.

11:30 | Minho: I’m sending over one of my drivers tonight for your final fitting. He should be there not long after you’re out of class, around 16:20.

Concise. Very professional, just like Changbin would expect from Minho.

11:32 | sent: I assume you’re going to be busy with another arrangement so I’m not going to see you tonight either, am I?

It was a bit bitchy, Changbin had to admit, but at least it felt somewhat cathartic to send off. A few bubbles popped up on screen as Minho typed a response, but they suddenly cut out and he didn’t respond. The bluenette shrugged, sighing heavily as he locked his phone and shoved it in the droopy front pocket of his sweatshirt.

Strictly professional.

He didn’t get another text message until he was halfway through one of his open studio blocks. Black paint had dripped down from the brush in his hand, splattering down on the floor and onto his Converse as he stared at his phone, somehow narrowly avoiding dropping it to the floor as his jaw dropped.

15:02 | Minho: I just rearranged my schedule to make sure I’d go along with you. Might as well make sure that all of the money I’ll drop on a custom fitting for you highlights all of your features in the ways that they deserve. 15:03 | Minho: I want everyone’s eyes on you. It’s as much your night as mine, and you should feel as handsome as you look. 15:04 | Minho: That’s what they say in the movies, right?

Changbin’s eyelids felt heavy and sticky as he blinked rapidly, fully processing Minho’s texts, running them over in his mind, practically hearing his voice whisper in his ear. All of the anger he had harboured over Minho in the past few days dissipated as he set his paintbrush on the side table next to his wooden frame and canvas. He felt like all of the colour faded from his face as he stared at his phone.

The last text was to ease the tension, a bit of an extinguisher to the fire Minho caused in Changbin’s stomach. He had to know what he was saying and what kind of effect it would have on the younger man, right?

15:08 | sent: All of my features? 15:08 | sent: In what ways do they deserve to be highlighted? You’re the master artist, here after all, so I’d love to hear your opinion.

There was a knot in Changbin’s stomach as he sent off the texts. His pulse was elevated, breaths a bit shallower than normal, and he had to lean up against the metal stool that sat behind him. He stared ahead to the painting he was working on, but he wasn’t looking at it as he brought his thumbnail up to his teeth. Yes, he needed to apologize for how he acted the last time they spoke in person, but that seemed so minute right now.

His phone shook in his hand, vibrating twice. With haste, Changbin brought his phone back up, breaking his line of vision to his canvas. His eyes went wide and he slowly sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth as he read over the words several times.

15:11 | Minho: Love, you know I’m more of a tactile feedback person and not a wordsmith, right? 15:12 | Minho: All the time you’ve been spending working out — it shows. I notice it when you’re laying next to me, snoring away into your pillow. It’s very… distracting. 15:14 | Minho: It’s only fair that I, the very well-respected and influential artist, make sure that all of your hard work is accented well. Hidden, but merely enough shown off to get people to wonder: who is Seo Changbin? How did Lee Minho manage to get such a talented, attractive person to carry on his arm? To call him his own forever?

This was breaking the boundaries of their relationship dynamic they came up with initially, but Changbin didn’t care. His toe was in the water, and the promise of its warm embrace was too much to turn away, even if it meant he was potentially selling his soul to the devil, ruining his life for a moment of warmth he hadn’t experienced in years.

15:16 | sent: Oh, so it’s just about arm candy, huh? 15:16 | sent: I’m more interested in why you consider me sleeping as distracting, though. Sounding like a bit of a serial killer. 15:17 | sent: Especially when you say that I’ll be yours forever.

Changbin didn’t bother locking his phone, watching the little text bubbles pop up and disappear several times over, groaning a bit each time that they weren’t followed by an actual message. Less than an hour to go until he was done with this block, and he would see Minho. He would be in his car, able to get close and push the limits of their agreement. A hand on the thigh, which was normal, could slowly creep up and in towards the sensitive skin of Minho’s upper thigh.

He didn’t mean to get distracted, but he couldn’t help letting his mind wander. Minho seemed like the type that would feel his partner up in the back of his car, leave bite marks and imprints from their shoulder, all the way up to the back of their ear. Changbin could practically feel the hairs on the side of his neck stand up in response to what Minho’s warm breath would feel like.

A buzz.

Changbin looked side to side in embarrassment, realizing he was practically having a wet dream out in the middle of his studio. Nervously, he cleared his throat and looked down to his phone as he felt his face warm.

15:20 | Minho: You’re always more than eye candy, I hope you know that. 15:21 | Minho: I can assure you, I am not a serial killer. Sure, that’s what all serial killers say, but when would I have the time for that? Seems like too much labour.

A disgruntled sigh came up from Changbin’s lungs. Naturally, he was looking too far into Minho’s texts, inserting inappropriate context between the words. Perhaps nearly three years without physical attention from another person was having an effect on his body. He thought about responding, but he didn’t have it in him to craft a witty, yet appropriate, response.

As Changbin stood up and awkwardly shuffled his legs around a bit to adjust the distracting erection building between his legs, he checked his phone one last time before reaching out for his paintbrush, but found himself nearly doubled over as he leaned over the side table with a gasp.

15:26 | Minho: Judging by your lack of response, I hope this means you’re being smart and focusing on your studio time, so you’ll ignore this message. 15:27 | Minho: You’re treading water that’s dangerous. I don’t know if you want to dive in and see how deep the water is. Could be cold.

Changbin responded without thinking.

15:28 | sent: I know how to swim. I’m not scared.

His hands were shaking with anticipation as he waited for Minho’s response. There was no way he was going to be able to concentrate on painting, so he gradually started rinsing off his brushes and sorting through his supplies. Every ten seconds or so, Changbin would stare at his phone, waiting for it to light up with another message.

Ten minutes had passed, and he was worried he had fucked up. He had stopped looking at his phone and was, again, staring at his painting. He was just going to leave it up over the weekend, since he would probably just come back to it in the middle of the night on Sunday night, when he normally had a random bout of inspiration hit him.

Unless, of course, the plan of confessing to Minho on Saturday would cause his regular Sunday plans to be pushed back. That would be a worthy sacrifice for his art.

Changbin was about to turn away from his painting when he felt a hand on the small of his back, and a familiar voice creep up into his ear. “I see black is a common theme in your paintings again.”

Minho.

The crafty bastard really showed up early and had the nerve to sneak up on Changbin. Instead of reacting in fright, the younger man leaned into the touch, tilting his head slightly back. “If I recall correctly, you like seeing black in paintings. Greyscale pieces have a history of winning you over.”

“Ah,” Minho sighs, letting his hand slowly move closer and closer to Changbin’s side. “So it’s for me?”

“Engagement present, I think,” Changbin shrugged. “That’s what most couples do, right?”

“Yeah,” Minho whispered, then slowly pulled away from Changbin, “but I don’t think we’re like most couples, hmm?”

Changbin let his eyes flutter shut in frustration. Every two steps forward felt like it was accompanied by one to three steps backward. If he were alone, he would scream into a pillow, but he would just shove it down for now. He turned toward Minho with a fake smile on his face. “So,” he tried to bite back his frustrations, knowing he was coming off as irritated. “Any special reason you showed up early?”

His words sounded innocent enough, but the look on his face fell more along the lines of, ‘perhaps my texts sparked some curiosity?’

Minho’s eyes darted to the side, his lower eyelids squinting up for a split second. “I really didn’t want to be late.” That’s a lie. “Traffic about now can be unpredictable.” Another lie. Inbound downtown traffic was busy on Fridays, but not until after 16:30.

“But you didn’t stay in the car.” Admit you wanted to see me.

“I’ve come up to say hi before.” Minho leaned onto Changbin’s side table, arrogantly running a free hand through his hair. He was posturing, testing Changbin on something, but what?

Changbin took a cautious step forward, seemingly towards his set of paintbrushes on the table, but ready to pivot to Minho at the first sign he was given. He desperately wanted to be bold with his words, but he couldn’t quite get them to come out right. “You left a meeting early to come see me on a day you hadn’t planned to.” He paused, rolling his eyes up to stare down Minho. “It’s been two weeks since you’ve seen me. I think you left and came here because you miss me.”

This would be the part of the movie where they would run off to the grungy public washroom and haphazardly make out with each other, crying over how ignorant and stupid they had been with each other’s feelings. Perhaps Changbin was projecting a bit of his desires into the idea of their movie life, but, regardless, nothing was happening.

“That’s not inaccurate,” Minho shoves away from the counter, his face warming with a reddish tint as he steps away, towards the canvas. He feigns interest as he stares in between the strokes of paint that were slowly coming together to form an image. “I suppose I do miss you. I don’t like waking up without you on a Sunday morning.”

There’s an easy solution to that problem.

“I miss your cups of blonde roast Starbucks on Sunday mornings,” Changbin counters, still too afraid of the words he really wants to say. “You’ve gotten me hooked onto it. I can’t seem to make it the same way you do, and it just doesn’t taste right.”

Minho clears his throat and checks his wristwatch. He sighs, then turns to look at Changbin with a smile. “Are you almost done packing up?” The smile is fake, like he’s hiding something. Again, Minho is hard to read. “I’d like to leave a bit early, beat any traffic into town, yeah?”

They don’t say much as Changbin finishes packing up his supplies. The walk from the studio to the car is without any commentary at all. The driver opens the side door, offering his hand out towards Changbin for his bag of supplies, which he hands off with a bit of a scowl. Minho walks over to the other side of the car, opening the door to his side while the driver is preoccupied helping Changbin.

Within a couple of minutes, they’re going down the usual route down Fourth Avenue again, and Changbin’s scowl grows until he can’t handle the ballooning irritation. He snaps his head over to stare at Minho, shocked to find that the man is already staring at him, albeit a bit distant.

Minho walks his fingers over the empty space between them, then gingerly reaches out to touch Changbin’s arm, softly gripping his forearm. “I’m sorry I’ve been distracted these past two weeks.” His apology feels sincere, albeit stunted. Minho slides his hand down to interlace his fingers in the space between Changbin’s, where everything comes together and feels right. “This whole engagement announcement has been stressful, which I know isn’t an excuse. I should have done better to give you some more attention.”

Changbin leans in a bit closer, perhaps subconsciously being pulled into Minho like a magnet. “It’s alright, Minho, you don’t need to apologize.”

“But I do, love.” Just when Changbin thinks Minho will drop his guard, he turns his head to the side, staring out of the windshield far in front of them. “I just don’t want to fuck this up. Sure, this is a business arrangement, but I value our friendship.”

To anyone else, the word ‘friendship’ probably wouldn’t feel like the way it sounded when a cat scurried across the keys of a piano. It felt discordant, off-key, and wrong. Still, Changbin was tired of trying. He put on a fake smile, then rested his head on Minho’s shoulder, like he always did on their drives into the city. “Our friendship is nice, Minho. There’s nothing else like it.”

“Right,” Minho calmly breathed as he turned his head away, gazing out of the window.

“Well,” the tailor stood upright and smiled up at Changbin, “luckily, I don’t need to make any major alterations. I’ll take in a couple of small things just to accentuate the fit on you, make it look nicer.”

Minho sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees and trying to hide a coy smile. “Thank you.” His gratitude for the tailor was there, but it clearly was not Minho's top priority. Changbin watched Minho take in the sight of him, languidly gliding his gaze up from the floor to the top of Changbin’s blue hair.

The tailor excused himself, humming to himself as he left the room, poring over the notes on his notepad. Changbin arrogantly stuck his hands in his pockets, kicking out one of his legs as he bit his lip. “You look like you wanna eat me, serial killer.”

"Maybe I do," Minho teases as he playfully clacks his teeth together. His expression softened as he stood up, slowly making his way around the small podium that the bluenette stood on top of. “You remind me of an intricately designed wedding cake. So sturdy, but embellished just enough to be draped in delicateness.” He stopped in front of Changbin, looking up to him with a soft smile and offering his hand to help him down the steps. “Most importantly, you look handsome. Everyone’s going to be caught up in you, love.” He may not have been a wordsmith, but Minho had to have had an idea of the effects his words had.

The younger man smiled, then purposefully stumbled a bit on the steps so he could collide his way into an embrace. “Oh,” Changbin sighed, “guess I lost my footing.”

“Guess you did,” Minho smirks, helping reorient the younger man upright. “You should be more careful. I’d hate to see you slip and fall where I’m not around to catch you.”

“Well,” Changbin winks at the older man before he turns around, back to the dressing room, “guess I’m lucky you’re my fiancé and you’ll catch me when I fall, huh?”

The party is a lot more nerve wracking than Changbin expected. Eyes were following him around everywhere, and he was constantly cornered by strangers that didn’t actually care about the questions they were asking him. Several people asked him questions that were clearly digs at just getting to know more intimate details about Minho and his personal life.

Eventually, he finds Seungmin over by the bar. He quickly makes his way over, grabbing a half-empty bottle of champagne off of the counter with one hand, then Seungmin’s arm with the other hand. “Need you.”

Seungmin interjects with a yelp, turning around quickly and following Changbin without spilling his drink. They made their way through the kitchen, through the back of the building, out to where the line cooks and other staff would run and hide for their smoke breaks.

“Why are you freaking out, Bin?” Seungmin knew that something was wrong without even asking. He took a sip of his drink, quietly cursing the cold under his breath.

Changbin took a swig of champagne directly from the bottle, wincing at the carbonation and the sting of the alcohol. He coughed twice, then leaned up against the exterior of the building in exasperation. “This is too fucking much,” he sighed, looking up at the way his breath clouded up, then faded off into the night sky. “He knows a lot of people, and they’re all so goddamn nosy.”

Seungmin scoffs, taking another sip of his drink as he walks over to Changbin, leaning up on the building next to him. “Welcome to the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Kind of a shitty price to pay, if you ask me.”

The older man scoffs, taking another drink from the bottle in his hand. “Yeah, but like, it wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t like him.”

“Love him,” Seungmin arrogantly corrected him.

“Shut up,” Changbin rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Okay, yeah, so I do love him. Maybe I’ll just keep it hidden.”

He didn’t need to turn his head to know that Seungmin was glaring at him.

“You know that's—”

“—a dumb idea, yeah.” They stared up at the sky for a few more minutes, sipping on their drinks of choice until they started shivering from the cold. Seungmin pushed off of the wall, about to say something, but Changbin couldn’t stop his mouth from spouting off his concerns again. “I’m gonna finally tell him tonight I think. When we go home. I get the feeling he’ll like that.”

“Awfully romantic,” Seungmin shivered as he smiled.

Changbin shrugged his shoulders, bobbing his head back and forth a couple times. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared, though.”

“Changbin,” the false redhead placed his free, cold hand on the shoulder of his friend. “If he rejects you, he’s missing out, and that’s on him, not you. You’re my best friend, so yeah, I’m a little biased, but I know you’re a catch.”

The bluenette smiles, then stands up straight. “Where would I be without you, Seung?”

“I dunno, dead maybe?” They both laugh for a moment, before Seungmin loudly shudders as he shivers. “Come on, it’s fucking cold. Let’s go back inside, yeah? I wanna drink more of this rich people shit on your fiancé’s dime.”

Changbin smiled in appreciation. His best friend was truly a gift he didn’t deserve. “Yeah, yeah, let’s go.”

They had been inside for maybe thirty seconds before Minho found Changbin, making a quick beeline towards him, politely excusing himself away from some riveting conversation about how he met Changbin two years ago for the nth time.

“Changbin, love,” he sighed in desperation as he caught up to the two cold men. “I think we should do the toast soon, because this is beyond exhausting.” Seungmin winked at Changbin before he snaked his way out of the conversation.

The bluenette tried to shove Seungmin’s words of encouragement down as he nodded his head. “That’s a great idea, Minho. Let’s go get this over with, so people stop asking us the same ten questions thirty times in a row.”

“Oh my god,” Minho sighed, colliding his forehead against Changbin’s shoulder. “If I have to answer ‘he’s so unlike your usual friends, how’d you meet?’ one more time, I might lose it and actually turn into a serial killer.”

Changbin rubbed his cheek against Minho’s head, then offered him a quick pat on the back. “We’ll get through it, I promise.”

“I know, I know.”

The toast had started off normal, seemingly fine. There were pleasantries, Minho gave a brief introduction about himself and the projects he had been working on, giving some half-true, half-bullshit explanation about how he and Changbin met and fell in love. Some of the details of how they fell in love, including how they were in love in the first place, caused discomfort inside Changbin.

“Binnie, love?” Minho’s hand on Changbin’s back brought the younger man back to focus on the conversation. “Maybe you should introduce yourself?” That wasn’t really the question Minho was asking him. The look that the older man gave him was one of concern, as if he were asking him if he was actually alright.

“Right,” Changbin muttered incoherently, grabbing the microphone from Minho. “As you’ve heard, I’m the Changbin everyone seems to be talking about tonight. Seo Changbin.” He pauses, scanning the room for Seungmin, who is giving him a subtle thumbs up with a wince on his face. “Minho and I met at an art exhibit two years ago, where he told me he valued the honesty and the character behind my paintings.”

A couple of people make some sort of half-assed ‘aww’s and ‘ooh’s.

“I was worried about him, since my friend had just given me a crash-course on how Minho was supposedly some big, scary art critic. He was so scary, in fact, that he was known as The Heartless. A name, to this day, that I disagree with.” Changbin smiles, looking over to Minho, who returns a soft gaze and delicate smile. The younger man reached his hand out, and they interlaced their fingers together, getting close to the other, until they were practically embracing.

“I am very lucky to hopefully spend the rest of my life with a man like Minho. He’s not only very artistically gifted, but he’s kind and I do love him from the bottom of my heart.”

While Changbin meant every word he said, he simply read off the words that Minho asked him to memorize the night prior. It was honest, but its intentions were false, which caused a bit of nausea inside the young man. He passed the microphone back to Minho, letting him wrap up the speech with the same banal, inconsequential words he had probably come up with and memorized beforehand.

The words would sound nice, please the crowd, and get some annoying stragglers off of their backs for the rest of the party. Changbin held his customer service-style smile on his face until he stepped away from the makeshift stage. He made his way towards the kitchen again, trying to rid himself from the people that wanted to insincerely congratulate him. He heard people talking shit about him as he made his way through the crowd, gritting his teeth as certain words like ‘whore’, ‘sellout’, and ‘fake’ seemed magnified and heavier than they were.

Changbin watched a couple of staff members head outside for a break, and he growled in irritation to himself, eventually leaning up against a countertop, pressing his head into his palms. He wasn’t even that upset over one specific thing, it was just a lot of things suddenly compounding, along with the tension of the overall situation.

“Changbin?” Minho’s voice was soft, quiet, as it came through the entrance of the kitchen. “Love, are you alright?”

His brain told him just to say that he wasn’t feeling well, tell some bullshit white lie that they could brush over. His heart, however, spoke up for him. “What are we doing, Minho?”

The brunette shook his head, then brought his hand up, almost sarcastically. “Announcing our engagement. I thought that was obvious.”

“Not that,” Changbin sucks in a quick breath of air through his teeth. “Put all this to the side for a second. What are we doing? How much of your speech was true? A lot of it seemed too hyperbolic and shallow, and it’s not sitting well with me.”

Minho squints in discomfort, a look of disbelief on his face as he looks at Changbin with confusion. “I’m sorry, what? Was I supposed to tell them that our entire relationship is false?”

“Entire relationship?” Changbin scoffed, all of the tension from before compiling together, and that was the final straw. “Fuck that. No, fuck that.” He pushed off of the counter with frustration, making his way through the back door and past the few staff members and through their cloud of nicotine.

“Changbin, wait,” Minho ran after the younger man, nearly sliding as his shoes came into contact with the icy concrete. “What’s gotten into you?”

The bluenette sucks in air through his teeth as he turns, staring down the older man. His face was contorted into a bitter scowl, and he was visibly shaken. “I don’t fucking understand you, you know?”

“What?” Minho panted, clouds of vapourized breath coming from his mouth, travelling past him on a bit of wind. “What did I say, Changbin?”

There’s a scoff that comes from Changbin, one that’s laden with frustration and a bit of sadness. “You’ve been saying a lot lately, Minho, that’s part of the problem.” He brings his hands up to his hair, gently tugging on the strands as he sniffles, partially due to the cold, partially due to his emotions. “I can’t fucking read you.”

“I’m not a book, Changbin,” Minho takes another step closer and rolls his eyes, “you can communicate your problems to me and we can discuss them.”

“You’re right. You’re not a book, and I believe I’m right in assuming that I’m more than a business deal to you.”

Minho shakes his head in disbelief, eyes nervously darting around. “What?” This interjection sounded shocked and breathless, less arrogant and confident than the other interjections came off as.

Changbin knows he shouldn’t ask it, not with how much tension is in the air, and how loaded the question is, but his heart causes him to act irrationally yet again. “Do you love me, Minho?”

There’s a gust of cold air that blows between them, causing Changbin to shiver. Minho tries not to notice, but his voice trembles when he repeats the question. “Do I love you?”

Another useless response.

“God, you’re so fucking dense,” Changbin muttered under his breath, angrily taking a couple of steps closer, centimetres away from the brunette now. “Do you want to know something, Minho?” There’s a pause after Changbin’s rhetorical question; the younger man feels the warmth of Minho feeding into his energy as he takes in a deep breath. “I realized it the morning after the fake proposal. I was upset at how much money you spent on a fake engagement ring, for a fake relationship that was probably going to end within a couple of years, if we’re being optimistic. You put in so much effort for something fake, and I was putting in a lot of emotional investment into someone that I’m supposed to have nothing more than a business deal with.

“I remember talking to Seungmin that night, and he told me straight up. He told me that I was in love with you. Beyond interest, beyond infatuation. Actually in full-fucking-blown love, something I didn’t know I was even capable of doing anymore.” A sarcastic scoff punctuates Changbin’s sentence as he licks his bottom lip, looking away from Minho. “I thought it was stupid, that I could shove it down and ignore it. But the truth is, Minho,” he tilts his head back, looking at Minho with a heavy gaze, like he was teetering on the edge of anger and despair, “I didn’t mean for it to be like this. I meant for it all to stay professional, like we wanted it to be, but I can’t do it. I can’t fucking do that anymore, Minho.”

There’s a stutter as Changbin’s deep inhale gets caught in his throat. He inhales once again, and slowly breathes out, before he lets the words just fall from him. “I really do think I love you. I don’t know where to go from here, and I don’t know if you can understand how terrified I am.”

Minho doesn’t quite know how to respond. He watches a few tears start to roll down Changbin’s face, breaking down the confidence that was there for a fleeting moment. He instinctively reaches up to brush the tears away, causing the younger man to melt into his touch. A couple of rare wintry snowflakes fall in between them, one landing and subsequently melting on Changbin’s nose. “You really think you love me?” Minho softly questions, his voice coming off as soothing, yet anxious.

Changbin takes in a quick breath, shaking his head. “Minho,” his voice cracks as he knits his eyebrows together, “you and me, we…” Perhaps it’s the cold, but Changbin can’t quite get the words in his head to form the sentence he wants to say. That’s when it comes to him: there were some things where actions definitely spoke louder and more effectively than words.

A snowflake fell onto Changbin’s bottom lip right before his lips brushed up against Minho’s with a spark. Everything that felt confusing suddenly became clear. Tonight was the coldest night of winter so far this season, but it was like all of the ice around them had melted. Their kiss was nervous and awkward, but Minho pushed back, grabbing at Changbin’s neck, pulling him in closer and returning his kiss with a sense of urgency.

Changbin suddenly pulled back, taking a step backwards and staring at Minho with wide, terrified eyes. He frantically remembered that if either party developed too deep an emotional connection with the other, that their agreement could be rendered null and void by the other party. An overwhelming panic at the possibility of an upheaval of his life — going back to a life without Minho — overtook him. Not for the loss of financial stability, but the loss of connection, the loss of friendship they had built over the years.

His reaction was irrational, but the potential of heartbreak was so loud. It terrified and overwhelmed him, wrapping him in a bone-chilling embrace.

Minho takes a cautious step forward, staring at Changbin and reaching out to him with a timid hand. “Changbin, love, please…”

“Minho,” Changbin looks up at him, shaking his head and nearly hyperventilating. He takes a few steps backwards, watching a rapidly intensifying flurry of snow start to come between them. “Minho, I’m so sorry. This is all fucked up because of me. I shouldn’t have… Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

His legs move before he can even acknowledge that he’s running. Changbin has no idea where exactly he is, but he’s maneuvering through alleyways and parking lots, backstreets and dead areas of town. He doesn’t consciously know where he is, but he somehow knows where he’s going. He gets far enough away, all the way out to Harbour Green Park. The sight of the ocean calms him down as he finally stops running.

Changbin slides on the slick grass, and he collides into the ground. He starts hyperventilating, then just gives up and lets the inevitable tears fall from his face, down to the chilled ground beneath him. Time passes as he cries, upset with the situation, but mostly angry at himself.

The potential of heartbreak caused him to panic, and he responded by giving into that fear, literally running away from the man he claimed to love. It was stupid, really, throwing everything away just because of the possibility of discomfort, of facing reality. Before, there was a chance that Minho felt the same way. Now? Now Changbin had practically guaranteed that there was no possibility for that anymore. Perhaps knowing that he was the cause of the complete unravelling of two years of emotional connection hurt the most.

No. What hurt the most was that he desperately wanted Minho to catch him as he fell.

#we're professional #skz smut #skz fics #minbin #lee minho x seo changbin #seo changbin x lee minho #minho x changbin #changbin x minho #wherevermyway

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wherevermyway · 3 years

Text

we’re professional. (1/??) // minbin // 18+

❄ part of yuki’s favourites! ❄

we’re professional. chapter one: sophisticated series navigation: [desktop] [mobile]

originally posted: 17 december 2020

series summary: Lee Minho, or Minho: The Heartless, is a famous artist, which comes with an annoying entourage of paparazzi that are very invested in his life.

Eventually, something's gotta give. When it does, it could potentially damage their relationship and careers forever.

chapter summary: Minho brings up an interesting proposal while celebrating the second year of his professional arrangement with Changbin.

“I can’t accept this.” The young, blue-haired man at the opposite side of the table of a middle-aged brunette pushes an open envelope back across the table. “It’s too much. You’ve already given me so much this month, I couldn’t possibly accept anymore.”

“Changbin,” the brunette smirks, bringing the crystal glass of wine up to his mouth. “Please, don’t insult me. I’m not offering this just off the cuff. Besides, it’s not just cash that’s in there.”

The bluenette frowns, bringing his gin and tonic to his mouth, taking a careful, prescribed sip as he watches the older man cautiously. He lets the gin burn its way down his throat before he sighs. “It’s sex, then. That’s what you want, Minho?”

“No.” Minho’s expression quickly turns serious and slightly sour. “Not at all. I told you when we first started this arrangement that this wouldn’t turn sexual.”

“Right.” Changbin cocks his eyebrows up in response, his tone somewhat sarcastic. He brings the glass up again, tilting it and his head backwards, letting the ice slink down and hit him in the nose as he finishes off his drink. He sets the glass down on to the table, ice settling with a soft clink, before he rolls his eyes up and frowns. “What’s all this for, then?” The young man rolls his wrist around, bringing his chin down to his right hand. “You’ve really gone all out for this date.”

Minho softly smiles, then mimics Changbin, mirroring him in the way that he places his head in his left palm. “It’s been two years, officially.” He makes eye contact with a server somewhere off in the distance, and nods upward.

“Two years, eh?” Changbin tuts. “Surprising that neither of us have gotten sick of each other, nor found other people to spend time with.” He takes in a quick breath, then flashes his teeth with a lazy smirk. “Sure you’re not getting serious with me yet?”

The older man opens his mouth to speak, but quickly recedes his statement as a lanky waiter confidently struts over to the table. “Hyunjin, could you please bring me the bottle of Clos D’Ambonnay I have in the back?”

“Of course, Mr. Lee,” the blond waiter nods his head once with a polite smile before he makes his way back to whence he came.

Changbin squinted, knitting his brows together as he shook his head once. “You own this restaurant, too, don’t you?”

“Mmm, I wouldn’t necessarily say own it, no.” Minho hums, bringing his index finger in between his teeth as he ponders. “It’s a partnership with an old colleague of mine, Chan; you met him at the Vivace Vancouver exhibit over the spring. He had that dreadful red hair, the one where you said he looked like he got electrocuted and then spray painted by an angry ex-lover.”

The younger man’s eyes go wide as he tries to hold back his laughter. “Oh my god,” he sighs, “I remember that. How do you forget something so audacious, is that even possible?” He regains his composure and rests upright against the back of the chair. “In my defence, though, I was two glasses of Chianti in when I said that. Please tell me that his hair isn’t that horrible shade anymore. It was so bad.”

Minho smiles widely and softly shakes his head. “No, no, god, no. I met with him the day after and told him that he needed to go back to see my stylist immediately and never go back to the hellspawn that butchered his hair.”

“Apologies for the interruption, Mr. Lee,” the lanky waiter from before returned, presenting a black bottle before he placed it on top of the table. “As requested.” He placed well-crafted champagne flutes in front of both Minho and Changbin.

“Hyunjin,” Minho tutted as the waiter grabbed the bottle, “I’ve told you several times that just ‘Minho’ is fine.”

The blond waiter half-smiled as he wrapped a hand towel around the cork, deftly wiggling it off with a muffled pop. “And I will tell you each time,” he poured some of the champagne into Changbin’s glass first, “you will always be Mr. Lee when I’m at work.”

“You’re too stiff,” the brunette gently pushed his glass towards the blond as he set Changbin’s glass down. “I know that Chan — sorry, Mr. Bang — is strict with all of you, to maintain a pristine image,” Hyunjin picks up Minho’s glass and bites his lip as if he’s holding back commentary, “but you’re still in your prime. Bend the rules a little while you can get away with it.”

Changbin watches the way Minho’s eyes flutter around from the glass to Hyunjin, catching himself getting caught up in the way the light sparkles against his brown eyes, the way his eyelashes paint shadows on his irises. He doesn’t mean for every detail to be etched into his memory, but there was always something about remembering the details of Minho’s soft face that warmed him. If it were any other world, any other person, perhaps he would be catching feelings.

This arrangement, however, was strictly professional. There was no room for feelings.

Hyunjin sets the bottle back down onto the table. “Sure thing, Minho,” he sarcastically scoffs as he wiggles his shoulders in some sort of strange dance of mockery. “Would you like an ice bucket to keep this chilled?”

Minho shrugs, seemingly indifferent, but his expression turns a bit more serious. “I suppose. Don’t worry about us, though. Tend to the other customers first — we’ll be here for a while longer. A bit of champagne slowly warming won’t be the end of the world.”

“You got it, Mr. Lee,” Hyunjin says, tipping his index and middle fingers off of his forehead in some sort of joking salute before he spins on his heel and walks off to another table.

Minho grabs his champagne flute and flashes his teeth at Changbin. “Sorry about that, love, I’ve just gotta give the staff here trouble every now and again.”

Changbin blushes as he picks up his champagne flute, bringing it close to Minho’s. “Don’t apologize.” He tries to restrain his embarrassment, still mentally replaying the way that Minho called him ‘love’, desperately trying to get the sound to imprint upon his memory. “Anyway,” he lifts his head from his palm and stares directly into the brunette’s eyes. “Two years? I can’t believe it’s been this long since I met you.”

“Your ‘arranged: in black’ series captured me, Changbin, what can I say?” The older man tilts his head to the side, tugging his lips into a smile. “I still think about it every day.”

“It’s hard to avoid thinking about it when all four pieces are hanging behind your bed, wouldn’t you say?”

“Suppose that’s fair,” Minho bites his bottom lip as he avoids laughing. “But, wow, two years. Two very eventful years. To think, you were a scraggly sophomore two years ago when I met you. You really kind of fit the ‘starving artist’ stereotype back then, hmm?”

Changbin’s eyes subconsciously darted down to the maroon tablecloth. He avoided thinking about his life before he met Minho, since it wasn’t something he was overly fond of. Sleeping for a couple of hours a night after a late dishwashing shift at the restaurant, waking up before dawn to run to his part-time barista job, then somehow getting to class just in time to nearly doze off mid-project sketch, all to repeat it again the next day. The chronic sleep deprivation painted him in an ashy grey, and he perpetually smelled of instant ramen and coffee.

No. That was in the past.

He shuddered at the thought of his past life. It was stressful, and he was thankful that Minho came along and offered him some kindness. Most art students either came from wealthy families, or lived in the same shoes that Changbin did. The ones that weren’t from wealthy lineage would probably stay under the poverty line for the rest of their lives, but at least they would be happy creating things that came from the depths of their soul.

For some, it was worth the sacrifice. He knew what he was getting into when he was accepted into the visual arts programme at the University of British Columbia, and he was prepared for the pain and agony it would cause him for the small chance he could make it big while doing something he loved.

“Binnie, love?” Minho’s soft voice pulled Changbin from his memory. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Changbin nodded his head a couple of times, almost as if he was willing himself to be calm. “Sorry, I just kinda got distracted. Thought about when we first met and kinda got transported back in time.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it definitely was far from the truth.

The older man softly smiled and nudged his champagne flute forward. “Well, here’s to two years of whatever the hell this is. Here’s to however long we have left and to wherever we may go next.”

Changbin smiled, turning his chin slightly inward as he tapped his flute against Minho’s. “I like that. To whatever the hell is next.”

“‘Whatever the hell is next’,” Minho smiled as he brought the flute up to his lips. “That’s a good one.”

They didn’t get to the bottom of the bottle of champagne until about a half-hour past closing. It had been two years of the same company every Tuesday and Thursday night, and usually most Fridays and Saturdays, yet they still found new things to talk about each time they met. “You’re still so foolishly young and in university,” Minho would scold Changbin over the phone, “so go out and get hammered at a stupid house party and I’ll come by tomorrow and help nurse you out of your hangover.” Minho was really a sweetheart, even if he didn’t want to date and was, to quote Minho himself, ‘emotionally unavailable’.

It had been two years, and Changbin still didn’t fully understand why people were so pressed on calling Minho heartless.

“And so,” Changbin took a sip of water from his glass, setting it down a bit roughly, some of the water sloshing around and splashing on to the table, “I had to sketch a live model, right? Turns out Seungmin makes a horrible model at two in the morning, but we thought the idea was brilliant.”

Minho loudly cackles, throwing his head back and clapping his hands once in front of his face. “You had just gotten done downing several shots at the bar. What made either of you think that sketching in charcoal was a good idea?”

The younger man folds over, resting his head in his palms as he tries not to collapse on to the floor in laughter. “The project was due on Monday! And, hey, we got it done, and I somehow got a decent grade in the end.”

“Ah,” Minho leans back into his chair as he looks up to the wall to his left, smiling as he wipes a tear from his eye. “I’d love to scold you for that, but the truth is, I can’t. I did the same things in uni ten years ago.”

Changbin rests his chin against the back of his hand, languidly smiling as he watches Minho get lost in memories past. These moments that they shared, where they were just so plainly human — not a famous artist, not a struggling art student, but simply Minho and Changbin — these were why Changbin never sought out another partner. It was unconventional to most people, especially those his age, to have such a hands-off relationship, but it just worked for them. Sometimes, the things that came off the most discordant could somehow still find a way to harmonize, and that was what they did.

“You know, you didn’t totally open the envelope,” Minho points at the middle of the table with an open hand, as if he were guiding Changbin back to the thick paper.

Changbin shrugged his shoulders and bashfully looked away for a moment before staring Minho down. “Come on, Min,” he lowers his voice a bit, “I don’t need to know how much you’re giving me, at least not now.”

Minho dismissively waves his hand before nudging the envelope back to Changbin. “It’s not just money, love, I promise. Nothing too domestic, either. Just,” he pauses, bringing a finger to his chin as he looks up at the ceiling, “I suppose it’s partially a token of my appreciation? Yeah, that sounds right. A way to tell you I’m thankful you’ve stuck around for so long, even with all of the weird shit we’ve gone through. There’s more to it than that, but that sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

“I dunno, you’re making this feel like a real relationship,” the bluenette sarcastically mumbles a bit as he gingerly picks up the envelope, squinting a bit at Minho. He opens it, then pulls out a few plastic-like polymer bills: some green, some red. His expression quickly shifts to confusion when he comes across papery stationary, the textural difference causing a nerve to spark up in his arm. Stationary. A letter? He pulls the light grey paper out of the envelope, eyeing Minho as he opens it. “Really? Getting awfully boyfriend-like on me, Min.”

“Oh, come on, just read it,” the older man tuts, rifling through the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “I promise, it’s not as sappy as it looks.”

Changbin plucks his glasses from the table, wiggling the temples to fit just behind his ears, then clears his throat. He tries to swallow down the smirk on his face as he mocks Minho’s intonation and speech. “My loveliest Changbin,” a laugh creeps up from his stomach as he reads on. “Every single day, I wake up and I see your ‘arranged: in black’ pieces, intricately framed behind my bed, and I’m taken aback by the fact that your mind knows no bounds when it comes to expressing creativity.” The younger man peers over the sheet again, studying the somewhat bored, slightly flustered expression on the elder’s face.

“So I had a couple of glasses of wine while writing, I got a bit sentimental.” Minho flutters his lips as he rolls his eyes and flicks his wrist. “At least it’s not as bad as last year’s letter.”

Changbin smiled, but quickly brought the paper in front of his face to hide the subtle reddish tint growing on his face. “I usually don’t like keeping my own work, as you know,” he continued to read off of the letter, still avoiding eye contact with Minho, “but the graphite portrait of you, asleep on my bed from your last bout of finals — it holds a special spot in my heart. I love seeing it every time I enter my closet. It’s like there are little reminders of you scattered across my apartment, and across my heart.”

Oh.

There was a warmth that blossomed and grew in Changbin’s abdomen. The warmth reminded him of ivy hanging off of old buildings, quickly encompassing and embracing everything within its reach. It was a strange sensation, and it gave him pause before he continued reading the note.

Perhaps this was more than sentimental.

Perhaps Changbin was reading too far into things again.

“Changbin?” Minho’s voice pulled the bluenette from the cavern of thoughts he had recessed himself into. “Where did you go?” His tone was firm, distracting Changbin from the fact that Minho had interlaced his fingers between the younger man’s left hand.

This was something they always did. Minho was always touchy-feely, even if it didn’t progress past shirtless embraces as they slept next to each other, or walking hand-in-hand. The way the pads of Minho’s fingertips softly caressed the back of his hand, though, made things seem different. Special.

“Your closet.” Realizing he had spent too much time losing himself in between the grooves of Minho’s fingerprints, Changbin sputtered out some words to barely form a coherent thought. “You reminded me that I still have one of your Burberry hoodies lost somewhere in my apartment.”

Minho furrowed his brows for a moment, trying not to get caught up on how distant Changbin’s response was. “The oversized black one? You know I don’t mind if you keep it, Bin.”

“It was nearly a thousand dollars, Minho.”

The older man scoffs and rolls his eyes a bit, bringing his left hand up to the table, a small brown box of sorts covered up by his palm. “Well,” the brunette squeezed Changbin’s hand a bit, causing them to make eye contact, “when you’re done reading that letter, I’ll be sure to avoid telling you how much your ‘anniversary’ gift is.” Minho winked as he ended his sentence, right when Changbin was thinking about saying something in protest.

“Minho,” Changbin whines, drooping his shoulders a bit as he frowns.

“Changbin,” Minho teases a bit as he mockingly whines in response. “Trust me, it’s not just me spending money aimlessly. It’ll tie into the idea I have in that letter. You know, really make some of those tabloids make us look nice and get off our backs for a while.”

The younger man bit his tongue and scanned his eyes down the letter, trying to find the last spot he had read over. Across my apartment , reading the words caused his hands to sweat, across my heart, made his stomach clench. Domestic and soft, exactly what they were, but also, somehow exactly what they were not. He continued reading off the letter, but his memories started creeping up during the empty gaps between sentences.

There was the callous bite to Minho’s tone during their first real meet-up. “Our arrangement is for mutual gains: you’ll be able to live comfortably, and I’ll get the press off of my back. You won’t be a starving artist, and I’ll no longer be ‘Minho, the Heartless’. We’re professional boyfriends: all of the benefits, none of the downsides, like feelings.” His bony hands felt cold, like ice, when they shook hands to confirm their arrangement. Changbin had felt in over his head then, but he knew he didn’t have anywhere else to turn.

In contrast, there was the night that Changbin had recently stayed over at the end of October. They had gotten back shortly after one in the morning after celebrating Minho’s thirty-first birthday with a handful of his friends and several well-renowned professional artists and gallery owners. Sure, Changbin had been Minho’s quote-unquote “boyfriend” for the night, but it benefitted his art career a bit, just to branch out and connect. None of that had mattered, though, because the best part was when they had gotten half-undressed and passed out on Minho’s duvet together, giggling about how some of the attendees thought ‘artist’s birthday’ meant ‘licence to dress as insanely as humanly possible’. The one-on-one time was always what Changbin looked forward to the most: that soft, personal connection with another person on such a raw, human level.

That was the weekend he borrowed Minho’s black, oversized Burberry sweater to wear home. Changbin lied earlier. He knew exactly where it was: curled up next to his wall in his bed. The soft scent of bergamot and mandarin of the Dior Sauvage that Minho wore on his wrists and in the divots of his clavicles had slowly started to fade into hints of vanilla and sandalwood. While he knew that his arrangement with Minho wouldn’t last forever, he wanted to live in the moments that made him feel like he was in a true, caring relationship. He had a friend in Minho, he truly did. It would probably hurt like hell when they eventually decided to move on from their agreement.

We're professional. Changbin would remind himself every night as he curled up into Minho’s sweater, remembering the way Minho’s arms felt warm on his back and on his shoulders, how soft his manicured fingers were when they fit perfectly in between Changbin’s. We are not real boyfriends. The sweater would catch his inevitable tears as he lost himself in the confusing haze they had painted themselves under. Business dynamic. This was the price he would pay to get into the elusive elitist art world. Strictly professional.

Even if it cost him his sanity.

“Did I just read that correctly?” Changbin’s voice was alarmed, and he frantically re-read the words on the paper before darting his eyes around nervously. Minho smirked as Changbin leaned over the table, dropping his voice to a just-audible whisper. “You want to do what to get the press’ attention?”

Minho grabbed the ashy brown jewellery box from the table, letting go of Changbin’s left hand. He opened the box and his expression flattened. “Exactly what the paper says, Bin.” Inside the desaturated box sat a contrastingly bright, rose gold band.

It was a ring embedded with actual fucking diamonds.

To anyone else, this would be serious. ‘Call your parents, scream at your best friend, even at two in the morning’ levels of seriousness. However, Changbin and Minho were not ‘anyone else’. They were in their own strange, unique bubble where the rules of modern society did not apply to them.

“How about we graduate from professional boyfriends to professional fiancés?”

Like most Sunday mornings nowadays, Changbin woke up to the scent of freshly-brewed coffee. Minho may have travelled to fancy galleries across the world and tried extravagant blends of coffee during his tenure, but he would always fall back on Starbucks’ blonde roast for his morning routines. “Why bother going through all of the effort of getting my hands on something overly fancy from Europe? I have yet to be let down by this one, and it’s been over ten years since I started drinking it. Why stop now?”

The logic made sense, really, and the coffee wasn’t bad.

“The Vancouver Sun’s already got an article out,” Minho excitedly muttered under his breath, setting a ceramic mug down on the nightstand closest to Changbin. He stared at his phone as he made his way back around the bed, causing the mattress to sink as he sat down. “So many people are speculating, like it even matters. If they had really been following me these past two years, they’d know better.”

It was too early for this. Minho was always business as soon as he woke up: endearing in theory, terribly annoying in practice.

Changbin rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands as he rolled onto his back, sleepily glaring up at Minho. “You’re loud.”

“And you’re hungover,” the brunette quipped, not looking away from his phone as he smiled at himself. “Drink your water and your coffee, love, you’ll feel better.”

“Whatever,” Changbin grumbled under his breath as he sat up, reaching over to the nightstand. There was a sheen on his left hand that caused him to momentarily lose his breath. Shit. He drew his hand into his face to stare at the ring he had conveniently forgotten about overnight. It felt like nothing before he noticed it, but now that he was staring at it, it felt like the ring was going to cut off the circulation to his finger. It felt like a boa constrictor was tightening around him, making it hard to breathe.

Changbin had every intention to pull himself away from the suffocation of the ring. Instead, he found himself trying to count each small diamond wedged between the two layers of rose gold. A sudden dip right behind him and an arm around his waist literally pulled him from his thoughts. “Min!”

“It’s pretty,” Minho gently grabbed Changbin’s hand, tucking his chin into the younger man’s shoulder. “I didn’t know if you’d like rose gold, but I know you hate gold, and silver’s too simple for you. For a fake engagement ring, seems pretty convincing, hmm?”

As much as he doesn’t want to, Changbin sinks into Minho’s embrace. Blame it on the fatigue, he figured, but found himself surprised that the older man didn’t pull away. For the shortest of moments, it almost feels like they’re meant to fit together like this. “It’s expensive,” the brunette whispers, “to no one’s surprise, so please don’t lose it.”

The younger man squints in disapproval. “How much was it?”

“It’s impolite to ask a fiancé something like that, you know,” Minho huffs a bit dramatically as he feigns irritation.

Changbin, however, seems plenty irritated for the both of them. He rolls around, mere centimetres away from Minho’s face as he frowns up at the older man. “It’s a good thing this is all fake, then, right? How much was it?”

“Bin,” the brunette’s expression falters as he cocks his head to the side. “It’s not important, I don’t understand why you’re so—”

Changbin desperately wants to stay this close to Minho, to drown in his embrace and the warmth of his touch. Professional. Fake boyfriends, fake fiancés. “It’s just for show, I know. Since it’s fake, though, you shouldn’t have a problem telling me, right?” There’s a layer of hurt in his voice that he knows he can’t hide. He dips his chin into his chest and closes his eyes, desperate to make this all just stop and go away. Something about this, though, just felt too real, too close to an actual relationship.

What the fuck were they doing? All of this had to cross some sort of unspoken relationship rule somewhere, right? The blurred lines between what was real and what was fake in their arrangement was causing Changbin's head to spin.

Minho doesn’t seem sure about how to handle the situation. The moments pass by in silence until the older man takes in a deep breath, then he wiggles his index finger under Changbin’s chin, tilting his face upwards. “Hey,” he quietly demands, “look at me, Bin.”

So, the bluenette does as requested. He stares into Minho’s eyes and instantly softens.

“If it bothers you that much, I can go out and get something simpler.” Minho’s voice quivers a bit, almost like he feels how uncomfortable Changbin is. “I just… I don’t know what I was thinking when I went out and I got this one. I looked around with the agent for over an hour, and then that one just caught my eye, just as things were looking hopeless.”

Suddenly, Changbin’s hand is in Minho’s again, and the older man stares at the band with purpose, rotating the younger man’s hand around freely. “I guess I put in a bit too much of a personal flair on this. I really prioritized what I figured you’d like before the importance of keeping up the façade that this is all fake.”

They both stare at the ring for a moment, then look at one another. Neither of them moved, neither of them breathed as they stared at each other with shared panic, concern, worry. There was an unfamiliar emotion that lingered at the back of their gaze, but it was hard to place. Changbin hadn’t felt anything like this before. He was equal parts nervous, nauseated, and lost.

If this were like the romantic comedies that Changbin and Seungmin would watch while hungover, this would be the part where Minho would roll on top of him, say something like “fuck the rules, I just want you”. They would cry and kiss and roll around the sheets together. There would be a swell of uplifting orchestral music in the background, indicating that fate had given its blessing on the couple.

This wasn’t a movie, though. This was fucking reality, and there was nothing but tension in the air and a yearning in the bottom of Changbin’s stomach. Their situation was complex and convoluted and it was going to end in heartbreak for him, and only him. Really, he had no one to blame but himself.

Our arrangement is for mutual gains. Minho’s voice was so loud.

We’re professional boyfriends. It was sour.

All of the benefits, none of the downsides, like feelings. It hurt as it echoed in Changbin’s head, but Minho’s voice was all he wanted to hear.

Feelings.

Feelings?

That’s when it hit Changbin: he was falling for Minho — Minho, the (supposedly, yet to be proven) Heartless — and he couldn’t stop himself, no matter how stupid he knew it was. Perhaps the most terrifying part of this, though, wasn’t the fact that Minho didn’t feel the same way.

No, the most terrifying thing was that Changbin couldn’t tell if Minho was actually interested in him or not. Minho always felt strongly one way or another. For them to sit here, struck dumb in silence, was unnerving. The silence meant uncertainty.

It meant possibility.

#we're professional #skz fics #lee minho x seo changbin #seo changbin x lee minho #minbin #minho x changbin #changbin x minho #wherevermyway

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