wherevermyway

[wherevermyway]

LEE KNOW // ODD IMAGINATION (221224)

[wherevermyway]

fuck anyone that plagiarises fic (or any other media). if ao3 user skytoseungmin is lurking (or any other plagiarist, for that matter), i hope this haunts you for the rest of your days. we don’t claim you in our fandom, and we sure as shit don’t want you here — not now, not ever.

absolutely despicable.

i certainly hope that OP can heal from this revolting and horrendous experience. 💔

on fanfic plagiarism

Almost five years ago, in January of 2019, someone I'd never met before reached out to tell me that one of my Pynch fics, "Word on the Street," had been plagiarized.

I remember that the stolen fic was posted in k-pop fandom, though not what specific band it related to -- I'm not into k-pop, or really into pop music at all.

I remember that the person who messaged me told me that they had found my fic because the plagiarist had a reputation for stealing fic, so when they'd posted a new story, this person had known to do some digging.

I don't remember what the plagiarist's username was. I remember scanning the stolen story, trying both to read every detail and to avoiding taking any of it in, because looking at that right-but-wrong, not-quite-there, uncanny-valley-ness of it made me queasy.

I remember being darkly amused that the plagiarist had cut out the reference to the main character suffering physical abuse at the hands of his father -- I guess it didn't make sense in the context of the new character. It's almost like the story wasn't written for him. It's almost like someone wrote the story about Adam Parrish, instead.

I filed an AO3 complaint, on the grounds that this was a blatant and unarguable violation of their plagiarism policy. Within twenty-four hours, they got back to me, and the story was removed.

It was a weird, uncomfortable, gross feeling, knowing someone had taken words I'd written and passed them off as their own.

But at the same time -- "Word on the Street" was a silly thing I dashed off pretty quickly, during a period of my life when I was doing a lot of writing. It hurt to have it stolen. It was a violation. But…I had other words, that were more important to me. Maybe that was a buffer.

-

Last month, about six weeks ago, someone I'd never met before reached out to tell me that one of my Pynch fics, "there's talk going 'round this town," had been plagiarized.

I was, bizarrely, amused.

I was less bizarrely furious. I was understandably, relatably, I would say rationally, furious. But in a way (and as always, when I say in a way, I am calling back to the scholars of overthinkingit.com for whom in a way is meant as the thing I have just said or am about to say is false) -- in a way, I was amused.

The plagiarist clearly did a 'find and replace' on the character names, to replace Adam and Ronan's names with those of k-pop characters. They did a bad job of it, since the name "Ronan" still appears in one paragraph and the name "Parrish" still appears in two paragraphs. The fic is here, in case anyone doesn't believe me, under the name "i do(n't remember)". At first when I complained about the fic on tumblr, I didn't mention the name, or which fic they'd stolen, because I was worried about anyone…I don't know, making a scene. I've stopped caring. AO3 user springguk is bad at find and replace and they should feel bad. About their computer skills, and also about their blatant plagiarism.

springguk also did some more edits to my fic, I have to give them credit for that. I wrote "there's talk going 'round this town" within a relatively short time span, for me. I tend to either finish things within one week, or else take several months. I believe this one took about five or six weeks completely to write -- I was very inspired.

(I was inspired, specifically, by the press coverage of Winona Ryder and Keanu Reeves 'discovering' they might be 'accidentally' married. I mention that in my author's notes. springguk doesn't mention what 'inspired' them in their author's notes. I wonder how they talk about it with friends. They do, in their author's notes, include a link to their ko-fi, and a request that people buy them a coffee.)

If I'd taken longer with this fic, I might have made some edits. Even at the time, I knew I was being self-indulgent in letting the scene with my teenage female OC talk at such length with Ronan about what his non-canonical film career had meant to her, a person the audience didn't care about. But I had fun. I liked Fox. I didn't want to cut her, and what the hell, it was fanfic. I decided to self-indulge.

I was darkly amused to find that springguk did cut out the scene with Fox from their plagiarized version. Maybe springguk is a more disciplined editor than I am. Maybe springguk just didn't have a good k-pop character to map Fox onto. Maybe springguk didn't even realize that Fox was an OC. Do you know anything about the fandom you steal fics from, springguk? I can't help but wonder. Have you read The Raven Cycle? Do you care about teenage OCs who steal cars because of fake films that are clearly meant to be stand-ins for The Fast and the Furious franchise?

Maybe springguk just didn't give a fuck, because none of their heart and soul was poured into this fic. I cared too much about Fox. springguk doesn't care about a single word in the fic they published. Why would they? They didn't write it.

I'm being a little mean in naming them so many times. But I'm able to, this time, because although I filed a plagiarism complaint with AO3 six weeks ago, springguk's stolen fic "i do(n't remember)," is still available to read on AO3 to this very day. I don't have to wrack my brains to remember what their username was, or which k-pop band they recast my work with. I can just look at their fic with its 24 comments and 151 kudos. Hell, maybe that fic is even better than mine, if you don't mind that by cutting the sequence with Fox they've sacrificed a fairly substantial development in the romantic relationship, and also if you don't care that at one point the characters names switch from Jeongguk and Taehyung to Ronan and Parrish, because seriously, for fuck's sake, if you're going to steal a fic at least do a goddamn ctrl+f at the end.

I was mad. I was amused. I made a complaint that the AO3, six weeks later, has still not acted on. I mostly moved on.

-

Tonight, someone I'd never met before reached out to tell me that one of my Pynch fics, "while we're on the subject, could we change the subject now," had been plagiarized.

I wanted to vomit.

I was supposed to be playing Dungeons and Dragons online with friends tonight; I spent the entire call unable to focus on anything anyone was saying. I had to keep reminding myself that I was on camera and my face wasn't supposed to look like that.

"while we're on the subject, could we change the subject now" is the first of a series of, currently, twelve fics. skytoseungmin, the person who stole it to pass it off as their own work, knew this. Their stolen version was published as part one of a series, though they hadn't published any of the sequels. Presumably, they wanted to wait long enough to make it plausible they'd gone and written the follow ups, instead of just finding them.

skytoseungmin likely didn't know that this fic and this series are intensely personal. They didn't know that the apartment that Adam -- Seungmin, in their ill-gotten version -- lives in, that was based in part off of the apartment I lived in for a year in Pico-Robertson with talldecafcappuccino. They didn't know that the 7-Eleven Adam buys coffee at is the same one I used to tease talldecafcappuccino for buying coffee at. They didn't know that the strip club where Adam and Ronan have their humorously ill-timed romantic revelation outside of, that was the strip club I used to use as a landmark when giving people directions for how to navigate the confusing as fuck freeway exit I lived near, which once caused me to accidentally tell my highly Catholic parents "just go past the strip club and you're good!"

skytoseungmin didn't know that the apartment Adam -- sorry, Seungmin, thoroughly, they were better with find and replace than springguk -- lived in, was also based off of my ex's apartment in Palms, where I as the mere visiting girlfriend was never allowed to park in the parking lot. Where I would sometimes have to spend twenty or thirty minutes circling the neighborhood before I could find parking, often a walk of several minutes away. skytoseungmin doesn't know that when Ronan's car get towed from a McDonald's parking lot, that that was a specific McDonald's on Venice Boulevards, the same one my ex's asshole roommate used to just roll his eyes and say that I should park at. skytoseungmin doesn't know that I once wished passionately that I had just parked in that McDonald's parking lot and risked getting towed, on the occasion that a man followed me several unlit blocks from my car. skytoseungmin doesn't know that when I talk about how helping someone park is the truest love language there is in Los Angeles, that that was what I meant. Has skytoseungmin ever had to circle to half an hour to find parking in Los Angeles? Has skytoseungmin ever loved someone enough to do that, instead of saying, fuck it, they can come to me or we're breaking up? Has skytoseungmin ever loved someone in Los Angeles enough, to do as my ex did, and come running as fast as humanly possibly when their girlfriend called them whispering and crying on the phone, someone's following me, please, I'm scared, I wish I just parked at the McDonald's?

"while we're on the subject, could we change the subject now" is a very personal fic.

It isn't half as personal as some of the fics that come after.

skytoseungmin marked their plagiarized version of the fic as part one of a series. Were they planning on stealing part two, where I, through an alternate universe characterization of Ronan Lynch, dig into my experience of grief and trauma surrounding my grandmother's dementia? Were they planning on stealing any of the explicit fics, where I play with kink and desire in ways I haven't even exposed to my actual sexual partners, but where I felt able to through the guise of fandom? What else was skytoseungmin planning on stealing, with charming little author's notes apologizing for how they missed the fandom-relevant date they were shooting for, because they were so busy with exams, tee-hee! Why the excuses, skytoseungmin? how long does it take you to ctrl+f, even if you are more thorough about it than springguk?

If I seem too accusatory and mean-spirited toward skytoseungmin, well, the LA verse is a very personal fic.

And it's also, it turns out, only one of eight different fics that they stole from me.

I didn't even notice at first, to be honest. I was too stunned. But my friend Jessie, my Lady Galahad, went to my defense and clicked through to the author's page, while I was still reeling at the horrible possibilities of part one of a series. It turned out, of eight fics on skytoseungmin's author's page…I had written every single one of them.

Some were short and pretty lighthearted, things I hadn't had to invest too much of myself into -- like I said, sometimes, I can write a fic in under a week.

Other things…

They stole the space western AU.

I don't think I can articulate to any human being how much that hurt me, to look at it, to see.

I wrote that as a thank you gift for someone who donated to Fandom Trumps Hate.

I spent nearly two years of my life on it -- two years during which, because of mental health issues and life situation changes, my words per year dropped precipitously. I still haven't recovered. I still think of what a failure I am for not writing more, currently, actively, and I remember how the space western AU was both a symptom of that and a defiance of it: yes, writing has become fucking hard, fucking NEARLY IMPOSSIBLE, but I'm still doing it, goddamn it, you can't stop me, even if all I produce is the tiniest trickle of words a month. it can still add up, somehow, if we just keep TRYING.

To see the space western AU, casually nestled amongst a half dozen other fics that were all apparently casually dashed off in the same month…I know it was theft, I know it was a lie, but it still felt like a slap in the face, why can't you write this fast?

Jessie, my Lady Galahad, went on a campaign of commenting on all of skytoseungmin's (my) fics, and I am so thankful. The k-pop fans who heard Jessie have been reaching out, to her, to me, to each other on Twitter, and I am so thankful for them too. skytoseungmin has deleted all of their (my) fics on AO3, and their entire AO3 account, and their entire twitter, apparently. Maybe they were hoping to get enough clicks to parlay them into some kind of book deal, and they'd now rather give up what was a low investment effort on their part than be associated with accusation of plagiarism.

I suppose they can always start over with a new user name and someone else's fics if they really want to.

I suppose they can always start over with a new username and my fics, if they really want to.

And after all, AO3 has still not reached out to me about springguk, and "i do(n't remember)" is still sitting there. Maybe springguk is also going for a book deal. Who knows?

Why complain about any of it?

In a way* (and remember what "in a way" means), isn't it a compliment, if someone loves the words I wrote, even if they don't know it was me that wrote them? toast-the-unknowing and shinealightonme, if they're the same name (and they are), then why not springguk or skytoseungmin, too?

Am I making too big of a deal out of this? Does everyone just have their work stolen from them, all of the time? Is that simply the cost of doing business in an era and an ecosystem where we all can copy and paste twenty-four thousand words with greater ease than our ancestors could transcribe a single phrase? Are more prolific, more famous, more successful fan authors looking at my piteous cries and thinking, bitch, you've only been ripped off by k-pop fans ten times, come back when you have real problems?

And yet in a month, a year, a whole life phase of not being able to write as much as I would like to, because of my health, because of my work, to have someone else just casually pass off the words I have managed to eke out, as though they have no value, as though it were no more than photo copying a shitty flier to stick under a windshield wiper…

I can't imagine springguk or skytoseungmin give a shit how I feel about any of this. At best, they roll their eyes; at worst they laugh to know they hurt me -- and what's the difference between the two? I'll never know either way.

I know that some of the people they duped do care, and are also upset. That helps. And also, it doesn't help.

I just fucking hate all of this, and if all I have are words, and if my words are valuable enough for someone to steal, then here, here are enough of them to choke on. I know I did.

#fuck plagiarism #fandom #a special fuck you to ao3 user skytoseungmin

[wherevermyway]

written on your bedroom wall // minbin (minho/changbin) // oneshot // hard 18+

❄ part of yuki’s favourites! ❄

pairing: lee minho x seo changbin rating: explicit! 18+ warnings/tags: pxrn with plot, established relationship, first time, trans male character, trans Lee Minho | Lee Know, idiots in love, gender dysphoria (only a little bit of dysphoria), holding hands, pegging, oral sex, awkward sexual humour, tongue piercings . word count: 5,2k also on AO3!

originally posted: 21 november 2022

It had been weeks, if not months, that Minho spent preparing everything down to the last detail. Tonight was the first time he was going to completely bare himself to his long-term boyfriend, Changbin.

Tonight was the first time that Minho was going to fuck like a man, as long as his nerves didn't get the better of him.

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.

Minho paced the bedroom floor as he waited for his boyfriend to finish showering. His nerves made his palms sweat, and he was running out of fingernails to anxiously chew off. He had already spent the past few hours making sure he was groomed and the toys he wanted to use were cleaned and immaculately laid out on the desk. 

This was the first time he had slept with anyone since he’d started hormone therapy, and he was nervous that Changbin was going to be turned off as soon as he was between his legs. “God,” Minho exhaled forcefully and stopped in front of his desk, staring down at the harness he never thought he would finally use. He chewed on his bottom lip while he ran his fingers over the collection of realistic silicone dildos that he hoped wouldn’t scare Changbin off. There was his favourite purple one, too, in case the other ones looked too “real” for someone who had never slept with a man before. 

A man.

Minho rolled his eyes at himself, trying to ignore the wash of dysphoria bubbling up underneath his skin. He let a scoff escape his lips and he leaned onto the desk, overwhelmed with how nervous he was. They had planned tonight out a couple weeks in advance, talking through every potential action they were and weren’t interested in — just in case, of course. 

“Babe?” Changbin’s voice was soft, almost as soft as the hand placed on the small of Minho’s back. “You sure you’re up for this?”

A squeaky, weak affirmation rumbled in Minho’s throat and he shakily nodded his head. He leaned back into Changbin’s touch, thankful that the lights were low so the uneasy look on his face was concealed. Minho tucked his chin into his chest as he took in a deep breath. He threw his head back against Changbin’s shoulder and sighed, reaching his hands around to grab his boyfriend’s hands and brought them around his waist. 

“I’ll be okay,” Minho licked his lips as he looked up at Changbin, “I just don’t want you to be weirded out by any of this.”

Changbin’s lips curled up and he chuckled to himself, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to Minho’s forehead. He interlaced his fingers with Minho’s and hummed pleasantly. “I trust you with your collection, so if you trust me with going down on you, I think we’ll be okay.”

Minho pressed his thighs together on impulse, his stomach burning at the thought of seeing Changbin between his legs, sucking him off with his eager mouth. “It’s gonna be different than—”

“Minho, babe,” Changbin cut him off, pulling his head back with a grin on his face, “you’ve told me. I’m ready to do whatever you want me to, like, you should feel how excited I am to get my tongue on your dick.”

The little affirmation to Minho’s ego made him swallow hard. He arched his back and pressed his ass right up into Changbin’s crotch, grinning as he felt the length against him. “You’re awfully excited for someone that’s never sucked a single cock in your life.”

“It’s you, though.” Changbin giggled and leaned forward to nibble at Minho’s neck. He swiped his tongue up the side of his neck, the ball of his tongue piercing against his flesh made him gasp. “I’ll do anything to make you happy, babe. I’m gonna make sure that happens when I’m between those nice thick legs of yours.”

Minho leaned forward and grabbed a bottle of lube off of the desk and presented it in front of Changbin, nibbling at his bottom lip while he waited for the right words to surface. He tipped his head down, nervously looking up to his boyfriend. “I think I’m ready.”

The grin on Changbin’s face grew wider, and he grabbed Minho by the hips. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Minho flatly stated with a nod and stepped back. He grabbed Changbin’s hand and walked them around to the edge of their shared bed. With a shaky breath, he sat down on the bed and looked up at Changbin, his hands moved down past the hem of his oversized hoodie to the waistband of his joggers. “Do you want me to take this off or do you want—”

Changbin eagerly nodded and dropped to his knees in front of Minho on the floor. “Can I? Pretty please?”

A blush crept up on Minho’ face at the sight, unaware of how much he liked seeing Changbin this excited to drop to his knees to please him. “Y-yeah,” he sighed and dropped to his elbows, relaxing just enough to see Changbin strip him, “I trust you.”

Changbin was quick to tug at the strings of Minho’s sweatpants, even faster to pull them off by the waistband. The moment Minho’s flesh was exposed to the cool air, he pressed his thighs together and screwed his eyelids shut in embarrassment. Insecure thoughts bubbled up, knowing that Changbin could see the one thing that he hadn’t been comfortable with until years of testosterone had made him look a little more masculine. Even though they had been together for over a year at this point, Minho still couldn’t bring himself to ever let his boyfriend see what was his biggest fear.

The silence made the anxiety inside of Minho swell. He could feel Changbin’s eyes on his skin, his boyfriend’s hands gingerly reaching up his thighs, crawling up them to the trimmed tuft of hair between his legs. Minho couldn’t stop running his teeth over his bottom lip, willing himself to relax his muscles to part his legs.

“Minho,” Changbin practically whined, “I wanna get in between your legs, wanna suck you off so bad.” He grabbed Minho’s leg and pressed his hips up against it, his erection prominent against the muscle. “Babe, you’re gonna make a mess out of me before you even get inside of me.”

Minho whimpered as he lifted his head, looking down at Changbin. “Too bad I’m not gonna let you come until you’ve earned it.”

The younger man’s eyes went wide, swallowing audibly as he stared up at his boyfriend. “I’ll earn it, hyung, I promise.”

Finally, Minho laid fully back and spread his legs apart, nervously grabbing at the hem of his hoodie. He pulled it up a bit, exposing his toned stomach. “Prove it. Please, please, please get my cock in that pretty little mouth of yours and show me what you can do.”

Changbin wasted no time leaning in. Minho felt the metal rings on either side of his bottom lip rub up against his swollen skin, gasping at the first graze of his boyfriend’s tongue on his dick. The first swipes of his tongue made Minho mewl, each circle making his body twitch. It was a strange, familiar sensation made somehow more intense than he remembered.

“You taste so good, hyung.” In between swipes of his tongue, Changbin desperately panted out eager praise with a weak voice. He growled as he licked and sucked at the tender flesh in front of his face, continuing to eagerly and loudly roll his tongue in circles, the ball of the piercing making his head spin. 

The perverse noises made Minho’s stomach flip, and he finally garnered enough courage to peek at Changbin for just a moment. In the split second Minho saw Changbin, the image of his boyfriend losing himself as he ravaged his way between his legs seared into his mind. The sight emboldened Minho enough to watch a bit longer, potential dysphoria be damned.

Changbin swirled his tongue around a few more times, the ball of his tongue ring occasionally brushing up against the sensitive skin in all of the right ways. After the nth swipe, he looked up and stared at Minho, freezing for just a moment. “Are you okay, babe? Need me to stop?”

Minho hissed as he propped himself up on his elbows. He sat partially upright, and reached down to grab Changbin’s hair. “Please,” he quietly groaned, firmly tugging at his boyfriend’s hair, “if you don’t make me come soon, I will ruin you.” Before Changbin could respond, Minho roughly pushed him further in between his legs, causing the younger man to whine and moan against his skin.

Every tongue flick made Minho reel. He kept his hand in Changbin’s hair and was involuntarily rolling his hips into each lick and suck that was impressed into his flesh. “Fucking hell,” he groaned, thankful that their bedroom was a corner unit so their neighbours couldn’t hear the filthy noises they were making, “I can’t believe you’ve never sucked dick, yet you’re working me up like you’re an experienced, cheap whore.”

The insult made Changbin pull away from Minho abruptly with a sharp cry. He looked up at his boyfriend with teary eyes, his face shimmering in saliva. “God, babe,” he whined, “I seriously feel like I’m about to explode.”

Minho cocked his head to the side and let his hand drop down to Changbin’s cheek. “Then take a breath. I told you that I wasn’t gonna let you come for a while, didn’t I?”

Changbin pouted in response, leaning into Minho’s touch. “Am I at least doing okay, hyung?”

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” Minho softly smiled, then returned his grasp to Changbin’s hair, guiding him back down between his legs. “Now, back to work with you. I can’t wait to come all over that pretty face of yours and then make your ass mine.”

As soon as Changbin went back to eagerly lapping him up, Minho laid back and wrapped his legs around his boyfriend’s shoulders. In between languid swipes of his tongue, Changbin offered a few nips to Minho’s inner legs, his hands circling around the older man’s fleshy thighs. He pulled back just enough for his warm breath to disappear from Minho’s skin. 

“Can I use my fingers inside you or is that too… you know?”

It took a second for Minho to ground himself, the unintentional edging driving him mad. “You wanna fuck me with your fingers?”

Changbin weakly hummed. “If that’s okay.”

Minho lazily pointed towards where he thought Changbin put the lube and nodded. “It’s more than okay, you’re just gonna need some lube.”

The moment Minho heard the cap pop open, his stomach started to knot up. A wave of insecure, dysphoric thoughts tried to creep their way into his thoughts, but they were pushed away as soon as Changbin’s soft, sticky fingers were in between his legs, poking around his entrance. 

“Didn’t you say you have a history of making a mess when you come like this?” 

”Shit.” Minho flushed immediately, furrowing his brows in frustration as he realised his error of preparing for everything but this. “I didn’t grab a towel.”

A devious giggle came from Changbin as he slid his fingers inside of Minho, quelling the older man’s nervousness. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up, so just let go, hyung.”

Minho expected himself to curl up in embarrassment, but the sensation of having someone else’s fingers inside of him felt so foreign and unpredictable. It was a welcome distraction, enough to make him ignore the definite mess he would make when he came. Of course Changbin would clean it up — he had been looking forward to when Minho was finally going to be comfortable to be intimate, what was a little bit of cum going to do to someone so eager?

After two fingers were inside of Minho, rolling around and repeatedly curling up against the sensitive, firm muscle inside of him, he could feel warm breath on his skin. Changbin was waiting for some sort of approval to move forward, and Minho eagerly nodded, mumbling out some sort of incoherent pleading. 

The combination of fingers inside of him with a hot, wet tongue working around his sensitive cock made him audibly gasp. He flexed his thighs together involuntarily, his back arching upward. Every small move that Changbin did brought him so much closer to coming, and the imminent release made Minho unravel further. 

One lick, two circles. One suck, a firm come hither motion. 

Minho wasn’t sure how it was happening, but his body started to jerk, his toes curling inward, and he was lifting himself off of the bed. 

“Fuck,” he gasped, scrambling to grab at Changbin’s hair and failing, only to have his boyfriend’s free hand find him. They locked their fingers between the empty spaces and held on for dear life. “Changbin, fuck, I’m—”

Before Minho could register his orgasm, his body lurched forward and lifted up off of the bed, balancing mostly on Changbin’s shoulders. He could feel his vocal cords tense and vibrate as he shouted, and his legs were suddenly soaked with sweat and cum. It was impossible to steady his breathing for several moments, too taken aback by how much his muscles were aching and how drenched his skin was. 

“Minho, babe,” Changbin’s voice was low and gritty, each syllable embraced by little gasps, “you completely soaked me. Look at how much you came.”

The older man was embarrassed before he even opened his eyes. “I’m sorry you’re going to have to shower again.” Minho slowly calmed his breathing, sleepily staring up at the spinning ceiling. “But on the plus side, I don’t think I’ve ever come so hard in my life.”

“Hyung,” Changbin growled and stood up, crawling over Minho atop the bed, “I’m dripping in cum. My shirt is drenched.”

For a split second, Minho felt a little bad for how hard and how much he had came, but the look on Changbin’s face made it all worth it. “Good god,” he purred, “I’m keeping this look of yours locked away in my spank bank for when you’re away.”

Changbin licked his teeth and pulled his shirt off, tossing it over his shoulder. “I’d love to see you jerk off one of these days, you know. Spank bank content for spank bank content and all.”

“You’d think of me when you’re having a wank in the shower? I’m flattered.”

“And now I know what your cum tastes like. I’m going to be even more ravenous for you now than ever before.” Changbin hooked his thumbs into his sweats and pulled down, his cock springing free from the fabric with a thick string of precum rolling down from the head. “Look at what you’ve done to me, hyung. One wrong move and I’m gonna burst.”

Minho stared at the reddened top of Changbin’s cock and licked his lips. “Guess I’ll have to be extra cautious when I take that cherry of yours. I bet you’d look so pretty stuffed with some cock inside of you, hmm?”

The younger man nodded and crawled atop of Minho’s lap, eagerly leaning down to pepper excited kisses on his face. “I’m a little nervous. You’ll be good to me, right?”

A lilted giggle came from Minho as he pushed Changbin back a bit, grabbing fistfuls of his ass. “I’ll take things nice and slow, baby. Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours and just relax, okay?” He pressed some deep, hasty kisses against his boyfriend’s lips as he lifted his hips and gently shifted Changbin’s weight to the bed. “Why don’t you work on getting all lubed up while I get ready?”

Changbin pouted while Minho pulled away, his hand earnestly trailing down to the bottle of lube that had found its way next to his thigh. “Hey,” he grabbed Minho's hand before he could totally get off of the bed, “do you want me to, like. look away while you get prepped? I’m not making this weird or anything, am I?”

The tender muscles in Minho’s stomach lit up with nerves, trying to oddly rile him up while still feeling nervous. “It’s not weird,” he bashfully admitted, eyeing the corner of the room as he turned away, “I don’t know if it’s going to be particularly enjoyable to watch, but you can if you wanna.” Why in the world would it be entertaining to watch someone shove a synthetic cock into a harness?

“Well, if you think it’s creepy if I watch or something, just tell me, okay?” Changbin licked his lips, the saliva accentuating the gentle grin he had on his face. 

Minho playfully slapped the side of Changbin’s arm and lifted himself off the bed, shimmying over to the desk with his weak, jelly-like legs. “You’re kind of a perv, you know? I don’t think I’ve dated someone that’s this attentive and energetic — and I’ve fucked a lot of straight dudes.” He could feel Changbin staring at him as he grabbed the briefs he’d bought specifically for this occasion. When he stepped into the leg holes and slid them up his legs, his eyes locked onto the average-sized prosthetic he was most familiar with, and he knew that’s the one he would end up using. 

The room was quiet while Minho grabbed the toy off of the desk and carefully tucked it into his underwear, right through the tightly stitched ring inside of it. He had practised this many times to feel like a natural at it by the time he and Changbin eventually slept together, but Minho could still feel his blood rushing inside of his head, scared that maybe his boyfriend did find this a little weird after all. Still, the silence continued, shifting from confused to intrigued. 

“Can I see it yet?”

It was obvious that Changbin was trying to be patient but was miserably failing. Minho turned his head over his shoulder long enough to see Changbin stare at him. He turned his attention back to the silicone between his legs and deeply inhaled before working up the courage to turn around. This was the first time he was going to be seen as a man with a (mostly) functioning, (mostly) realistic-looking cock (as long as it wasn’t inspected too closely) — to a man born with a functioning, real, skin-and-literal-actual-balls cock, and he was nervous. 

“I don’t,” Minho’s voice cracked as an interjection while he anxiously turned around fully, “I dunno if it’s anywhere near what you expected but—”

“That’s going inside of me?” Changbin sputtered out, lube-soaked fingers frozen, plunged halfway inside of his entrance. “Oh my god, that’s going inside of me.”

Minho took a moment to process the words coming from his boyfriend’s mouth. He couldn’t figure out if it was a positive or negative statement, standing in the middle of the floor perhaps a bit dumbly. “Not until you’ve been properly stretched, but yeah,” he nodded, his throat dry as he tried to form a coherent sentence, ”I’d like to fuck you until you go cross-eyed with this, if you’re into it.”

Changbin shifted his weight, scooting down the bed a bit until his head was nicely placed at the middle of his pillow. He shimmied his hips up a bit and nibbled at his lips while his fingers circled around his entrance. “I’m into it,” he nodded, his cock noticeably throbbing and leaking more than before, “I wanna watch you the whole time. How do you want me to lay here?”

For a moment, Minho’s mind went completely blank. When he bottomed with previous partners prior to transitioning, he usually faced away, burying his face as deeply into the pillow as he could stand. Thinking back on it made him realise that the easiest face-to-face interaction would probably require Changbin putting in all of the effort, which Minho didn’t expect. However, the fleeting mental image of watching Changbin lower himself onto his cock made Minho completely breathless.

“I think I want you to ride me?” Minho’s voice squeaked as he ended his statement with an upward inflection, insecurity bleeding into it, making it sound more like a question. “Y-yeah,” he cleared his throat, “I definitely want that, actually.”

Changbin licked his bottom lip and slowly made his way up to his knees, watching Minho curiously. “You’re sure?”

Minho crawled onto the bed, kneeling right in front of Changbin. He nervously reached up to cup his boyfriend’s face before he planted a soft, quick kiss on his lips. “I’m certain, yeah. Are you stretched out enough for me?”

“Mm,” Changbin reached behind him and pulled the bottle of lube out, squeezing a generous amount into his hand, “I’m ready for you. Might take a second to acclimate, but I’ll make sure it’s a good show for you.” A devilish grin crept up the corners of his lips, and he slowly reached his hands down to the synthetic cock awkwardly jutting out of Minho’s harness. “Can I lube you up, baby?”

A lump got caught in Minho’s throat as he watched some lube drip down from Changbin’s hand onto his lap. He awkwardly reached out to grab Changbin’s hips, leading him back a bit so that he could lean against the wall. “Yeah. Is this position gonna be good, or should I move a little more—”

Changbin straddled Minho and cut him off with a deep kiss, swiping his tongue against Minho’s dry bottom lip. He dragged his teeth across the sensitive flesh and nipped firmly enough to make Minho whimper. Changbin pulled back slightly, letting his hands work on getting the dildo slicked up. “You’re doing that thing you do when you overthink. While I think it’s cute, I know that means you’re letting yourself freak out, and I don’t want you to worry.” He slowly lined himself up against the head of the cock and pressed his forehead against Minho’s. “Have a little faith in me, won’t you? It’s my first time doing this, too, and we’re doing pretty well for ourselves. Let me take control for a little bit, baby.”

Minho nervously nodded and awkwardly let his hands hover over Changbin’s hips, swallowing hard as he watched his boyfriend start to take him in. “S-should I, like, where should I put my hands? Do they go on your hips? Do I jerk you off?”

A light chuckle came from Changbin. “Minho, baby,” he whispered, using the back of his free hand to force Minho to meet his eyes, “do whatever’s natural. Stop overthinking and relax a little. It’ll come to you in a sec, ‘kay?”

“W…what?” Minho stuttered, then watched Changbin’s face contort into a bit of pain before he bit back a loud moan. His eyes immediately went wide, and he looked down to his lap.

It was only just the head, but his cock was actually inside of his boyfriend.

“Holy fuck.” Minho’s hands fell to the tops of Changbin’s thighs, almost as if he were helping guide his boyfriend down. He watched Changbin’s cock pulse as he hovered in the same spot, precum slowly spilling down his flesh. “You’re doing so well. I never thought I’d say this, but you look so good riding my dick like this.”

Changbin sharply inhaled through his teeth and looked down at Minho, his free hand pushing his chin up with his thumb, while the rest of his fingers rested at the back of Minho’s neck. “I could say the same about you, how good and eager you look popping my cherry right now.”

A sharp breath escaped Minho’s lips, like he’d been punched in the sternum. Something about the way Changbin phrased his dirty talk made his stomach flip, and he could feel his cock throb, begging for attention. “I haven’t even fucked you yet and I’m already looking forward to round two.”

Changbin softly laughed and continued sinking himself down onto Minho’s lap. “You haven’t even gotten me off yet and you’re already thinking about your needs? Hasn’t anyone ever told you that patience is a virtue, hyung?” 

Before Minho could respond, Changbin moaned loudly, his thighs coming into contact with Minho’s. He whimpered as he shakily, desperately kissed his way around Minho’s face until their lips met. They exchanged needy, passionate kisses while Changbin grabbed Minho’s hand and brought it to his dripping cock, silently begging to be touched. “Not too fast,” Changbin whispered at an elevated pitch, “just a little extra attention in a sec. It’s not gonna take long with you inside of me.”

Minho nodded and only slowly circled his thumb at the base of Changbin’s cock. “How’s it feel?” Sure, Minho had experienced the sensations of penetration before, but he was so curious to hear what exactly his boyfriend was feeling, and if it was anything similar to how good it felt for him. 

Changbin pressed a quick kiss to Minho’s lips before he placed his hands on the wall, pushing away a bit. His eyes were half-open, full of lust as he stared hungrily down at Minho. “It feels like we should be doing this at least once a week.” He reached one of his hands down to Minho’s hoodie and cocked his head to the side. “You still want this on? I know I’m gonna come all over it.”

“You already have to wash the sheets,” Minho reached down to Changbin’s hand, guiding it up under the fabric, past the scars under his pecs, “what’s a little more laundry for the night?”

The younger man looked surprised as his fingers grazed the soft skin of Minho’s chest. “You’ve never let me touch you here… you sure about this?”

Minho nodded. “It’s a night of firsts, and a lot of euphoria. I trust you, baby.”

A soft, eager smile immediately spread across Changbin’s face, baring his teeth. He giggled and nodded. “I love you, you know?”

“I love you too.” The look on Changbin’s face made Minho feel completely at ease, like tonight was going way better than either of them had anticipated. Minho slowly wrapped his fingers around the base of Changbin’s short and thick cock, careful to avoid the head for now. “C’mon,” he whispered, “fuck yourself on my dick, baby. Show me what those hips of yours can do.”

Changbin shuddered and slowly started to rock his hips, pressing more of his weight against Minho’s chest and the wall behind them. He clamped his eyelids shut as he slowly moved, unintelligible words spilling from his lips. His motions were low and shallow, but whatever he was doing seemed to make him feel good, making his nails dig into Minho’s chest hard enough to leave marks.

“That’s it.” Minho watched Changbin, taking in every small change of expression as he started to work his boyfriend’s flesh in his hand. This moment was something he wanted to bask in for the rest of his life. “How’s it feel to ride your boyfriend’s cock?”

“It’s good,” Changbin gasped, rolling his head to the side, “you’re so thick, Minho. It’s like you were made to be inside of me.”

A deep chuckle came from Minho’s throat. He kept his jerking motions gentle and slow until Changbin started to ride him faster, the harness causing enough friction against his cock to feel like it was really his flesh inside of his boyfriend. “That cute, fucked-out look on your face looks like you were meant to ride me for the rest of your life. You’re about to come, aren’t you?”

A tiny, shaky whimper came from Changbin as he weakly nodded his head. He partially opened his eyes, staring at Minho with a pleading gaze. “So close. Make me come, baby. Need you…”

Minho grabbed Changbin’s hip and dug his heels into the bed, thrusting his hips upward. The motion made Changbin curl inward and moan loudly, gasping out Minho’s name intermingled with broken pleas. For this being his first time taking control and fucking someone else, Minho felt a rush of pride help guide his hips and hand in the right motions. “Look at me, Changbin.”

Between thrusts, Changbin gasped and managed to maintain eye contact with Minho, visibly barely holding on.

“Come for me.”

With one last snap of Minho’s hips, Changbin cried out and fell forward onto his hands. Cum shot up between them, some staining Minho’s hoodie and some landing on both of their faces. As soon as the last dribble of cum spilled from his cock, Changbin collapsed into Minho’s chest, panting hard.

Minho could feel their sweat leach into the sheets, and he enjoyed the way Changbin’s back felt slick with cool sweat on his flushed skin as he rubbed his hands into the flesh. He turned his head and buried his nose into Changbin’s hair, taking in the smell of his conditioner and the smell of sex, feeling so many positive emotions as he did so. “I love you.” Minho whispered, pressing a soft kiss against his boyfriend’s head. “I love you so much.”

Changbin whined and slowly turned his head to face Minho, looking at him for only a moment before letting his eyelids flutter shut again. “I love you too. I’m gonna feel this in the morning, aren’t I?”

The way Changbin flatly delivered his question made Minho cackle. “Oh, baby,” he nudged his head against Changbin’s forehead and trailed his fingers down his back, “you’ve really never taken dick before, have you? You’ll be a little sore, sure, but I bet you’ll still be on cloud nine in the morning.”

Again, Changbin whined, this time a bit more dramatically. He snaked his arms around Minho’s back and groaned, burying his head deep into his boyfriend’s neck. “Sleep sounds good right now. Could get cosy right here and pass out, actually.”

“Oh no,” Minho wrapped his arms around Changbin and slowly forced them both upright, “we are absolutely not sleeping in these nasty sheets and I refuse to have your cum dry on our faces. C’mon,” he poked Changbin in the sides to jolt him upright, “you promised you would clean up the mess you made.”

“Technically,” Changbin grumbled, “you’re the one that made such a mess.” He peeled himself away from Minho’s chest and pouted. “I just happened to make you make said mess.”

Minho rolled his eyes and playfully pushed Changbin onto his back, giggling as he peppered kisses all over his boyfriend’s upper chest. “Okay, Mr Always-Sticks-to-his-Principles,” he quickly suckled a love bite into Changbin’s collarbone before staring down his boyfriend, “you can argue semantics all you want as you load our messy sheets into the laundry, then you can join me in the shower for round two. How’s that sound?”

Changbin’s eyes went wide and his face immediately brightened up. “Y-you’re really gonna let me shower with you? And, just to clarify, you want more sex? In the shower? Are you feeling okay?”

A giggle came from Minho as he propped himself up on his knees. “I’m feeling quite well, actually. I’m just a little insatiable once I get a taste of something I love. Get used to it.” He slowly pulled out of Changbin, enjoying the way his boyfriend’s face contorted in a mixture of pleasure and pain. “I’m going to go hop in the shower, and I expect to see you there soon, pretty boy.”

Without notice, Minho got off of the bed and made his way towards the washroom with vigour in each step, smiling proudly to himself. His biggest fear had been conquered, and he felt warm as he thought about how well his first time with Changbin had gone. There were brief moments of dysphoria, sure, but the constant reassurance from his boyfriend felt natural and made him more comfortable. Maybe all of the panic he had worked himself up over was worth it in the end, and they could slowly work towards more regular physical intimacy.

Patience was a virtue, after all.

#written on your bedroom wall #skz smut #skz fics #skzwriters #kdiarynet #skzwriternet #skz writing #skz writers #minbin #lee minho x seo changbin #seo changbin x lee minho #wherevermyway #ftm #ftm fics #trans fics #trans friendly #Trans Male Character

[wherevermyway]

general guidance for my twitter friends migrating over from one hellsite to another:

- censoring isn’t mandatory because the algorithm here isn’t the same at all. if you want to because you like it, go ahead, but unless your posts are tagged (in the tags at the end of a post), they’re not really going to get suggested.

- engagement is VITAL here. if you want your post (or your mutual’s post) to get boosted, reblogging is key, and be sure to add tags.

- as it stands, nsfw fics are fine but nsfw art usually is not. this still seems to be pretty unclear, but if you were here before the p_rn ban and haven’t been back, it’s not as wild wild west as it used to be.

- on the subject of fics/long posts: please please PLEASE remember to add cuts to your posts. (for reference, this is the “keep reading” function) long posts on the tl are generally frowned upon. if it’s over 1000, leave a good snippet (like the summaries on ao3) and then cut it. i’m not sure how to do this on mobile, but on the desktop app, you’ll see a bar with an ellipsis in it: you can click it to insert said cut, then drag it freely around your post.

- do you like html? great! you can highly customise your profile a là myspace era if you so choose, otherwise, the default customisation is also very pretty. you can even add a bunch of photos in between texts on any post (mobile posts included) and it’s very aesthetically pleasing.

- TWs and CWs generally should be tagged at the top of your post AND ALSO IN THE TAGS. you’ll generally see “#tw:____” in the tags of posts for common TWs. please be mindful.

- people here are really kind and generally nice. just don’t be a dick.

and with that, that’s all i really have to say. have fun! or don’t! welcome back to hell!

[wherevermyway]

ok so the maxident era has been a blessing and a curse

i’ve been fine i’ve been calm i’ve been chill.

also, for what it’s worth, i’m more active on twitter (@/wherevermydark) and ao3 (@/wherevermyway) so if you’re seeing this and wondering where the fuck i’ve been, it’s because i forgot tumblr was a thing that existed.

#minbin #here to min all your bins #skz #stray kids #idk what i’m doing here lbr

[wherevermyway]

working on the prequel to shades of blue and i got stuck so i made a cover for it based off of the cover of the weeknd’s house of balloons album (since that’s what the prequel is titled)

it’s gonna be an AO3-exclusive fic because it’s… probably the darkest thing i’ve written but i’ll be sure to do a little announcement post here when it’s up or whatever.

#wherevermyway #skz edits #idk how to tag this lol #the weeknd #house of balloons

[wherevermyway]

hey, i wanted to know how come you’re not on twitter anymore? did something happen? ngl i missed u :’) and fell upon ur tumblr acc by chance, i thought i lost u forever 😭😭 i hope you’re doing okay and that you’re taking time for yourself. also, i absolutely adored we’re professional’s fourth chapter!! thank u for feeding us w such good contents <3

oh, i got suspended off of twitter again 😄 that’s why i’ve been gone lol. i didn’t mean to leave, but i keep getting suspended which is annoying, so i stopped trying.

thank you so much! 🥺 i’ve been working on it for MONTHS lol so it means a lot to me that you liked it! i’ve already started working on chapter five and will hopefully have that out within the month. i’m glad we found each other again! 🖤

#yuki answers

[wherevermyway]

just wanted to pop in and tell u that fight the daylight was such a beautiful read. the dialogue is witty, your style is charming, and i felt a lot of emotions while reading. looking forward to more releases from u!! 💖

ahhh thank you so much! i had a lot of fun writing it and it’s one of my favourite stories i’ve ever written. 😭🖤

#yuki answers

[wherevermyway]

neato ✨ thanks for accepting me!

FIFTH ROUND OF ACCEPTANCES ARE OUT~

Welcome to the net:

@yumelike

@vera-liscious

@blueprint-han

@venusiangguk

@sunyeon-guk

@15jaeyun

@jenoismydad / @yedamismymom / @jayismydad

@jeontaeil

@wherevermyway

@lovingyu04

@bts-bay-bee

@crispy-chan

@cha-lan

@sunny-nyu

@imsugakookiebiased

@ressjeon

@minghaofilm

@wonwooslibrary

@yunhoreos

@bubblebeom

@thelargefrye

@justhao

@yeongwvnhi

@angelicbox​

@carat​

Now that you are accepted, please do the following things:

Reblog the acceptance post

Link the network somewhere on your blog

Use the tag #kdiarynet in the first five tags of your post

If you indicated you’d like to be a part of the discord server, an admin will reach out with a link for you.

[wherevermyway]

we’re professional. (4/??) // minbin // 18+

❄ part of yuki’s favourites! ❄

we’re professional. chapter three: dispensable series navigation: [desktop] [mobile]

pairing: lee minho x seo changbin rating: explicit! 18+ series warnings/tags: slow burn, angst, eventual sexual content, age difference, art student changbin, artist minho, fake dating AU. chapter warnings/tags: explicit sexual content, blackmail (involving photos taken without someone’s consent), someone gets punched. word count: 20k (that’s not a typo, this chapter is almost as long as the first three chapters combined) also on AO3!

originally posted: 11 march 2021

chapter summary: Who exactly is Lee Minho, and why is he known as The Heartless?

note: if you’re interested in seeing the paintings referenced in this series, check this post out.

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.

“It’s going to be fine, Minho. Give it time, and it’ll blow over.”

Heavy footfalls echoed against the hard, marble-like floor tiles and painted drywall of Minho’s large, empty kitchen. “They’re all calling me ‘the heartless,’ Chan. It’s not going to be fine.” Minho’s hands trembled as he rifled through his cellar for a bottle of wine. “Jisung is out for blood. He wants to destroy my entire fucking career. And for what — just to have me back?”

Chan leaned on the black quartz island counter, digging his chin into one of his palms and running a finger against the pattern. He watched Minho scramble around, biting at his cheek while trying to find the right words to say. “At least you got away from him before he trapped you further.”

Minho set a dark bottle of red wine on the countertop, a wine key following the bottle. He stared at Chan with heavy, bloodshot eyes. “Did I actually escape him, though? You know how much money the Hans have. I don’t think he’s got the influence to tear me down, but there’s already been damage done.”

“What can you do, though? I mean, realistically, the tabloids are out.” Minho uncorked the bottle of wine as Chan spoke, grabbing two crystal glasses from the rack that hung above the counter. “Sure, people will read them, and yeah, some people are going to believe the words that are printed, but it’s the fucking Toronto Chronicles. Nobody worth their salt takes that shit seriously.” Chan reached out for a glass, eyeing the deep maroon liquid before rolling his eyes and taking a quick sip. Minho, in contrast, took a long sip, his brows furrowing and eyes squinting as he did. “And the people that really do believe that? Do you actually want them in your life?”

A long, exasperated sigh came from Minho as he set the glass down on the countertop as softly as he could. He kept his brows knitted, leaning into his hands against the counter. Some of his brown locks fell as his head drooped. “You’ve got a point, man.” As much as he hated to admit it, Chan was right. The tabloids were out, damage was done, and he simply couldn’t go and retract the print from existence; the legal battle that would follow wouldn’t be worth it, and he simply wanted to be rid of Jisung’s talons.

“Hey,” Chan tipped his head down, trying to get into Minho’s line of sight, “you’re my best friend, man. I’ve got your back through this.” A polite smirk curled up Minho’s lips as he scoffed. “I’m glad you came back to Vancouver; you’re half the country away from that shitbag. Besides, if Jisung’s gonna try to pull some dumb shit, now he’ll have to go through me first.”

The smirk blossomed to a full-blown, toothy smile. Minho lifted his head and grabbed his wine glass, offering it up towards Chan. The older man lifted his glass in kind, gently clinkling the crystal against his friend’s glass. “I’m thankful for you, man. I’m glad we’ve been friends for this long, and I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

Chan took a swig of wine from his glass, some of the rich liquid staining his bottom lip as he smiled. “You’re basically my brother. I’d be just as lost without you.”

To some extent, Chan was, again, correct. The tabloid issue blew over, yet the nickname of “the heartless” stuck with Minho, haunting him wherever he went. Luckily, most people that used the nickname attributed it to his works. A lot of his art focused on darker themes, motifs and expressions of heartache and death. His rivals and some of his clients brought up the nickname while discussing his work, which initially caused him irritation and agony, then he slowly became used to it. Sure, Minho could be cold and callous at times, but nobody ever stopped to ask why he came off that way.

The truth of the matter was that nobody would have cared to actually get to know Minho on a personal level. Time and time again, nobody ever did — not even those closest to him. The only person that was close to him now was Chan. His parents didn’t care, and Jisung was out of the picture. What was the point in trying to be accepted by the masses while they simply brushed him off?

Minho’s more emotional work generally wasn’t well-received by non-critics. So many people would walk through galleries that presented his work and make hushed remarks, only looking at the works at face value, not bothering to take everything in and really chew over the meaning that lay beneath the layers of paint, the silent screams of agony whispered with each stroke of his brush against canvas.

Since university, Minho had shifted his focus from his own art pieces to adding other artists’ pieces to the galleries his family owned across Canada. He would include some of his work, yet avoided holding any exhibits that focused solely on him. “Maybe you could have an exhibit called ‘Heartless’ because of this? Y’know, profit off of a bad situation.” Chan’s half-serious suggestion over a business dinner made Minho smile, yet he continued to think about it, seriously considering a solo exhibit focusing around heartache.

The problem was, however, he had no muse. Six months had passed from the incident, and Minho was more stuck than ever.

One afternoon, several months after the tabloids were released, however, would change Minho’s life forever, he just had no idea how much four canvases crafted by a sophomore student would affect him.

“Hey,” Chan called Minho one day as he was on his way home from a business deal, “why not go scout out the new artists at the UBC exhibit this Saturday? It’d be a good way to celebrate your return to Vancouver, man. Go fuck around on our old stomping grounds, and all.”

Minho groaned, leaning his head up into his palm as he idled in rush hour traffic. “There’s never any actual talent there, dude.” He nibbled on his thumbnail, watching the seconds tick by on the active phone call on the dashboard of his new car.

“Yeah, but I think you could use a break from all of the professional artists you’ve been working with lately.” Chan’s voice was relaxed, yet still sounded somewhat stern. Concerned, maybe. “I know you get into weird headspaces when you haven’t painted anything; you just kinda lock yourself up with the business side of work and it eats away at you. I don’t want you to get as bad as you were after university.”

A bird flew past the windshield, catching Minho’s eye as it fluttered along, long across the harbour. In the distance, the skyscrapers that towered over the heart of Downtown Vancouver shimmered in the sunlight, some beams reflecting in the water underneath the bridge he idled on. If Minho were in the right frame of mind, he would have mentally captured this moment, kept it tucked away for a future painting.

“Hey, did you die?” Chan’s voice ripped Minho from his thoughts. “Minho, dude, just come with me. It’s not like going back to UBC is gonna kill you or something.”

Traffic gradually continued to inch forward while a cyclist flew past the passenger side of Minho’s car. What did he have to lose, really? He didn’t have any plans that weekend, and spending some time with Chan while poking fun at pretentious art pieces made by wannabe artists could prove to be entertaining. “Fine,” Minho lamented, bringing his free hand back to his steering wheel, drumming his fingertips against the leather. “But don’t blame me if I wanna dip halfway through.”

Chan scoffed, his laughter sounding somewhat distorted thanks to static crackling and interrupting his voice. “C’mon, dude, you love making fun of pretentious newbies.”

Minho nodded his head once, his lips curling upward in a smile. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Wanna meet me at my place?”

“Ah, I’ll probably be pushing it if I went downtown first. There’s always something about ironing out a catering contract on a Saturday that eats up my entire schedule. Why don’t we just meet there?”

“Sounds good to me.” Minho’s smile widened as he cruised along the bridge. “Just like the old days.”

Perhaps things would finally look up for him, if not just for a momentary distraction.

Saturday night came by quickly. Minho eyed the familiar arts building as he sat in his car, aimlessly adjusting the collar of his turtleneck. A sense of nervousness fluttered in his stomach as memories of the last two years he had spent completing his bachelor’s degree flooded his mind. The drunken nights that he and Chan would spend in the studios; the occasional quick, mindless sexual encounters he shared with other art students that he never bothered learning the names of; the tears, sweat, and blood he had spilled out onto his canvases.

This place was somehow both refuge and hell for Minho.

A group of young adults loudly walked past Minho’s car, pulling him from his reminiscing. They cackled and shoved each other around playfully as they made their way towards the arts building. “University students,” Minho sighed under his breath as he turned the car off and opened the door. He took a step out of the vehicle, eyeing his surroundings for any sign of Chan. Minho closed the door, tugging the sleeve of his sweater back a bit to eye his watch.

He was on time, if not a few moments late, yet Chan was nowhere to be found.

The rumbling of a motorcycle startled Minho, causing him to snap his gaze upward towards the violent sound that approached him. He brought a hand up in front of his eyes, shielding them from the headlamp that shone on him, pulling up behind his car.

“That crazy bastard,” Minho scoffed as he recognised the modern black motorcycle and the helmeted man that rode it. The engine cut out, the headlamp dying off with it. “It’s supposed to be minus three tonight!” Minho shouted as he took a few steps closer, adjusting the false glasses on the bridge of his nose. “You’re insane for riding that deathtrap in the middle of winter.”

Chan lifted the helmet off of his head, an arrogant smile plastered on his face. “C’mon,” he pulled the key from the ignition as he fastened the helmet against the bars, “I had to get one last ride in before February really settles in, man. Never know if this’ll be the year we get a surprise dump of 20 cents and the whole damn city shuts down.”

Minho shivered, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “It’s Vancouver, dude.” He rolled his eyes as he watched Chan run a hand through his hair and undid his jacket. “It never snows that much here, not for more than a couple minutes at a time, then it’s all gone. You’ve lived here forever, you should know better than me, of all people.”

The older man shrugged as he took a few large strides towards the building, throwing his jacket over his shoulder as if he were some hip protagonist of a bad 80s film. “Hey, we get some oddities, man. Just you wait. One of these years, Vancouver will put Toronto’s winters to shame.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Minho followed, adjusting the cuffs of his sweater as he walked, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Both men dropped their coats off at the entrance of the gallery, Minho rubbing his hands together to warm them up. “I know it’s kept cool on purpose,” he quietly muttered, “but you’d think they’d bring it up to something just a bit more tolerable.” Ambient buzzing and chattering could be heard throughout the large gallery hall, the turnout of people surprisingly large for a mere sophomore showing.

“Why didn’t you keep your jacket on, then? You shouldn’t have dressed like you were the main artist at an exhibit; should’ve worn something a bit more practical.” Chan’s tone was lighthearted, somewhat distant as he eyed the surroundings. “Oh,” he interjected before Minho could actually respond, “hey, wasn’t this where you hung up that piece you had drunkenly painted with your body junior year?”

A disgruntled sigh came from Minho as he rolled his eyes in response. “Yeah. I hated that piece.”

The men slowly made their way through the gallery, poring over each piece of art that had widely varying levels of passion crafted into them. Several pieces were self-portraits, many pieces were mindless, half-rushed, or avant-garde skylines that were supposed to resemble Vancouver’s modern silhouette.

“Do these students even care about art?” Minho’s cynical quip was barely audible enough for Chan to catch, yet it earned him a sharp elbow to his ribs.

“C’mon,” Chan sighed, “don’t be a downer. You know a lot of these students probably aren’t even art majors.”

“I know,” Minho shrugged his shoulders as he barely looked over the next few pieces they walked past, his heart heavy for the lack of passion in any piece he was seeing. “Doesn’t make the work suck any less, though.”

Chan spun on his heel and puffed his cheeks out in a joking manner as he stared at Minho. “How about we make it through these last few pieces, then go back to one of my restaurants and I’ll throw something together just like the old times?”

The brunette nodded once, smiling weakly before Chan spun back around. Minho continued to shuffle his feet, hands in his pockets, as he eyed the next pieces. Another self-portrait, an uninspired skyline painting, a still life, and then…

Minho stopped in his tracks. “Wait a sec, Chan.” He didn’t bother to see if the other man stopped; he found himself drawn into the four greyscale silhouette paintings that were delicately arranged against the prop wall. He took two subconscious steps forward, being pulled into the canvases like a ship to a siren’s call.

arranged: in black. The title of the pieces didn’t make much sense, but it seemed authentic. Too authentic for a casual student. Minho peered over the placard next to the canvases, hoping for some sort of explanation, yet there was none. Crafted by a sophomore fine arts student, Seo Changbin.

Minho’s breath hitched in his throat as he studied the way the brushstrokes blended from white, to grey, to black in the shape of a human silhouette. There was an unexplainable feeling that bubbled up under Minho’s skin, like he finally found the final piece to a puzzle he had long-since abandoned hope for completing.

The student that created these works had drive, an actual love for painting and the artwork he created. A drive that had been lost in most of the works Minho had hanging in his galleries recently. The feeling that emanated from the was raw, authentic — most important of all, the works were passionate.

An unfamiliar presence came up behind Minho, causing him to defensively tense up. Minho turned on his heel, his eyes peering over the black frame of his glasses as he stared down a meek, gaunt young man. “Can I help you?” His voice was cold, far colder than he meant for it to come off as he looked the person in front of him up and down.

This had to have been the student that made the works — everything about him just screamed the same mysterious song that the paintings did.

“Oh,” Minho pointed his finger over his shoulder as the realisation hit him, “you created these, didn’t you?” An uncomfortable, cold beat passed as they stared at each other. The young man was timid, frozen in place. Without really thinking about it, Minho had slipped into the persona he built up for working with potential new artists. “Figures.” He didn’t mean to scoff as he turned around, yet his brain was on autopilot. “The aura just kind of… fits.”

Chan took a step forward as Minho brought his index finger to his teeth. He watched his friend take in the artwork, and he dipped his head down, lowering his voice as he spoke. “You’re not really going to—”

Minho’s hand came between them as he smiled inwardly. “Hush.” What kind of value were these paintings worth? Was the artist worth the time Minho could spend mentoring him? Was this set a fluke, or did Changbin actually have a passion for creating art?

Thoughts raced through Minho’s mind as he continued to stare between the brushstrokes nestled against the canvases. It was unexplainable, yet Minho simply felt like the artist cared, that he had the same drive and love for art that Minho had when he was the same age. Far before the cynicism and jadedness of reality bled into his mind and ruined several of his works.

“Tell me, Changbin: why did you pick the name arranged: in black for this set?”

“Do you want the fake answer, or the real one?”

Minho had practically melted on the spot as he heard the younger man speak. He sucked in some air between his teeth and gently closed his eyes. He had a wit about him, which was refreshing. It felt like Minho was being challenged somehow, something that most people that worked with him would never attempt, which likely meant that Changbin had no idea who Minho really was.

The young man explained his reasoning, and Minho was transfixed in the way that the raven-haired man casually adjusted his canvases. Every detail he took in of Changbin seemed delicate and purposeful. There was a tingle of electricity that coursed throughout Minho as Changbin compared his paintings to the shades of grey that Minho draped himself in, and that was it.

Minho had finally, after so long, found his muse.

It felt like Minho was floating on air as he drove down Fourth Avenue with Changbin in his passenger seat, elated that he finally had a renewed passion for art. If this were anything like his early twenties, he would have taken the younger man back to his apartment, studied his body for future reference as he would trace his fingers against bare flesh. He would have observed the way his olive-toned skin contrasted as it was surrounded by the black duvet of his bed. It wouldn’t intentionally be sexual, but that was the way that his previous so-called muses always interpreted it, causing the events to unfold like some sort of bad romance novel.

No, his younger days were behind him. That was the same kind of irrational thought that got him caught up with, and subsequently burned by, Jisung.

The air between them was tense. Minho felt Changbin staring him down in nervousness as he waited for Minho to speak. Without thinking, Minho prattled off the thoughts that came to his head. “Look, Changbin, I’m going to be honest.” A quick glance to his side confirmed that the younger man was painted in varying shades of unease and nervousness. “I’m not interested in dating. I don’t do…” Sweat beaded up on Minho’s palms as he quickly looked back to the road. “...relationships in general: professional, personal. I try to avoid it at all. Honestly,” he swallowed hard as he half-lied, “I just don’t like people.”

Minho didn’t like people, but he was more afraid of being ruined by another young, overzealous artist that would get emotionally close to him and then use that vulnerability to damage him down the road. Perhaps if he kept it professional, like a mentorship, he could still use Changbin as a muse, while providing him with some sort of guidance to make it through the wild world that the art industry had to offer.

So, he made a simple proposal to the younger man. “Help you out financially for a bit. Student and mentor.” The words rolled off of his tongue and instantly felt sour as they escaped him. It sounded wrong, like his intentions were somewhat sick.

“I couldn’t…” Changbin frantically muttered, tucking his chin into his chest. Surely, Minho’s proposal came off as something more predatory and sinister than he intended.

“Don’t worry,” Minho backpedaled at the first opportunity he could speak, “I’m not going to ask you for anything weird or sexual.” He continued to speak, the tension lifting between them as they continued their way into the heart of Downtown Vancouver.

That night, they discussed some of their interests and basic life details as they sat at a table in one of Chan’s restaurants. Changbin was clearly uncomfortable, probably unfamiliar with a somewhat high-class setting like this, yet it was the only place that Minho could think of going on a moment’s notice.

The conversation they shared was polite. Minho subconsciously kept up his guard as he watched Changbin awkwardly try to blend in as best as he could. The young man clearly didn’t fit: his all-black attire somehow coming off like a loud shade of electric, neon green against the muted jewel tones of the restaurant. Minho made a mental note to pick somewhere less high strung the next time that they spoke, since things were too tense to have such a serious, professional discussion.

They shared their meal, sharing casual discussion over the span of two hours. Minho drove Changbin back to his dorm, the twenty minute drive a bit more relaxed on the way out of the city centre.

“Hey,” Changbin awkwardly scratched at his forehead, making a pointed effort to not look at Minho while he spoke. “You really meant what you said about my paintings? That they were lovely or whatever?”

Minho brought his index finger between his teeth, leaning back into the seat. “To put it simply,” he said with a slight lisp, focusing in on the way the streetlamps illuminated the slow-moving car in front of them, “yes, I did mean it. I haven’t seen someone that actually puts so much unbridled passion into their artwork, not in a long time.”

“Oh.” Changbin looked down to his hands, idly scraping a fingernail against some dead skin. “You don’t see passionate projects in the artists’ works in your galleries?”

“No.” It came off curt, like a bit of a bark. Minho was tired of hanging loveless works in his galleries, seeing modern artists recycling the same tropes he had seen a thousand times over. Some of the works in his gallery in Montréal had some promise, but the artist was near the end of their contract and likely wouldn’t renew it.

They were coming up on the UBC campus, students flocking around the streets near large houses and a couple of local pubs. They idled at a crosswalk, lights illuminating them as they flashed, and a group of young adults scattered across the striped lines in the road, one pausing for a moment before violently emptying the contents of their stomach against the pavement. “Uni students don’t really have a care in the world, do they?”

Changbin nodded, reclining into his seat, turning his head away from the scene in disgust. His head was tilted towards Minho, and the brunette felt the gaze sear into his neck. “A lot of them don’t,” the younger man sighed, digging his fingers into the fabric of his slacks. “Some people have it rough, though. They grow up sooner than they have to and can’t let themselves have the full ‘make an idiot out of yourself and never regret it’ university experience.”

The statement was loaded, the undertone behind Changbin’s words heavy and obvious. “Makes sense,” Minho bit at his finger harder, lightly pressing his foot against the acceleration pedal beneath it. He wanted desperately to pry, to know what caused Changbin to create such deep works as a sophomore, but he didn’t want to push too far too soon. “Sometimes, we have to take the ugly, hideous things life gives us, then refine it into something beautiful.”

He didn’t mean to, yet Minho’s eyes rolled to look at the younger man next to him. For a brief moment, they made eye contact. It was only a moment, yet the deep, underlying meaning had been so loud: I understand you, and you’re not alone.

“You said Fulbright House, yeah?” Minho cleared his throat, pretending to focus on the street signs.

“Yeah,” Changbin softly said, accompanied by a nod. “You can just drop me off at the front.”

After a few moments, Minho parked somewhat near the entrance. “Sorry I couldn’t get you up closer,” he brought his hand to the back of his neck, digging his fingernails firmly into the flesh. “Too many house parties on a Saturday night, huh?”

“Yeah.” The tension between them was awkward, like Changbin wanted to say something more, yet bit his tongue.

Minho decided to speak up, putting on an air of professionalism as he slipped back into his cold persona. “We should meet next weekend, actually go over the guidelines of this mentor/apprenticeship. Is that okay?”

“Ah,” Changbin pulled out his mobile, tapping at his phone’s shattered screen a few times. “Let me check my schedule.”

Subconsciously, Minho tugged his brows together. He made a mental note to bring a new phone to the meeting, knowing it would make for a good investment if Changbin could actually productively function in the digital space.

“Oh,” the younger man squinted, bringing his phone up to his face. “I work Friday evening, then Saturday from five in the morning to six in the evening, and I’m stuck with the night cleaning shift on Sunday.”

Minho gritted his teeth, frustrated at how packed Changbin’s weekend was. “Do you ever sleep?”

The black-haired man locked his screen, awkwardly fumbling his phone into his back pocket. “I mean, I take a lot of naps in between shifts and classes if I can.”

“How many jobs are you working?” Irritation dripped from Minho’s words.

Changbin shifted towards the door, his eyes awkwardly shifting around as he tentatively curled his chin into his chest. “I work two jobs, then I do some work on campus because of one of my scholarships, so I guess I work three.”

Minho shook his head and leaned against the centre console. “Quit them.”

“What?”

The eye contact between them was tense, Changbin clearly terrified of the prospect Minho proposed. He opened his mouth to protest further, but Minho cut him off. “I’m serious. I’m not going to let your talent go to waste because you’re working yourself to death.”

The younger man timidly looked down, shirking away. “I can’t afford to—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Minho dug his fingernails into his hand, balling it up into a tight fist, the urge to take Changbin’s chin into his hand to force eye contact between them growing too strong. “I promise, we’ll work out the details next week.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and fished out a few green and red polymer bills, offering them out to the younger man. “Will 250 be enough to get you through the week? It’s all I’ve got on hand.”

Changbin brought his hand up, clearly taken aback by the money in front of him. “What? That’s too much.”

Minho reached a bit further. “I just asked you to quit your jobs, Changbin. Please, the sooner you can get away from jobs that don’t care about you, the better.”

“I can’t—”

“I’m not asking again.”

The younger man bit his lip, timidly grabbing the bills between his fingertips. He tried to appear somewhat stoic, but the shame he felt was apparent. “What do you want from me, Minho? This just seems too good to happen to someone like me, like there’s something more you want from me.”

“No.” Minho shook his head, pulling back a bit. “I can’t easily prove to you that my intentions are good, even though they are. Like I mentioned before dinner, I’m not interested in relationships of any sort. However, I know talent and passion when I see it. To let someone as skilled as you slip through my fingers would be a waste to both the art world and you.”

Changbin looked up at Minho through damp eyelashes, biting at his lip. “Are you sure about this?” His voice was quiet, as if he were afraid of something.

A simple nod came from Minho. “I’m positive. Now,” he sat further back, trying to soften his expression, “when you wake up tomorrow, I want you to quit your jobs. The optional ones, not the one with the university. Then, when you’ve done that, call me so we can work out a time to meet that would best work for you.”

“Okay.” Changbin folded the bills, awkwardly jamming them into his front pocket. “Are you really sure about this, Minho?”

“Yes, of course.”

Changbin looked down to his hands, his face flushing a bit. “So, next week, then.”

Minho reached out to his steering wheel and offered a gentle smile. “Yeah. And if your employers won’t let you go within the week, let me know. I have connections.”

The younger man swallowed hard, his eyes going wide at the threat.

“That’s kind of a joke,” Minho shrugged at the way Changbin tensed. He was half-correct: it was a bit of a joke, but he knew too many business owners in town and could easily sway them into letting one of their employees leave if absolutely necessary.

“Alright,” Changbin tipped his head down as he opened the door. He stepped out of the car and leaned in, meeting Minho’s gaze. “Thank you again, seriously. I can’t tell you how much it means to me for you to do something like this.”

Minho bit back a smirk as he waved his fingers in the air. “Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome. Now, go get some well-deserved sleep.”

“Goodnight, Minho.”

“Night, Changbin.” The younger man slammed the door shut and Minho nibbled at his bottom lip as he watched Changbin scurry away and duck past some other university students. Within half a minute, he was completely out of sight, and Minho sat in his car, anxiously eyeing the cars that drove by.

He couldn’t bring himself to drive away just yet, the nervousness refusing to settle in his stomach. This didn’t feel the same as normal business deals with artists. Minho wasn’t sure why exactly he suggested such an intimate, one-on-one proposal with someone ten years his junior.

“Whatever,” he muttered to himself, shaking the thoughts from his head. “One day at a time.”

The next morning, Minho woke up at five and made fresh pour-over coffee, scrolling through recent news articles on his tablet as he waited for the coffee to finish filtering. There wasn’t anything of note in the art world; he aimlessly scrolled through the articles regardless, pensively waiting for Changbin to reach out to him.

As time slowly passed, Minho made his way through two mugs of coffee, switching from news articles to a contract one of his lawyers had forwarded him for another artist to be signed on in Victoria. As he pored over the document on his laptop, his phone buzzed twice, pulling him from his thoughts.

07:40 | Changbin: i just got to work and told my boss i’m quitting 07:40 | Changbin: they said i didn’t have to come back for my shifts later this week but i don’t know how it’ll go with my other job

While Minho was relieved, he still frowned at the texts.

07:41 | sent: I’ll talk to them if you want me to. Just give me the name of the restaurant.

Minho stared at his phone, nibbling at his bottom lip as he watched the ellipses pop up on the screen, then disappear. The process repeated itself twice before there was nothing but silence. Changbin was at work, Minho rolled his eyes at the realisation, sighing at how obvious it was. He locked his phone, setting it down within eyesight next to his laptop, then continued to pore over the legal documents.

The contract was, as expected, dry and irritating. Minho added his suggestions to the document, adjusting the recommended pay and more minor stipulations before sending it back to his lawyer. He leaned against the back of his chair, running a hand through his hair as he brought his phone up to his face. An hour had passed, and there was still no word from Changbin.

Another hour passed, and Minho was stuck on a conference call with the manager of his gallery in Montréal when he saw his mobile light up. The manager spouted off some nonsense to the other directors about a proposed exhibit that would run later that summer, yet Minho paid no mind to it. His presence was merely for formality’s sake most of the time.

10:05 | Changbin: sorry, things got busy and i had to restart my phone like six times 10:05 | Changbin: i promise i don’t need you to talk to them

Minho unmuted the call, mentally shifting his thought processes from frustration back to professionalism. “I’ve had something personal come up that I need to take care of,” his French came off as callous, yet he didn’t let it bother him. “Send me an email if you need my input.” He didn’t wait for a response as he hung up the landline. His fingers tapped away at the screen as he responded to Changbin, multitasking as he walked around his apartment with purpose.

10:07 | sent: When do you get off of work?

He shuffled over to the entryway of his apartment, grabbing his wallet and keys from the display shelf next to the coat rack. Minho grabbed his grey dress jacket, buttoning it up as he stepped out of his slippers. He pulled a simple pair of black loafers from the closet, sliding his feet into the rigid leather.

Minho’s phone vibrated in his hand, causing him to pause his motions.

10:10 | Changbin: in a couple hours 10:11 | Changbin: wait why? 10:12 | sent: Curiosity about an investment. I’ve got something to take care of in that area anyways and was hoping to bring you something that’ll help with our arrangement.

He didn’t wait for a response before he left his apartment, making his way down to his car.

Minho leaned up against his car, parked outside the front of Changbin’s dorm. He mindlessly made his way through his Twitter feed, frowning as he saw someone interact with one of Jisung’s posts. A scoff came from his lips as he condescendingly rolled his eyes, annoyed that his ex was still weaseling his way into Minho’s life.

“Minho?”

The familiar voice caught his attention, and the brunette looked up. “Changbin.”

The younger man’s face was red as he shook his head a couple of times, eyes wide with disbelief. “Why are you here?”

“I told you I was coming. Besides, it’s nothing serious, and I’ll be gone in just a bit anyways,” Minho pushed himself off of the hood of his car, digging through his pocket as he approached Changbin. “I noticed last night that your phone was falling apart, and if we can’t be in contact, well, that would hinder our arrangement, and I’m not one to be bothered with barricades.” From his pocket, he pulled out a sealed box, holding a new phone inside of it.

“Is this…?”

“Please don’t protest.” Minho passed the box off to Changbin. “Like I said, it’s for our arrangement. I’d like to think this is a wise business investment.”

Alas, the younger man huffed in frustration, shaking his head. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” the elder countered with a sneer. “Have you gotten in touch with your other employer yet?”

Changbin shook his head, his eyes downcast as he sheepishly took the box into his hand. “I texted my manager, but she hasn’t gotten back to me yet. She probably won’t let me go for at least a month, since the owner hasn’t hired anyone in a while. Rumour has it, they haven’t hired anyone since business has been slow and might shut down.”

Minho bit the inside of his cheek, running a hand through his hair. He couldn’t help the business side of him begging to intervene, yet he managed to keep it stuffed down just enough. He was going to scare Changbin away with his tendencies if he wasn’t careful, which would have been unwise. “Look,” he turned his head away, staring at a cyclist on the sidewalk opposite them, “I don’t want to overstep, but I’ll help if you need it. I know it’s uncomfortable to ask for help, but I’m here.”

The air between them was cold with tension and discomfort as they stood in silence for a few moments. “Thanks,” Changbin’s voice was defeated and quiet, the word nearly missable as he spoke. Minho turned to look at him, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. “I really do appreciate all of this. Nobody’s ever been this nice to me.”

It was a business deal. Minho was about to verbally remind the both of them, yet his heart sank a bit when he made eye contact with the younger man in front of him. For a brief moment, he saw himself in Changbin when he was that age: lost and confused by the complexities of the future ahead of him; uncomfortable with the uncertainty of the future.

While Minho’s parents had a small empire of art galleries across Canada, they frowned upon him for choosing to go into art instead of business when he was in university. He made the argument that it would help with finding talented artists and signing deals with them, yet it still didn’t please his parents. Minho worked hard in the years following university to prove that it wasn’t a waste of time, spending many sleepless nights finalising contracts with new and renown artists, yet it was still never enough.

Nothing was ever enough for his parents, even when they agreed to let him run their empire only two years prior.

“Hey,” Minho’s voice was soft as he took a half-step closer to Changbin, “you know how you can thank me for this eventually?”

The timid younger man curled into himself a bit, eyes wide with nervousness.

“Pour your heart out in something. Paint something with more passion than ever. All of the conflicting emotions you’ve got running inside of you, let them flow out through your arms and let your canvas reflect what you feel.” Minho tugged the corner of his lips up gently, offering a soft smile. “While I’ll appreciate seeing what you create, I think it’s something you need to do for yourself, too. When was the last time you created something specifically for you?”

Changbin’s eyes darted from side to side as he chewed on his bottom lip. After a brief moment, he shook his head. “I don’t know, really. Grade eleven?”

“Then it’s time, yeah?”

The younger man nodded once, his expressions still tense, but somewhat relaxed.

Minho took a step backwards, digging into his pocket for his key fob. “Perfect. Now all you need to do is quit your other job. It won’t matter five years from now, so don’t worry about it for more than five minutes.” The brunette turned and took two steps towards his car before halting, then turning his head over his shoulder. “Also, be sure to get a phone case and screen protector for that one. I’d have picked something out, but I didn’t want to get something you wouldn’t like.”

Changbin smiled. “I can do that.”

“Perfect,” Minho smiled back, taking in the younger man’s genuine smile for a moment longer than necessary. “Let me know when you’re free from the shackles of modern-day capitalism, and we can arrange for a time to meet and iron out our arrangement.”

“Minho!” Changbin shouted as the brunette made his way towards the car. “Thank you, really. I honestly appreciate this.”

“Yeah, sure thing,” Minho tipped his head before opening his car door. He sat down and stared at the steering wheel as he closed the door. “It’s just business, after all.”

They had agreed to meet on Saturday night. Changbin completed his last shift with the restaurant he was working at, and Minho sent a driver to pick him up from his dorm, since he was going to be running a bit behind schedule thanks to an unforeseen incident with a wealthy client arguing over the supposed value of a piece created by one of Minho’s long-term artists.

“You really sure about this, Min?” Chan tilted his head to the side as he handed Minho an uncorked bottle of red wine. “He’s nineteen, man.”

Minho took the bottle, pouring his glass beyond half-full while he frowned at the older man. “It’s a professional arrangement, Chan. This isn’t some stupid hookup, it’s just another business deal.”

Chan rested his hand on his hip, checking the watch on his other wrist. “I mean, I believe you, I just don’t want you to get in over your head.”

The brunette glowered at the older man as he took a quick sip of wine from his glass. “I’m not ready for another relationship, even if things started to get blurry between us. I’ve made that clear every time I’ve spoken to him.”

“Whatever you say, man.” Chan shrugged, then patted the younger man on the shoulder before he took his leave. “Anyway, I’m gonna get back into the kitchen. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks, man.” Minho tapped the screen of his phone as Chan walked away. 19:31 stared back at him in bright, white text. They had agreed on meeting at half-past seven, and Minho anxiously tapped his fingers against the bottom of his wine glass as he stared at the entrance of the restaurant. The black tie around his neck felt someone restrictive while he waited, the fabric of his dress shirt collar digging into his neck. He was used to overdressing for the smallest of things, but still wanted to appear respectful and presentable and wasn’t sure how to casually do that without underdressing.

Perhaps it was a bit overkill. Changbin likely would look awkward and a bit dishevelled in contrast to Minho, and the thought of that made him nervous. It was a professional meeting, yet he found himself conflicted with feelings that had no right being involved in a business meeting. He would never worry about the comfort of potential clients nor artists — why was this arrangement so different?

The glass doors to the restaurant slid open, and the shy art student Minho had been expecting stepped into the lobby. He wore the same black button-up shirt and black slacks he had worn for his exhibit. It was the same outfit, yet he looked so different, likely since Minho wasn’t looking at him like he was some starved art student. No, now he was more than that — even if the ‘more’ was yet to be defined.

Minho stood up, buttoning his grey blazer before he lifted a hand into the air. Changbin looked around for a brief second before locking eyes with the older man. He blinked rapidly, then looked down to the floor as he made his way towards Minho. The younger man nervously reached for the cuffs of his dress shirt, haphazardly adjusting them around his wrists.

“I’m glad you made it,” Minho said with a faint smile as Changbin approached. “You, um, look nice.”

Changbin looked up, his face turning a bit red as his lips parted. “Uh,” he stuck his hand out, his fingertips trembling, “thanks?”

“Of course.” Minho shook Changbin’s hand once, then pointed towards the empty booth across from him. “Have a seat. We’ll get something for dinner, then talk about the details. Is that alright with you?”

“Sure.”

There was idle conversation over an experimental pasta dish that Chan had created, excited about releasing it in the coming weeks on a limited menu. Changbin had tried the wine that Minho had at the table, wincing over it at first, then appreciating it over the next few sips he took.

“People really pair wine with food, huh?” His voice was low as he swirled the wine in his glass, eyes following the liquid as it circled the crystal. “I always thought it was pretentious, but I kinda see why.”

Minho patted his lips with his napkin before folding it and placing it on his plate. “I spent a lot of time drinking boxed wine during university, but now I really enjoy pairing it with whatever Chan comes up with.”

Changbin lifted his head, cocking an eyebrow at the name. “Who’s Chan?”

“Oh,” Minho folded his hands, then rested them against the table, leaning in a bit closer. “Chan’s my best friend. He and I were classmates during university, but he eventually went down the culinary route while I worked in my parents’ galleries. Chan’s the owner of this place, along with a few other restaurants across town.”

“Huh.” Changbin sighed, folding his arms as he sat back against the rigid booth seat. He stared off to the side, his lips tugging down into a scowl. “I don’t understand how people can own so many things when they’re so young.”

“Well, technically, I won’t actually own my parents’ galleries until they die.” Minho looked down to the way the light shimmered against the deep maroon liquid in his wine glass. “They’ve just made me the owner in nothing but title. As for Chan, I helped him fund his first restaurant, which really blew up after he hired a top-class chef from America. He got featured in a few articles — which I may or may not have helped get published — and that was history.”

Changbin’s lower eyelids squinted upwards as he stared down Minho. “You say it like it’s just normal to have that kind of money to throw around.”

“It’s normal for me.” Minho lifted his eyebrow as he reached for his wine glass. “It’s also not thrown around wantonly; there’s a certain calculus applied when you invest in something. Every advisor I’ve spoken to suggested against investing in my best friend, that my judgement was clouded.” He took a sip from his glass, not breaking eye contact with Changbin. “I didn’t listen to them. Some risks are worth it. That’s why I initially went into art, not business. There’s no soul, nor any passion in business, which is a waste of my time.”

“Tch,” Changbin scoffed, then smirked. He leaned into the table and grabbed his glass, taking a sip that was a bit less coordinated and graceful compared to Minho’s. “So, you’re taking a risk on me, for what — a whim?”

There was a rush of arrogance that washed over Minho as he leaned in slightly further. He was enjoying how much the younger man challenged him. Nobody had ever been so pushy and confident towards him when they discussed business, likely because they believed that any possible opposition would cause them to lose money. Minho peeled his lips back and nodded softly as he watched Changbin. “Yes.”

A server came up to the table, grabbing the plates away from the men and unintentionally easing the strange tension that was between them. “Would you like another bottle of—”

“No,” Minho smiled, not breaking his gaze from Changbin. “A bottle of champagne seems more fitting. Whatever Chan’s got in the reserves. I’m feeling celebratory, aren’t you?”

The younger man finished off the wine that was in his glass and bit his bottom lip, studying Minho’s expression. “I suppose so.”

“Alright, so you’ve quit your jobs,” Minho scribbled some notes on his pad of paper, then looked up at Changbin. “How much were you making a month?”

The younger man flushed, clearly embarrassed by discussing his salary. He reached up to the collar of his shirt, undoing the top button. “I mean, I was making enough to survive.”

“I need a number.”

Changbin rested his elbow against the table and tucked his cheek into the ball of his palm. “On average, 1200, maybe?”

Minho wrote down the number, along with some other things. “How much are your monthly expenses? Do your parents help you out with anything?”

The younger man’s expression fell for a brief moment. “No, my parents are out of the picture; I only rely on myself. As for my expenses, well,” Changbin’s lips fluttered together as he sighed, staring at the bubbles rising in his champagne. “I’ve got my phone plan and basic things like food expenses, but most of my paycheques go towards art supplies. Canvases, paint, charcoal… you know.”

“Hmm.” Minho brought the end of his pen to his lips for a moment, making some mental calculations based on what he presumed that could have cost. “Okay.” He took a moment, then scribbled some notes onto the paper. “Just going off of the information you’ve given me,” his pen scratched loudly against the lined sheet for another moment, then he stopped, set his pen down on the table and spun the pad over to Changbin, pointing at a circled amount on the paper, “I think this seems reasonable.”

Changbin blinked rapidly, then leaned his face into the paper, acting as if he was seeing double. “That’s a mistake.”

“It’s not.”

“It’s too much.”

Minho leaned back into his seat and folded his arms. “Let me explain before you panic. This is a business deal, after all.”

The younger man ran a hand through his hair, his mouth hanging agape as he stared at the paper. “You’re not asking me for anything physical with this amount? Are you insane?”

The brunette shrugged nonchalantly, rolling his eyes upward. “All artists are somewhat insane, but I know what I’m doing. Are you going to finally shut up and listen to me?”

A moment passed before Changbin sat back, bringing his thumbnail to his teeth as he continued to stare at the paper. “Yeah, yeah, I guess.”

“Good.” Minho adjusted his posture, keeping his arms folded. “I’m investing in you as an artist, which means that you need to focus on your health as well as your art. That being said, picking up a hobby that’s not related to art might be beneficial for your mental wellbeing. I don’t care what it is, and you don’t need to pick something right away.”

“Alright, I guess.”

“Next,” the brunette reached out to grab the pad, bringing it back in front of him, “I need something from you, too. I said this wouldn’t get physical or anything, but having someone act as my partner for public things — like gallery operations, exhibit showings, and the like — would be beneficial for both of us. For you, you’d get to travel across Canada, make connections with artists, get your work displayed.”

There was tension in the air as the second part of Minho’s claim went unmentioned.

“And what do you get out of it?” Changbin caught on, reaching out to grab his glass, bringing it to his lips as he frowned at the elder, scribbling out some notes.

Minho took a moment, his pen freezing in his hand for a second, then he quickly resumed writing. “A chance to repair my reputation.”

Changbin took a long drink from his glass, longer than any drink prior, tipping the glass completely upwards, emptying the last of its contents into his mouth. He set the crystal down onto the table and licked his lips. “Jesus, that’s gotta be bad. What the hell did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Minho said without thinking, “but maybe, actually, I didn’t do enough. Regardless, that rumour about me being heartless? I want to try and change it, unless I actually get enough motivation to get back into creating worthwhile pieces.” He lifted his head, making eye contact with Changbin. “I was hoping I could draw inspiration from you, too.” He casually left out the fact that he already saw the younger man as his muse, that little things in the world were starting to bring him inspiration again, but that sounded creepy and awkward no matter which way he arranged the words in his mind.

“Interesting.”

“There’s still some champagne in the bottle,” Minho kept his eyes on the younger man, his eyes caught on the way he dragged his tongue against his bottom lip. “You can have more, you know.”

Changbin said nothing, moving to undo the buttons on the cuffs of his sleeves, pushing the fabric up to his elbows. Every movement caused the nerves against the back of Minho’s neck to spring to life, in a way he hadn’t felt in months. He desperately tried to avoid staring, knowing that his eyes were catching on the motions for too long while he studied the way that the fabric bunched up at the crook of the younger man’s elbows.

“Maybe I will,” Changbin’s voice caused Minho to be relinquished from his thoughts. The raven-haired man reached out towards the bottle, carefully filling up his own glass. “Do you want more?”

Minho grit his teeth together, moving to bring the glass up to his lips and finishing the contents within it against his better judgement. He set the glass down in front of Changbin, dancing his fingertips against the tablecloth as he made careful eye contact with the younger man. His breath hitched in his throat, his mouth going dry as he nodded. “I’ll always take more.”

Changbin luckily didn’t catch on to the double entendre stitched into Minho’s words, and the older man was grateful for it. He didn’t want more of the champagne, he wanted to rip the cheap fabric of Changbin’s shirt apart and mark up the delicate skin that lay beneath it.

This was a professional arrangement, however. Minho politely coughed into his hand before taking his overfilled flute of champagne from the younger man. “Shall we continue?”

The memory of Minho’s first real, authentic interaction with Changbin was painful, like it was a stark contrast to the proposal he was going to awkwardly make. It was visceral and raw, unlike most interactions he had prior. It was raw, like an open wound, as it seared across Minho’s mind. Everything seemed so painfully real, unlike anything he had experienced so far before.

He explained everything in great detail to his friend, his hands feeling clammy and sticky as they pressed against the quartz of his countertop. Minho aimlessly bit his lip and nervously drummed his fingers against the cool material. Chan said nothing, simply staring down at the brown jewellery box in his hands, fiddling it open and shut a couple of times before he stared up at him. The older man bit his lip a few times as he tried to start and stop a coherent thought from leaving his lips.

Minho’s mind raced as he studied Chan’s expressionless face. His memory was flooded with recollections of the night he made the arrangement with Changbin, along with the year and a half they had spent together. His heart pounded with such fervence, he thought his jugular vein would pop out from his neck and explode like a smattering of red salvia flowers blooming against the white tiling of his kitchen wall.

Perhaps this was going to be a stupid decision. The longer Chan stared in silence, the more Minho’s heart fell into his stomach.

“Rose gold?” Chan eventually spat out as he held the box with a diamond-studded ring within it. “And you spent five and a half thousand on this? Dude, alright, I gotta ask.” He gently put the box down on the counter and folded his arms against the quartz, leaning in and frowning at his friend. “What in the absolute fuck are you doing?”

Minho leaned in further against his countertop, avoiding eye contact with Chan, feeling like his judgemental gaze was searing holes into his head. “Nothing else I looked at felt like Changbin, not until I saw this. I looked for hours, nothing seemed right. Everything was too pretentious and overblown.”

Chan tutted as he leaned back with a sigh. “Minho, I don’t want you to—”

“Don’t, Chan.”

“Admit it. You’re falling for him, and you’re falling hard.”

“For fuck’s sake, shut up!” Tears budded in the corner of his eyes as Minho stood up. He brought his index finger to his mouth, scoffing against it as he tried to come up with a reasonable response. “I’m gonna scare him off. I’m sure the shit with Jisung is going to creep up and Changbin won’t know what to think of me.”

“It’s not true, though. Not to mention,” Chan sighed heavily before he walked over to Minho and put a comforting hand on his shoulder, “he’ll have known you for almost two years by the time you bring this up. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I really think he’s falling for you, too, Minho.”

There was a heavy pause as Minho darted his eyes away. “He’s twenty-one.”

“And?”

“You know how stupid we were at twenty-one?”

Chan scoffed. “Yeah, remember the night we got drunk and you rolled around in paint and painted a canvas sheet with yourself?”

“Man,” Minho sighed and flipped his middle finger in Chan’s face, “fuck you. That piece turned out to be great, by the way, even if I still kind of hate it.”

They laughed for a few moments, before Chan pulled his friend into his chest for a warm hug. “Min, I’ve known you for over a decade now. Just be you. If he wants you, he’ll come for you. If he’s in it for the money, I’m sure he’ll have enough respect for you by now to tell you.”

Minho rested his forehead against Chan’s shoulder and let out an exasperated sigh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Only time will tell.”

“Exactly.” Chan patted Minho’s head, gently stroking the brown locks. “You gonna tell him you love him, too, or…?”

A thick swallow came from Minho as he processed Chan’s question. His first instinct wasn’t to protest at his suggestion that he was in love with Changbin, which concerned him. “I guess it depends on how he takes the faux proposal.”

Chan grabbed Minho’s shoulders, gently pushing him back a bit to make eye contact. “So, you do love him.”

Minho averted his gaze and felt his face flush. “I guess I do, huh? Man, I really hope I don’t fuck this up.” He sighed heavily, bringing a hand to the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him.”

“Do you love me, Minho?”

The words were so simple, yet so loud as they echoed around inside Minho’s head. It’s all he could hear, all he could think about as he blankly stared into the distance.

“I really do think I love you, Minho.” Changbin looked so nervous, so uneasy. “I don’t know where to go from here, and I don’t know if you can understand how terrified I am.”

Minho understood how terrified Changbin was, because he was equally as anxious, if not moreso, to admit the feelings he had burning in his heart. The potential future they had felt so tangible as they brushed their lips against each other. He had fallen in love with Changbin, and the younger man had the confidence to admit it before him.

Thick, heavy snow in Vancouver was rare, especially the kind of snow that actually stuck to the ground and caused the city to collapse into itself. Rain was far, far more common this time of year: the type of torrential rainfall that would sound like pebbles pelleted against tin, accompanied by gusts that blew rubbish along for an impromptu journey that spanned tens of kilometres.

Minho watched the flakes fall in front of him, falling to the ground at the same cadence that tears slipped down from his eyes. He remembered playfully arguing with Chan several times about the paltry amount of snow that Vancouver got, comparing it to the snow in Toronto. It felt so surreal that it was falling all around him, like his world was falling to pieces as soon as Changbin ran off, leaving him alone in the freezing cold and taking all of the warmth with him.

This was what Minho had feared the most before he proposed a false engagement: one of them would have developed real feelings for the other, and that would have rendered their arrangement null and void. What he didn’t expect, however, was how much it would hurt when he came crashing down to reality. He had underestimated just how deeply he had fallen for Changbin, unsure of when exactly things had blended from the stark white of professionalism to the deep black of love — the shades of grey had slowly turned more and more saturated over time, yet Minho never consciously noticed.

It hurt. Being in love always hurt, because it always led to pain. This pain, however, was deep and visceral, much akin to a deep wound that needed surgery to fix. The love he felt for Changbin was so foreign in its depth, like nothing he had ever subjected himself to before. It was ironic, really, that he had started this arrangement as a professional agreement with no feelings, and now he was stuck feeling more shattered and devastated than he ever thought he could be, gutted beyond repair.

arranged: in black was the project that caused Minho to fall so fast for Changbin, and now he found himself oscillating between the incomprehensible deep shades of grey and the stark blackness of being so painfully in love, yet so alone. All from an arrangement he had proposed two years ago.

Snow slowly, quietly continued to fall to the ground, entrancing Minho as he tried to grasp the loss of warmth on his lips as Changbin ran off. His thoughts were reeling and contradictory: run after him, don’t follow him; he loves you, he hates you; you love him, you can’t stand him. Slowly, ambient sounds from the building behind him pulled Minho back to reality, the sensation of tears rapidly cooling on his face being the final shock to his system to get moving.

If only temporarily, he needed to shift himself back to that stark shade of white as fast as possible, as white as the snow around him.

With haste, he spun on his heel, wiping his face and tried to compose himself as he walked back towards the kitchen door. He had to make an announcement that his fiancé was suddenly ill, and he would task Seungmin to search for Changbin. Organise now, panic later.

“Crowd control,” he said to himself in a quiet voice. If he verbalised it, that would make it come to fruition; that was his priority, it had to be. Minho couldn’t afford to lose his reserved, emotionless demeanour. He was The Heartless, after all.

He was always going to be The Heartless.

As Minho flung the heavy metal door open, his persona shifted; he sharply inhaled and made his way to the front of the restaurant. His words and expression were mindless, distant and reserved as he spouted off some bullshit with a fake smile to appease the crowd of people he barely knew. Chan, casually conversing with Seungmin, squinted in concern as he watched Minho speak.

Everything he said blurred together in a haze. It was over in moments, some people still pulling him aside to congratulate him again, but Minho brushed them off as he walked towards Seungmin and Chan. “Changbin’s run off,” he said in a hushed voice, walking past them towards the back area of the restaurant, the spot that had been cordoned off specifically for the four of them.

“What do you mean?” Chan’s voice spoke up before Seungmin, the younger too distracted by tapping away on his phone to speak.

Minho shakily carded his hands through his hair, staring at the back wall as his composure started to slip, cracks in the masquerade starting to show. “He loves me,” his voice trembled as he shook his head. “He told me he loves me. I couldn’t say it back, I was so shocked.”

A heavy sigh fluttered between Chan’s lips as he leaned against the table. “I told you. How on earth did you fuck this up?”

“Chan, for the love of… please, not now.” Minho snapped, his voice stern, yet quiet, as he glared at the older man. “Seungmin,” he turned a bit further, barely glancing over his shoulder, “can you help me find him? You’re his best friend and I don’t know if he wants to see me.”

Seungmin nodded once, biting his lip as he held his phone to his head. “He’s not answering, but I’ll keep trying.”

“Where do you think he went?” Chan questioned, leaning further into the table.

Minho shook his head, closing his eyes tightly as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He thought for a moment, memories of all the time they had spent downtown and in West End rushing through his head. “There are so many places, but so few of them make sense.”

“Canada Place?” Chan offered.

“It’s closed off,” Seungmin quipped before Minho could speak. “Saw something about maintenance this morning. There’s Portal Park?”

Again, Minho shook his head. “Too many people at this time of night. Changbin wouldn’t let himself collapse around people. At least,” there was a heavy sigh that came from Minho as he curled into his shoulders, dropping his head down, “I don’t think he would. What the hell do I know, though? I didn’t even notice he was in love with me until…”

The men stood around the table, tension embracing them as nothing happened. The busy tone from Seungmin’s phone started to fill the empty air, slowly becoming as loud as the fountain in the restaurant’s lobby. The ringing and the echoing of the fountain clashed in Minho’s ears, the sounds so loud, nearly overtaking his thoughts.

Minho’s eyes went wide at a sudden realisation, tears building up in the corners of his eyes at the memories that surfaced.

“The fountains are going to spray you,” he remembered playfully shouting at Changbin as the younger man carefully walked around the wet concrete. “Then you’re going to catch a cold and you’re going to need someone to nurse you back to health. And what will happen to my muse, then?”

The younger man spun around, revealing a large smile on his face as he stuck his tongue out in playful protest. “Maybe that’s my main objective. Get sick, force you to take some time off and shower me in attention.”

Changbin hadn’t explored much of Harbour Green Park, except for the time he used the skyscrapers painting the horizon of Vancouver for a still life class. Minho wanted to help him explore more of the popular and less-popular spots that the city had to offer, so many adventures left to uncover for both of them.

Vancouver was busy and so full of people, but the thought of exploring it without Changbin caused the pang of solitude to burn in Minho’s chest.

“I should go after him,” Minho dragged his fingernails into the table before he pushed away from it. “I need to tell him that I do love him.” He patted his pockets, eyes nervously scanning around for his keys. “Tell him that I was a fucking idiot for not realizing it sooner.” His shallow breaths started to accelerate and devolved into hyperventilating as tears spilled from his eyes. “I need to apologise to him, to tell him—”

“No,” Chan grabbed Minho’s shoulder and got in his line of sight. “One, you’ve had too much to drink.”

“I’ll get you or Seungmin—”

“Two,” Chan cut him off, “you’re too emotional.”

“That’s exactly why I—”

“Minho, I know Changbin,” Seungmin took his chance to interrupt, shrugging his shoulders. “He’s taking this ten times harder than you’d expect. He’s the type to bottle shit up and then completely implode once the smallest thing sets him off. No offence, but he would say unkind shit and absolutely devastate you, even if what he says is emotionally-charged and wrong.”

Minho shook his head, his expression changing from confused, to hurt, to angry, and back. “What do I do, then?”

Chan sighed, looking up towards the ceiling for a moment. “Let him panic and break down in front of someone he loves and trusts unconditionally.” He rolled his head towards Seungmin and nodded.

The redhead closed his eyes and nodded in response. “I’ll let him yell at me. You both need to cool off in your own ways.” He looked down to his phone and tapped away again, bringing the mobile up to his ear. His eyes went wide as Changbin’s voice came through the line.

“Where the fuck are you?”

Minho tried to speak up as Seungmin walked towards the entrance, but Chan held him back. “You need to let him do this alone. You missed your chance to run after him, now let him be for a bit.”

The younger man shook his head frantically before colliding it against the older man’s shoulder. “How did I end up fucking this up so badly?”

“You’ve never been good at emotions,” Chan wrapped his arms around Minho’s back and sighed. “I love you, man. I’m sorry it’s blown up like this.”

Minho pulled away from Chan, then grabbed his phone from the table.

“Don’t text him.”

“Shut up,” Minho countered, taking his left hand and bringing it into Chan’s face as he tapped away on his phone.

“Alright, but I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“I don’t care.”

Again, unsurprisingly, Chan was correct. Minho woke up the next morning, his head throbbing from the slight hangover and from crying too hard the night prior. He scrolled through his text messages to Changbin from the night prior and sighed heavily in shame. The phone call where Seungmin scolded the both of them for several minutes played in the back of Minho’s head as he roused to his feet.

He felt numb as he tossed his phone back onto his bed and sulked his way towards the kitchen. It was Sunday morning, a day that would usually warm his heart as he followed his weekly routine. He measured out enough coffee for a little more than two cups, pausing halfway through pouring the grounds into the filter of his pour-over.

Minho’s eyes got lost in between the granules of coffee, his hand completely frozen over the glass. Everything reminded him of Changbin, but the smell of the coffee broke Minho completely. He dropped the metal measuring spoon, causing the remaining grounds to scatter across the cupboard and all over the floor, and he stumbled backwards. He brought his hands to his hair and shouted in anguish as he sank to the floor.

The tears spilled, staining his shirt temporarily as Minho curled up into himself. He wrapped his arms around his legs and dropped his head to his knees and let the agonising tears wash over him.

Sundays were just another day to Minho before Changbin. He would get caught up on his weekly news, get lost in useless contracts that all said the same bullshit with different names and stipulations, and he would breath a sigh of relief as the world relaxed around him for twenty-four hours.

After Changbin, however, Minho had something positive to look forward to on Sundays. He didn’t remember when exactly Changbin started staying over on Saturday nights, but it quickly became tradition. Minho would smile to himself as he watched Changbin sleep with his mouth partially open, arm slung over his forehead and knee kicked up into the air. His chest would rise and fall rhythmically, and Minho felt a bit awkward just staring, yet he never pulled himself away.

There would be mornings that he would wake up, and Changbin would be resting his forehead against Minho’s shoulder, arm lazily slung over his chest. The younger man would hold him closely, like Minho was some sort of stuffed animal that would comfort him while he slept.

Tears continued to spill down Minho’s face, the salty liquid burning against his skin. He wondered how Changbin would feel when he woke up in his own bed, cold and alone. Minho hoped, silently praying to himself that the man he loved would wake up and forget everything about them for just a few moments, just so he didn’t feel as alone as Minho did.

The week passed, and there was nothing but radio silence between the two of them. Minho had typed out several lengthy apologies, yet none of them felt right. He found himself staring down at his phone, hoping to gather the courage to just fucking call Changbin, yet he never brought himself to do so.

Chan had told him to just let Changbin decompress, wait until the younger man reached out to him when he was ready. He had promised that he would keep in contact with Seungmin and keep Minho in the loop if anything changed.

So, Minho laid in bed alone, unable to sleep as the minutes blended into hours. He stared at his bedside clock, watching the time and date shift from 23:59 on Friday to 00:00 on Saturday. He and Changbin would usually spend their Fridays and Saturdays together. It had been routine at this point, causing the pain to ache that much greater as the realisation sank into Minho’s chest.

A cold sweat washed over him, feeling like something bad was happening, but Minho tried to brush it off as nothing more than guilt and regret as he closed his teary eyes and sank into his pillow. His room was warm, and his duvet felt warm around him, yet Minho felt nothing but an overwhelming coldness as he slowly, painfully drifted into sleep.

Minho’s piercing ringtone startled him awake. His eyelids were sticky as he blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the darkness of his room. He pulled his hand out from underneath the covers, hastily reaching around for his phone to silence the damn thing. Minho only wanted to hear from one person, yet his heart sank into his stomach when he looked at his phone.

“Chan?” His voice was heavy as he answered his phone, eyeing the time on his clock. It was half-six, far too early for this to be a casual conversation. “Are you alright?”

A heavy, tinny sigh came through the speaker of Minho’s phone. “Did you just wake up?”

Minho’s head thudded against his pillow as he melted into his bed. “Yeah. I’m used to sleeping in a bit on Saturdays now.”

“Have you seen the news yet?” Chan’s voice wasn’t urgent, but it did seem concerned, like there was something deeply wrong.

“What are you talking about?” He pulled his phone away from his head, putting Chan on speakerphone before he tried to make heads or tails of the mass of notifications on his phone.

“God,” Chan sighed heavily. “Okay, you’re gonna be furious. It ain’t good. Check The Coastal Daily or The Toronto Chronicles.”

An overwhelming sense of dread washed over Minho, draping him in that familiar cold sweat that he fell asleep to just hours prior. “I mean,” he tried to calmly compose himself, “it’s a tabloid, Chan. Is it ever good?”

Minho scrolled down just enough and he saw Changbin’s name alongside his in the titles of the tabloids, the sense of dread blossoming into nausea. “Oh my god,” he shook as he sat up, opening the article from The Coastal Daily. Minho skimmed through it just enough to see photos of Changbin with a face he never hoped to see again in his life. “No. There’s no way.”

Chan sighed languidly. “Yeah, it’s exactly who you think it is.”

“If this is Jeongin…”

“It is.”

Minho felt sick to his stomach as he dropped his phone, nervously bringing his head into his hands. “It’s Jisung, it has to be. He’s been waiting for me to fuck up, but I never thought he’d go after Changbin. Not like this.”

“You know the depths Jisung would sink to better than anyone else.” Chan paused, an audible, deep inhale coming through the speaker. “He’s not gonna let you go, Minho. You need to do something about this.”

Minho shook his head, his thoughts reeling as a myriad of emotions washed over him. “I have to make up with Changbin. Let him know that I’m not mad at him, that this is just—”

“You need to make up with him because you care about him, or,” Chan abruptly cut Minho off, his voice stern, “because you want to get back at Jisung?”

The silence bouncing off of the walls of Minho’s room was deafening. Of course he needed to make up with Changbin, because he loved him and they both fucked up. The fact that Jisung was involved, bringing his brother into this mess, however, complicated things. Minho wanted to get back at the younger man for causing him so much agony over the past several years, yet he had no idea where to start. All he was certain of was the fact that he was beyond furious that Changbin got hurt because of Jisung.

He got hurt because of Minho, which was unforgivable.

“I’ve got to head to Montréal in a few days,” Minho sighed heavily as he brought his phone back up to his face. “I’m going to be gone for two months, I’ve got to talk to Changbin and tell him—”

“Tell him what, Minho? You’re going to give him a half-assed apology because you’re scared of your ex? You know he deserves better than that.”

An email popped up on screen from an unknown sender as Chan spoke. The title grabbed his attention, causing his rage and agony to bubble over. “I have to go, Chan.”

“Don’t fuck this up, Minho. I don’t want you to lose your one chance at happiness with someone else because you’re angry at Jisung of all people.”

“Trust me. I’ll talk to you later, I promise.” Minho hung up, then tapped on the email titled ‘i know what your fiancé did last night’ and nearly threw his phone at the wall as soon as he opened it up.

There were photos attached to the email, sent from a burner account. The body of the message was simple:

> break off the engagement or the photos get leaked > i have more than these > video, too > you have until june > xoxo

Minho didn’t want to open the photos, because he knew it wasn’t going to be good. He went against his better judgement, opening the attachments, which proved to be a mistake instantly. He saw blurry photos of Changbin in varying states of undress, in an unfamiliar room, likely a hotel room or some rented temporary apartment.

His blood was boiling. If there was a state of rage beyond the fury Minho felt, he was rapidly approaching it.

As much as he wanted to, Minho refused to reach out to Changbin, far too emotional for what the younger man needed right now. Instead, he made his way to his laptop as he called Chan, who picked up after two rings.

“What’s up?”

Minho didn’t bother with pleasantries. “I’m forwarding you an email. Don’t open it. Just keep it for future reference.”

“Shit. Jisung?”

“Yeah,” Minho spat through his teeth, seething and shaking in anger. “I’m leaving for Montréal tonight and making a stop in Toronto on the way.”

The line went silent for a moment. “Just don’t do anything too irrational. You know the Hans have got resources all over Toronto.”

“I’ll be fine. That grimy motherfucker will get what’s coming to him, but I’m not gonna kill him. Probably."

Minho was lucky to catch a flight to Toronto that same day. He felt guilty for not reaching out to Changbin before he left, but he knew that he had to be going through an impossible array of wildly varying emotions. As much as he didn’t want to, Minho resigned himself to just waiting until Changbin was ready to talk.

The 747 made its descent into Toronto, and Minho’s stomach turned as he saw the familiar skyline from the air. This city had so many negative memories for him, and very few positive moments. Somewhere on the outskirts of the city were the aging parents he hated, and Jisung was likely somewhere in the city centre, probably in the same penthouse apartment his parents had bought for him when he graduated university.

As manipulative as Jisung was, Minho was thankful that he was arrogant and stupid.

The tires of the aircraft screeched throughout the cabin as they made aggressive contact with the tarmac, and Minho turned his phone on before the pilots cleared it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at Toronto-Pearson International Airport. The local time is...” Minho’s phone came to life, and he impatiently waited for it to connect to a local tower. “If this is your final destination, we hope you enjoy your stay.” A message popped up from Chan. “If Toronto is where you call home, then welcome home.”

Minho’s lips parted as he read over the message from Chan, confirming his suspicions about Jisung’s address and his blatant stupidity.

“Welcome home, indeed. I’m coming for you, Jisung.”

It was the early evening when Minho arrived at the familiar complex he used to share with Jisung. He handed a few bills to his cab driver, then walked up to the building, punching in the same code he used to use to gain access. Luckily, somehow, the old code still worked, and he took in a deep breath as he opened the unlocked door and stepped into the lobby.

The concierge behind the desk cocked his head as he watched Minho walk through the vestibule with arrogance. He likely didn’t recognise the man, yet didn’t stop him as the heels of his dress shoes clattered against the marble floor. Minho cracked the knuckles of his fingers casually as he approached the elevator bay.

He stared at his tired reflection in the frosted metal doors, knowing he was probably falling for a trap that Jisung was setting, getting right back into his hands. What Jisung wouldn’t expect, however, would be Minho on his doorstep so soon, the same day that he had brazenly threatened him.

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding and a gentle announcement from the AI. He stepped in, pressing the top floor button. He entered in the last four digits of Jisung’s phone number, the keypad lighting up green, then he pressed the top button again. The elevator softly glided up the floors, the display dinging with each floor it passed.

Years ago, Minho would have never stood up to Jisung like this, but now he had a reason to fight against him. He had a reason to fight at all.

Changbin. Jisung hurt him, and he needed to pay for it.

The elevator stopped at the top floor, the doors gliding open to reveal a single door at the end of a long hallway. Minho sucked in a breath through his teeth and quickly stepped out of the elevator and walked down the hallway. He approached the door and brought his knuckle to the cool wood and rapped against it twice, hoping that Jisung was home.

Something clattered and profanity was uttered, a voice getting closer to the door. “How the fuck…? Who is it?”

Minho said nothing, tucking his hands into his pockets as the door opened to a familiar face that he hated to see. The blonde that opened the door stared in confusion, then surprise.

“Wow,” the younger man drawled out, a wide, arrogant smile growing on his face. “Heya, babe. You finally miss me enough to come crawling back to me, huh?”

“Don’t play that cutesy shit with me.” Minho shook his head, trying to bite back his fury. “What’s with you and that shitty fucking brother of yours setting my fiancé up like that? The photos you’ve sent?”

Jisung leaned against his door and continued to smile. He lowered his voice as he dipped his head into Minho’s space just a bit. “C’mon, baby, don’t be like that. I got you back home, yeah? Who cares how we got here? You’re back home, where you deserve to be.”

Minho took a step closer, practically tearing the fabric of his pockets apart to keep himself from strangling the man in front of him. “What’s your aim, Jisung? What the fuck else do you want from me? Why’d you drag Changbin into this just to get to me?”

“You know what I want.” Jisung purred, leaning in and boldly grabbing the older man’s hip, getting dangerously close.

Minho shook his head, relinquishing his grip from his pockets as he shoved the blonde back into his apartment. “Stay out of my fucking life, you goddamned coward.”

Despite being shoved backwards, the younger man seemed unfazed, merely shrugging his shoulders and closing the distance between them again. “Awfully bold of you, the man on my doorstep.”

“On the doorstep of the man that nearly ruined my career and almost bankrupted me and my family.” Minho spat through his teeth. “How fucking dare you do this?”

Jisung condescendingly cooed as he brought his face in so close to Minho’s space that the older man could feel his warm breath against his skin. The younger man rolled his eyes as he leaned into Minho’s ear. “It’s cute that you think that pretty little whore attached to you isn’t gonna try to do the same thing when he gets bored of you.”

That was too much, the verbal blow causing Minho’s blood to boil and nearly spill over. He reached up to Jisung’s collar, pushing him backwards into the wall behind his door. He desperately wanted to violently wipe the grin on the younger man’s face, yet managed to stay composed as the door slammed behind him. “That pretty little whore of mine, or whatever the fuck you wanna call him — you know what? He actually legitimately loves me. That’s something you and I both know you’re incapable of ever expressing, unless it’s masqueraded as some sort of emotional manipulation.”

“Aww,” Jisung scoffed. “Aren’t you so cute, huh? Are you actually growing a heart, Minho? Are you no longer The Heartless?”

Minho shook his head, the familiar sense of anger that came with the initial rumour creeping its way under his skin. “Don’t give me that bullshit, you worthless sack of shit. How fucking dare you try and drag Changbin into this? You should have kept this between the two of us.”

“Wanna know why I did all this for you, baby?” Jisung’s voice was heavy with something Minho couldn’t quite pick up on. “I knew it’d get you back to me, sure, but in all honesty? I was bored.”

Minho gritted his teeth, painfully seething now. He tightly gripped Jisung’s collar and slammed him against the wall again, causing a painting on the wall to dislodge. “You hurt my fiancé because you were fucking bored?”

“Ha!” Jisung loudly chortled, throwing his head up against the wall. “Fiancé? Oh, baby, please, that’s the cutest shit I’ve heard all week. He doesn’t mean that much to you; you and I both know that. Wanna know how I know?” Jisung leaned in closer, his breath hot and laden with venom. “He’ll never have what you and I had, baby. He ain’t me. Nobody will ever love you or fuck you as well as I did.”

Minho couldn’t control his rage for a second longer. He let go of Jisung’s collar, then connected his right fist to Jisung’s cheek with an audible thwack, knocking the younger man off balance. “I swear to god,” he spat, “if you ever try and interject your grimy fucking hands into my life ever again, I will destroy you. Tear down whatever bullshit career your parents bought you. Leave me alone. Leave Changbin alone. Or else.”

Jisung brought his hand up to his face as Minho took a step backwards. “Wow, I never thought I’d see the day where you actually stepped up to me.” His voice was calm, yet all of the arrogance on his face had been wiped away, replaced with disdain. “Awfully bold of you, don’t you think?”

Minho shook his head, making his way towards Jisung’s apartment door. “Leave us the fuck alone and go back to being miserable by yourself. Do something productive with your life instead of withering away in this shitty fucking city.”

As he opened the door, he heard Jisung speak up one last time. “Best be careful and watch your back, then, baby. Hate to see something happen to you or that pretty little whore of yours.”

Minho refused to think about Jisung or Jeongin for the rest of the night he spent in Toronto. He was up early again after yet another sleepless night, with no word from Changbin, navigating the large terminals inside Toronto-Pearson. He slung his backpack over his shoulder as he made his way from Starbucks to the gate his flight would be departing from.

As he sat in one of the rubbery airport seats, he kept tapping away on the message he had worked on the night before. A lengthy apology of sorts, and also a letter of forgiveness. Even if Changbin was mad at Minho for the entire debacle around their engagement party, he knew the younger man too well, sure that he was probably kicking himself over what had happened with Jeongin.

Forty-five minutes passed before boarding began for his flight to Montréal. Minho managed to send off the lengthy email to Changbin and he finished his cup of blonde roast before he made his way down the metal tunnel that connected to the aircraft. He tucked his phone into his back pocket, sighing with a hint of relief for the first time all week.

Minho didn’t hear from Changbin for the rest of February, nor did he hear from him all of March. Time passed slowly as he scrolled aimlessly through his social network feeds, waiting to see updates from Changbin. The only thing he had really seen in months was a post from Chan on Instagram where he was with Seungmin — something his best friend was casually not discussing with him during his absence.

Seungmin was Chan’s type. They had slowly been getting more familiar with each other at various social events that the four of them attended, but Minho had no idea that they were talking to each other, much less seeing each other privately. He couldn’t help but wonder if Chan was politely hiding it all from Minho so he didn’t have to think about Changbin.

Over the near-two month span that passed while he was in Montréal, things were quiet. Sure, Minho was busy and drowning in contracts and arrangements, but he would still lay awake for hours, thoughts of Changbin dancing across his mind every time he closed his eyes. The laughter of the younger man was so loud, albeit being so distant. It had been ages since Minho felt so alone, longing just to be comforted by the man that he loved.

One night, towards the end of April, he found himself near the bottom of a bottle of red wine, working on a last-minute proposal that needed to be ironed out before it was sent off to an artist that was considering signing on to the gallery in Montréal. If Minho could sign this artist, it would bring in considerable revenue, and he desperately wanted it to go right. Sure, it would please his parents, but it would reaffirm that all of his work over the years hadn’t been for naught.

It was three in the morning as Minho started to go cross-eyed staring at the legal document until it morphed from French to some unintelligible script. He hated French. He was bad enough with English, worse with Korean, and even worse with French, even though he was fluent in all three languages. Nobody spoke French outside of Québec, except for a couple of times he was in Toronto and some familiar clients stopped at some of his exhibits.

So, when his phone went off, Minho wasn’t quite sure if it was the overload of French combined with the bottle of wine playing tricks on him as the messages popped up on screen.

03:14 | Changbin: mnho 03:14 | Changbin: im still mad at you 03:15 | Changbin: wait fuck i think youre mad at me 03:16 | Changbin: yeah thats right i forgot my bad

The texts didn’t fully register as Minho stared at them, a bit flabbergasted that Changbin was texting him, much less texting him at midnight his time. It didn’t feel right after a few months of not speaking with each other, but he couldn’t bring himself to ignore the messages. Did he read the email? What was he doing up at a time like this, more incoherent than normal?

03:18 | sent: You should be asleep.

It was stupid, and he shouldn’t have texted Changbin back, but Minho truly, desperately wanted to talk to him again, even if it hurt. They had both been at fault for the problems that came between them, but Minho missed Changbin more than he was mad at him. Hell, he wasn’t even mad at him, he just wanted to know that Changbin was alright.

03:19 | Changbin: how dare you tell me what to do 03:20 | Changbin: you think youre soooo much better than me huh 03:21 | sent: Have you been drinking? 03:22 | Changbin: mayhaps i have 03:22 | Changbin: whats it to you 03:23 | Changbin: dont worry im stuck at home so im not gonna sleep with someone this time

Minho rolled his eyes at the text, still furious at Jisung and Jeongin for the stunt they had pulled. He had been a bit upset with Changbin, but that boiled over and passed relatively quickly.

03:25 | sent: So why did you text me?

He wasn’t sure why he asked that specific question, or even what kind of answer he wanted or expected from Changbin. All that Minho could think of was every time they got a little bit too tipsy, Changbin started to get handsy. The touching was never explicit, just a bit more bolder than casual skinship. Lingering touches on Minho’s stomach, nuzzling in a bit too close to his neck, legs tangling up into his, the firmness that rutted up against his thigh in the middle of the night as they slept.

It was always innocent enough, but Minho let his mind stray once or twice when he was alone. He wondered what Changbin looked like totally naked, how much pressure his fingertips would apply as they danced across Minho’s body, the sounds he would make as he—

A buzz ripped him from his thoughts.

03:27 | Changbin: idk i was bored 03:28 | Changbin: was thinking you might be up

Minho rubbed his tired eyes a few times as he turned his desk lamp off, standing up and stretching. He grabbed his phone, ready to text Changbin to tell him that no, he wouldn’t be up for much longer, and that he should go to bed too, but the response on his screen had him concerned he was seeing double.

03:30 | Changbin: maybe i meant that in more ways than one 03:30 | Changbin: my bed is cold and lonely and all i want right now is to be curled up in your arms 03:31 | Changbin: fuck you know? i miss you a lot 03:31 | Changbin: idk call me selfish but maybe i want a little more than just cuddling too

The fluttering in Minho’s stomach refused to cease. He quickly swallowed the remnants in the half-drunk glass of wine on the desk, swearing he would deal with the dish tomorrow. He mechanically made his way to the bed, typing away on his phone while he hastily disrobed.

03:32 | sent: More ways than one? Elaborate.

His heart was pounding, his palms starting to sweat from the excitement coursing through his veins. Truthfully, he wanted Changbin for a while. Minho always said their relationship would never turn sexual, but he did secretly hope that there would be one slip up between them eventually, especially as their relationship started to blossom into something more serious, resembling something far more real. With the way that the knot knitted inside of Minho’s stomach, it felt like that moment was finally here. It wasn’t in person, but he would still accept it.

03:33 | Changbin: you and your fucking words 03:34 | Changbin: you’re awake, guess you’re up that way

Minho bit his lip, carefully lowering himself onto the bed without looking away from his phone. Changbin wasn’t exactly tactful with his words, but that was yet another reason why Minho found him interesting. They didn’t need to be wordsy and emotional right now, not with tensions still flying around. He chewed on his lip as he stared at the screen, trying to figure out how exactly he should respond, but there was an image that popped up on screen that caused him to drop his phone directly down onto his nose.

“Fuck,” Minho exclaimed, wrapping his nose in his hands. He turned to look at the screen of his phone, and the image he saw was exactly what he anticipated. Changbin was leaning up against the wall of his washroom, phone in hand, aimed at his reflection in his mirror. His hair was slicked back and wet, his skin dewy and slick, like he had just gotten done showering.

He was shirtless. That was the first thing that Minho noticed. He was shirtless, and he had clearly been keeping up with his gym routines.

03:37 | sent: You… 03:38 | Changbin: you done picking your jaw off the floor? 03:38 | sent: You’d better feel lucky that I’m not there right now. 03:39 | Changbin: why?

Minho felt like he was going to explode. Usually, he loved the slow, drawn out chase that sexting had. There was an appeal that wasn’t the same with physical desire. The fact that Minho couldn’t just get in his car and show up at Changbin’s apartment in twenty minutes made him all the more frustrated. He wanted to throw the younger man up onto his bed, right into the spot just left of the middle where it dipped further, and keep him there all night. Minho wanted to kiss every square inch of Changbin’s skin, run his tongue up from his hip bones to his collar bones, then bite a path up his neck, all the way up to his lips.

03:41 | sent: Your classmates would notice. You’d walk funny the next day, your neck would be covered in shades of purple and green in the shape of my teeth. 03:42 | Changbin: so you wanna fuck me, huh?

God, this was fucking torture. Minho let out a sharp, excruciating exhale as he carded a hand through his hair, trying to catch his breath. He decided he’d fuck Changbin first, offer apologies later.

03:44 | sent: More than just that. I want to ruin you in such a way you’d never have a satisfying lay from anyone else but me again.

That was too assertive. It had to have been, but Minho couldn’t stop his fingers from tapping away at his phone.

03:46 | Changbin: thst 03:46 | Changbin: fuck i dropped my phone 03:47 | Changbin: that’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said 03:47 | Changbin: i want more 03:48 | Changbin: i want you minho

There was a small sigh of relief that escaped Minho’s lips, but he was still tense. He should have apologised profusely and properly to Changbin before going through with this, but he couldn’t stop. He was too enraptured in the thought of taking in Changbin, taking him over, finding and kissing all of the sensitive spots from his clavicles to behind his ears. Whisper affirmations, praise, love — all the things Changbin deserved to hear from him.

All of the words he needed to hear.

03:49 | sent: Can I call you or is that too much right now?

Minho stared at his phone, waiting for a response. He watched the numbers change: 03:50 to 03:51. 03:51 to 03:52. Was it too much too soon?

Then, Changbin’s contact photo replaced the blank screen Minho had been staring at, and he accepted the call without hesitation.

“Changbin,” Minho tried to sound smooth, but something caught in his throat as he spoke as he verbally tripped over his nervousness.

“Minho,” the younger man sleepily breathed, a bit of an underlying slur to his voice. “Wanted to tell me what the sunrise in Montréal is like, or are you gonna put your money where your mouth is?”

“If you keep talking like that, I’m going to have to put your mouth somewhere it would prove to be more useful.” A lot of lapses in thinking were happening. Unlike with texting, Minho didn’t have the luxury of thinking something out entirely before he sent it off; words just casually slipped out without judgement.

“I’ll have you know,” Changbin’s voice was lower now, more breathy than before, “I don’t disappoint. I walk the talk.”

“What, you’re gonna tell me you’d give me a mind-blowing experience?”

“Absolutely, but don’t put words in my fucking mouth.” Changbin playfully retorted, then let out a noise that was somewhere between a moan and a whine, which caused Minho’s nerves to tingle from head to toe. “I wanna make you watch me ride you nice and slow. Feel your fingers dig into my thighs while I’m riding your—”

“Changbin, I don’t know if—”

“Do you want to do this or not, Minho?” The younger man huffed in frustration. “I just… I wanna forget about everything for a little bit, and I fucking miss you. God, I’ve missed you for so long. I keep reading over your email and I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep quiet and not talk to you.”

It felt like Minho’s heart skipped a beat while it thrummed loudly against his chest. “I miss you, too, love.”

Changbin paused for a moment, shuffling around on the other line. “So, can we do this or not? I don’t wanna think about the emotional stuff right now. Not really, uh, thinking with the right head for that.”

Minho wanted their first sexual experience together to go perfectly, for it to be wonderful and romantic, but he was too overcome with elation with Changbin’s excitement over the line to say no. “Honestly,” he sighed into the phone, letting his free hand creep down to the front of his underwear, “I don’t really wanna think about it right now, either. Not after that photo you sent me. Dropped my phone and nearly broke my nose when I saw it.”

A muffled sigh came from the phone. “I was thinking about you when I took it. You should see me now, though. I haven’t bothered putting clothes on after my shower and I just slathered myself in lotion.”

Minho swallowed hard, nearly choking on his saliva. “Did you use the one I got you? The one that smells like vanilla?”

“Yeah,” the vowel was drawn out, breathy and elongated as Changbin spoke. “Wanted to get as close to having you all over me as I could.”

“Fuck.” Minho’s eyelids fluttered shut as he subconsciously gripped at the firming erection under his hand. “I didn’t know you had a mouth like that on you.”

A polite laugh came from Changbin. “If you’re surprised by that,” it sounded like he was starting to pant, “you’d be surprised at all of the filthy things my mouth can do.”

This should have been awkward for both of them, but the alcohol coursing through their veins made everything come off so naturally, like they were already acquainted with each other so intimately. “You’d be surprised at the thoughts I’ve had about your mouth.” Minho mentally cursed himself for not having lube on hand, sucking in some air through his teeth as his somewhat dry hand slipped his cock out of his briefs and tugged at it. “The way I’ve imagined you on your knees under my desk while I’m on a conference call.”

“I think you’d wanna hear about the way I’ve imagined riding you in the back seat of that stupid fucking Tesla of yours after one of your stupid, pointless fucking meetings,” Changbin countered, his voice airy. “Or the times I’ve wanted you to take me in the studio, getting paint all over ourselves because you can’t contain yourself, like you couldn’t wait until we got home.”

Minho tried to swallow, his throat and his mouth dry at the images playing in his head. “You know what I’d do? I’d pull your hair so hard, everyone would hear you cry out, get you covered in a mess of paint. I’d lean down and bite your ear, make you scream who you belong to before I kept fucking you.”

“Minho,” Changbin whined, and Minho imagined him grinding his hips into his hand against the comforter of his bed. “I’d want you to mark up my neck, leave bruises all over. Let everyone know that I’m yours, through and through.”

The mental image of causing Changbin’s neck to be covered in bite marks and bruises caused Minho to reel. “Fuck, Changbin. I had no idea you were so…” He took in a shaky breath, pausing his motions for a bit as he hastily pumped some lotion off of the bedside table into his hand, “that you had this kind of mouth on you. That you liked to be taken like this.”

“More than like it,” the younger man scoffed, “I expect to be taken like that. But, if you think I’m some sort of pillow princess or someone that puts in no effort at all, you’re dead wrong.”

“Ah,” Minho blinked rapidly, overwhelmed with the mental image of Changbin grabbing a fistful of his hair and fucking him up against the shower tiles in his apartment. “Sometimes I like it when I’m not the one that has to put in all of the effort. Take me in the shower, up against that large window in the living room… you could do whatever you wanted to me, and I’d let you.”

Changbin must have liked the idea of that, because there was a shudder and a quick moan that came through the phone. “Sounds like I’ve got, ah, my work cut out for me when you — fuck — get back to Vancouver.”

“What do you wanna do first?”

“That kitchen counter of yours,” Changbin breathed out, panting out each vowel with haste, “bend you over it and see how pretty you are up against the black marble.”

Minho shook his head, his nerves quivering at the thought. “It’s quartz, but who fucking cares.”

The younger man huffed. “I don’t. So, your turn. What do you wanna do to me?”

“Easy,” the brunette dragged his teeth over his bottom lip as he recalled the thought that frequently danced around his head during the week when Changbin was gone, counting down the days until Friday arrived. “Something lazy on Sunday morning. Kiss you, nibble at your neck a bit as you woke up, let my hands wander all over your body…”

“I keep forgetting you’re a morning person.”

Minho smirked. “Yeah, but I’d happily put in all the effort while you woke up. You’d get to benefit, have me do whatever you wanted.”

Changbin’s breath got audibly caught in his throat. “Suck me off,” he panted, “that’s what I’d want you to do first. You’d look, ah, so pretty in between my legs first thing in the morning.”

“Anything you want.”

“I want my cum all over your face right now.” It was a bold demand, yet Minho felt like he was getting close to coming just by Changbin’s words and a few familiar strokes of his cock.

“I, ah, I’m close, Changbin.” It was a bit embarrassing to admit, but he couldn’t hold back for much longer. “Where do you want it?”

A quick whine came from the younger man. “Me too, Minho. I want it — I want you in my mouth.”

“Fuck,” Minho curled inward a bit, his pace accelerating as he panted into the phone. His motions were becoming more erratic as his heartbeat pounded in his ears. “Changbin, I’m gonna—”

“Minho, I—”

Both of them were loud and breathy as they came, uttering varying strings of profanity along with the other man’s name. It took moments to come back down to reality, Minho nearly dropping his phone from his hand as he stared up at the ceiling, rapidly blinking as he slowed his breathing.

Changbin was the first to break the silence. “That was… unexpected.”

Emotions started bubbling up within Minho, yet he kept them bit back as best as he could. “Was it alright? I’ve never been good at this kinda thing.”

“Yeah,” Changbin breathed out carefully. “This was the first time I tried anything like that and I didn’t know what to expect.”

Minho reached over to the nightstand, grabbing some tissues from the box to clean off the cum on his stomach. “Can I be honest, Changbin?”

A tense moment passed in silence over the line, Minho briefly concerned that the call had been terminated. “Yeah,” the younger man sighed, sounding fatigued. “I kinda had a feeling we needed to talk, I just… didn’t know where to start.”

“I miss you. It’s been a long, quiet few months without you.”

“I’m sorry,” Changbin started. “For everything. For running off, for never reaching out, for the shit with Jeongin and it getting leaked to the press.”

Minho sat up, rubbing his temple with his index and middle fingers. “Changbin, love, don’t apologise for that. Fuck, please don’t apologise for that. We were both at emotional lows, and you had gotten set up.”

“God,” the younger man’s voice was shaky, “I should have told you the moment Jisung reached out to me. I had no idea it would ever get so bad. Can you forgive me for being an absolute idiot over—”

“I just asked you to not apologise.” Minho fluttered his lips and tucked his chin into his hand. “I know I apologised a thousand times in that email to you, but it’s all in the past. As long as you’re willing to keep going and give me a shot, we can work our way back to normal together.”

Changbin softly chuckled once. “That sounds fine to me. How long are you stuck in Montréal for, anyways?”

Minho pulled his phone away from his head, humming as he tapped away at the screen. “It’s the 27th today, which means…” his voice trailed off as he stared at his calendar. He was stuck in Montréal for another week, his return ticket to Vancouver booked for the fourth. His heart sank into his stomach as he realised he was going to be stuck on the other side of the country until the day of Changbin’s senior capstone. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“Your capstone exhibit…” Minho trailed off, mentally beating himself up over not carefully checking his schedule when he booked his return flight. He thought he had booked his last meeting for the third, but he couldn’t possibly squeeze it back for one more day.

Changbin audibly swallowed. “It’s not a big deal if you can’t—”

“I’ll be there.” Minho confidently cut the younger man off. “Changbin, love, I’m not missing something as important as this. I’ll have to rearrange a couple of things, but that’s nothing, I promise. The world can wait.”

“Well,” the younger man sighed, “it would mean a lot to me if you came. All things considered, it might look bad for the press if my fake fiancé doesn’t show up to see the key piece I have planned specifically inspired by him.”

“You finally finished that large canvas you were working on?” Minho vaguely recalled the piece Changbin had spent months on, something that was large and greyscale, like many of his other paintings before.

“It’s finally finished, yeah. I got inspired by that email you sent me, like it was the final push that the piece really needed. I really think you’re going to love it.”

A warmth blossomed in Minho’s chest at the thought of seeing another one of Changbin’s passion-filled paintings on display. “Did you decide on a title for it?”

“I did.” Changbin was confident, his voice light, as if he were smiling on the other line. “I really think you’ll find it amusing, but I’m not telling you what it is until you see it yourself. It’ll make sense then.”

Minho rested onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, setting his free hand against his chest, feeling his heartbeat pound firmly against the ribcage. “The fourth at seven, right? Same cursed gallery at UBC?”

“I wouldn’t say cursed, not necessarily. Sure, it’s got a lot of hellish things going for it, but it’s where we met, after all.”

The quip caused Minho to laugh. “Such an optimist.”

“There’s always something pleasant amidst chaos, or something like that.”

Minho closed his eyes and smiled as Changbin spoke. “I really missed hearing your voice. I haven’t been able to sleep comfortably since the night that I gave you the ring.”

“That…” Changbin yawned, shuffling around on the other line. “That was the last time we slept in the same bed, huh?”

“Yeah. I was hoping we could’ve gone back to normal after the engagement party, but...”

A heavy sigh came from Changbin. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Changbin,” Minho cut him off again, clamping his eyes shut as he took in a deep breath. He was going to plead for the younger man to stop apologising, yet he could only muster a simple phrase. “I love you.”

Silence.

“I…” the younger man stuttered for a moment, causing Minho to worry that this was the worst time to bring love up, until Changbin spoke again. “I love you too. I never thought I’d fall in love with someone again, yet you’ve proven me wrong.”

“Life is full of surprises. I guess that’s the ‘whatever the hell is next’ fate had in store for us.” Minho’s eyes started to feel heavy as he finally felt like he was able to relax a bit for the first time in months.

Changbin sighed with content. “I can’t believe you remembered that cheesy line. You really are the romantic type, huh?”

Minho rolled his head to the side, letting his phone balance on the side of his face as he got comfortable. “You just now noticed? After all the ‘love’s and the other sappy things I’ve done? And here I thought I was a bit traditional.”

“No,” the younger man muttered, “I really shouldn’t be surprised. It’s nice, though, so I won’t complain. Call me all the nice things you want.”

“Mhmm,” Minho weakly affirmed as he started to drift off. “Hey, Binnie, love?”

“What?”

“I love you. I can’t wait to see you soon.”

There was a quiet laugh on the other line as Minho started to slip further into sleep. “I love you too, Minho. It’ll be nice to see you again and tell you in person.”

“Just a week until…” Minho tried to finish his sentence, unsure if he actually said the last few words before completely slipping off into sleep.

The fourth of May approached rapidly. Minho panicked as he left his last meeting a bit later than he had expected. He hailed the first cab he could catch as he checked his watch. It was just after 11:00, which gave him just enough time to get to the airport from downtown Montréal.

“Where are you headed?” The cab driver was impartial and unenthusiastic, staring off into the distance as Minho haphazardly threw his luggage against the seat next to him.

“Montréal-Trudeau. Think we’ll get there within the half-hour?”

The driver tutted, merging into traffic. “Probably. Everyone’s trying to get out of town on Fridays, though. Hope you’re not in too tight of a schedule.”

Minho anxiously checked his watch for the nth time as he pulled his phone out of his back pocket. “I guess we’ll see.” His flight left at 13:00, yet he was stuck catching a layover from Toronto to Vancouver, as if fate couldn’t get its ugly talons out of his back. Toronto would never leave him be, it seemed. He sent off a quick text to Changbin, knowing he was going to be busy prepping for his capstone exhibit all afternoon.

11:07 | sent: I’m on my way to the airport. I’ve got a layover, but I’m hopeful I’ll make it in time. Should be in Vancouver just after 18:30, but you know how long it takes to get back into town from YVR.

Minho anxiously drummed his fingertips against his leg, fatigue starting to settle in as he watched the buildings of downtown Montréal fly past the car. Nerves rushed through him as an idea hit him. He tapped at his phone a couple of times, sending off a quick text message to Chan.

11:09 | sent: Hey, can you do me a favour? I’m coming into town tonight, should be landing at 18:30. Can you pick me up from the airport and bring me a change of clothes?

He hadn’t expected Chan to be up so early, much less sending off a response so soon.

11:10 | Chan: yeah yeah no worries dude 11:10 | Chan: hold up wait 11:11 | Chan: holy shit are you actually gonna make it in time for 11:11 | Chan: wait does this mean you made up with changbin??? 11:12 | Chan: oh my god dude i gotta tell seungmin

Minho rolled his eyes, biting back a smirk as he typed a response back to Chan. He was happy to see that Chan was so close to Seungmin, although he wasn’t surprised at all. Chan was the type to not build relationships, not even friendships, easily, and Seungmin seemed guarded. They had started hitting it off well at the engagement party, and he was eager to hear about what all they had gotten up to while Minho was halfway across the country.

As Minho sent off his text to Chan, Changbin had sent him a message.

11:12 | Changbin: sorry, I’m really busy right now, but I can’t wait to see you tonight 11:13 | Changbin: I know I’ll kind of be the main feature, but here’s what I’ll look like

A photo message came through, Changbin wearing a fitted, pinstriped suit that Minho hadn’t recognised.

11:14 | sent: I like that. You look quite astounding and will definitely deserve to have all eyes on you.

Montréal traffic wasn’t as hectic as Minho anticipated. He passed off a few bills to the cab driver, then grabbed his suitcase and backpack out of the car with him. He looked at the airport entrance and took in a deep breath, nervous for what the next several hours had in store for him. He took a few confident steps towards the airport and nodded once.

“I’m coming, Changbin.”

#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

[wherevermyway]

fight the daylight // minbin // oneshot // 18+

❄ part of yuki’s favourites! ❄

pairing: seo changbin x lee minho rating: explicit! 18+ warnings/tags: creator chose not to use archive warnings, bank robbery, heists, alternate universes (1990s/Y2K/2000s), explicit sexual content, idiots in love, minor character death, they do magic mushrooms on a beach and watch the sunrise in mexico, comedic at times but also kinda sad but with a happy ending, this minho is my favourite minho ever word count: 10.9k also on AO3!

originally posted: 14 february 2021

It’s December 31, 1999. Y2K is here. Hammerpants are still (barely) a thing, and, no matter what anyone says, Minho still thinks they’re cool, okay? “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)” is blasting through the cheap speakers of a blue '95 Pontiac Firebird, cruising down Highway 89A out of Prescott, Arizona.

Seo Changbin and Lee Minho, also known as Spear B and Lee Know, respectively, are notorious underground criminals that traverse the forgotten, sleepy towns of the American plains and deserts, craftily avoiding the coasts and other large cities as they plan their next hits. They’re well-known for being young, well-dressed thieves, but nobody knows their real names or faces. It doesn’t matter; when they’re done with this one, The Big One, they’ll finally have enough money to fuck off to West Coast Nowhere and become the nobodies they wanted to be — just with money.

Alternatively: two men say "let's be gay and commit crimes" and take it literally.

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.

"You’ve been listening to the Backstreet Boys on repeat for the past fucking hour,” a hushed voice grumbled in between the walls of a blue ‘95 Pontiac Firebird that was parked behind an abandoned, decrepit motel. “I don’t understand why you’re so adamant on—”

“Ain’t nothin’ but a heartache,” another voice sang along to the song playing through the speakers, the volume gently increasing as he turned the dial. “I’m not holding up this bank until you sing along, man.”

In the passenger seat sat a modestly-sized brunette man dressed in a black, high-end suit. He dropped his head into his hand and sighed heavily. “Minho, I swear to god—”

“Tell me why — c’mon, Changbin! I know you love this song.”

The bridge ended, and the brunette lifted his head and groaned, taking in a quick breath before half-heartedly singing the refrain, with the man in the driver’s seat offering some sort of butchered harmony. The brunette tried biting back a smile as he watched the man in white act out a scene straight out of a concert, belting out the lyrics to the song with vigour and passion. Eventually, the brunette gave in at the end, acting nearly as passionately as his counterpart.

“See?” Minho smiled widely as the song ended, leaning over the centre console. He grabbed the brunette’s face and pressed a quick kiss against his lips. “Don’t you feel that much more energised, love?”

Before the blonde could pull away, he was pulled back by the lapels of his jacket for a longer, more intense kiss, right before things went back to business. “Yeah, yeah. Look, we’ll only have three minutes before the alarms are raised once we get started,” Changbin said with confidence. He sat back in his seat, then adjusted his leather gloves and ruffled his chestnut brown hair, gently fussing over his appearance in the mirror of the flimsy visor. “That’s all I’m gonna be able to get us, based on the security system they use. Of course, that’s all assuming that Y2K doesn’t fuck us over. Maybe we’ll get lucky?” He flipped the visor up, then turned to look at the man in the driver seat.

Minho simply scoffed in response, lips subtly curling up in a cocky smirk as he adjusted his white necktie and fluffed his fading blonde hair in the rear-view mirror. His chunky blond highlights were starting to blend into his natural brown hair, but it could easily be fixed later when they were safely nestled away in a small village in Mexico. “I may take a while in the sheets, but I’m not gonna waste any time with this.” He turned to look at Changbin, offering him a cheeky, toothy grin, to which the other man rolled his eyes and sighed. “You gotta admit, though, the white and black mismatched suits was a creative idea.”

“Shut up, Minho.” The man clad in all black sighed again with more force and annoyance this time. “Are you ready to do this? This is the biggest one yet. This is it.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Minho ripped the keys out of the ignition of the Firebird. He rolled his eyes up the other man’s body, purposefully slowly. His gaze trailed upwards from the younger man’s well-polished, black leather oxfords, to his greyscale, argyle-patterned socks, up his toned legs, his torso, then settled on his face. “What?” Minho whined as he stuck his hand out to point at the shoes he was just staring at. “You look fucking hot, Changbin, let me take in the sight before we get these nice clothes bloodied and ruined.”

Changbin scowled at Minho as he pulled a duffel bag from the back seat. “I don’t know why we’re partners.” Out of the bag, he pulled a couple of large, square cloths, one black and one white, to drape over their faces. He fumbled a bit around the contents, haphazardly tossing two pairs of pitch black sunglasses into the other man’s lap. Wearing sunglasses at nearly midnight would normally be considered a stupid idea, but it would prove useful at shielding their appearance from any cameras inside of the building.

“You know why we’re partners, love. It’s the mind-blowing sex, isn’t it?” The older man offered a cheeky grin with his cheeky response, plucking the thin white cloth from his partner’s lap and tying it behind his head, covering his nose and lips. He grabbed the sunglasses and set them atop his head, waiting to cover his eyes until they got closer to their destination.

“You’re absolutely insufferable, babe.” Changbin let go of the duffel bag, dropping it into his lap and then covered his face with his hands, sighing with frustration. “Can you please focus on the fucking job and stop thinking with your dick for five minutes? Please?”

Minho bared a toothy smile as he opened the car door. “Only if we can listen to Backstreet Boys again on the way outta here.”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

“Shit,” Changbin hissed, slamming the lid of his ThinkPad 380 shut, ripping some cables out of a box in the side of the building.

“What’s up?” Minho adjusted the gloves on his hands as he whispered.

“The system’s not a problem. I got us 180 seconds to get in, get the shit, get out.” Changbin fiddled with his calculator watch a bit to set a timer, then threw his bulky laptop into the duffel bag. He quickly moved towards the front door, grabbing the pistol out of the holster attached to his hip, Minho right next to his side. “They were somewhat prepared for this. There’s a note in the security log; someone’s in there, probably towards the back.”

They stopped at the front door, pausing for only a moment, and Minho took a step in front of Changbin, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes and his rifle in front of his body. “Don’t worry, baby. C’mon, it’s a fucking rent-a-cop,” he smirked and arrogantly winked, readying his rifle. “Better feel grateful that your future husband’s a great shot.” Before Changbin could protest, Minho kicked the door in and fired off a warning shot off at a camera in the corner, startling the portly guard in front of the service desks awake. “Happy fucking New Year! This is a stick up!” They wildly stared at each other for just a moment, then Minho aimed his rifle at the man as Changbin quickly moved, ducking behind the shoddy plastic partitions and darting towards the back of the bank.

As terrifying as Minho was with a gun, Changbin was thankful he was never caught on the wrong side of it. What scared him more than Minho wildly shooting off rounds of his semi-automatic, however, was the fact that Minho’s blistering insanity and dangerousness with the weapon caused him to lose his breath and for his blood to rapidly pool south. He would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t want the man to point an empty gun at him while they fucked, to feel the rush course through his veins, but he’d never admit it out loud.

The rent-a-cop guard wasn’t a very good shot, which was what they anticipated for a small bank in the middle of nowhere. He kept trying to shoot at Changbin, but he was clearly unfamiliar with actually using a firearm, his aim wild and unpredictable; he fired out of terror, rather than with calculus. The man clad in black deftly ducked and dodged the shots as he made his way towards the back of the bank, quietly chuckling in excitement the entire way. He had studied this layout several times; he may never have been inside of the bank before, but he knew every nook and cranny in this place.

“Oi!” Minho shouted, then fired off a couple of warning shots. “Pay attention to me , you asshole!”

Changbin laughed under his breath. “I don’t like it when nobody pays attention to me,” he mockingly whispered at the same time and at the same cadence as Minho shouted the exact same words. They had a routine, and they were good together. Changbin was speedy and knew exactly where to hit to get the most payout for their efforts, whereas Minho was always good crowd control.

The guard was able to get a single shot into Minho’s leg, and it had to be only a couple of seconds after that when Minho finally got fed up and unloaded his rifle into the rent-a-cop. “Poor bastard,” he sarcastically tsked, muttering under his breath as his rifle smoked into the air. It wasn’t serious; Minho rarely ever felt anything when he killed someone. Don’t get attached, don’t have problems. “Yo, you done yet? I know you don’t like to take a while, but…”

God, Changbin wanted to fuck the arrogance out of Minho, and he was going to curse himself for getting momentarily distracted when he should have solely focused on the job at hand. He shook his wrist, looking at his watch as it illuminated his face, bringing him back to reality as he hacked into the computer connected to the vault. “I’ve got ninety-five seconds before we gotta bounce. Stop running your trap and come fucking help me, you asshole.” Changbin grumbled, tapping away until the vault door opened. “Bingo,” he gasped, smiling wildly as he ran inside.

“Holy shit!” Minho gasped as Changbin sped down the highway, constantly turning his head over both of his shoulders, running his hands through his hair. “I can’t believe we actually got away with it, that was so fucking rad!” He reached down to the CD player, jamming his finger against the skip forward button several times until “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)” started playing in the speakers, somewhat muted by the wind above the open roof of the car.

“Minho,” Changbin scolded, squeezing his partner’s knee for a moment before returning his hand to the shifter, shifting into a higher gear. “I need to take care of your leg. Once we’re out of the immediate area and it’s safe to stop, I’m gonna properly clean it out. Grab the antibiotics in the glove compartment,” Changbin pointed with his index finger, hand still on the shifter, “take two. Okay?”

Minho uttered a noncommittal grunt, reaching down to rifle through the glove compartment. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, anything to make you happy.” He grabbed a couple of pill bottles out from the glovebox, frowning as he tossed one of them back into the box with a huff. His eyes darted to the clock on the dashboard; he still had several hours to go before another dose of the other medication, but every time he saw the bottle, his mood soured. The blonde fumbled with the lid of the antibiotics bottle, eventually getting it open. He popped two in his mouth, then haphazardly tossed the bottle back into the compartment, kicking the door shut with his foot. “Happy now, love?”

“Sorry, I’d rather not have you fucking die, dude.” Changbin mumbled, reaching into the centre console to grab a cigarette from the white and blue packaging. He slid one out, pulling it out by his teeth, grabbing the tiny matchbox next to it. He raised his knee to the steering wheel, momentarily taking his hand off of it to strike the match. The cross-breeze from the open roof caused the flame to flicker a bit, making Changbin grumble as he tried to suck in a breath while focusing on the empty road in front of him. He tossed the spent match out the side of the car window, then threw the matchbox and pack of cigarettes into the cupholder. “Hey, I know it’s random, but, you wanna get married, Min?”

“I thought you said marriage was overrated?” Minho rolled his eyes and tucked his cheek into his hand, resting his arm up against the edge of the door. His gaze fell on Changbin, longingly staring at him as the lights from the dashboard and the moonlight softly illuminated his face.

Changbin lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head, pulling the cigarette from his teeth, casually ashing it out the window. “Never thought we’d rob a bank to celebrate New Years Day on the start of the millennium, either.” He turned his head and looked at Minho, covered in splatters of blood; he knew he picked the white on purpose. To anyone else, he may look terrifying or disgusting — but to Changbin? He was perfect. “Anything’s possible, man.” They were perfect together, in their own strange, fucked up way.

Minho's lilted laughter filled the empty space in the car, his sharp chuckles punctuating the air with pointed staccatos. “We can’t get married anyways, Bin.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Changbin immediately followed up, not missing a beat. “Who gives a shit if it isn’t legal? Let’s do it anyways.” He scoffed. “Besides, when the fuck did we ever listen to the law?”

There was something about Changbin’s unabashed, unfiltered attitude that drove Minho mad, in all of the best possible ways, always putting the widest grin upon his face. The blonde slapped his hand on top of Changbin’s, resting on the gear shift, then interlaced his fingers. A grin grew on his face, and he inched closer to his boyfriend. He was so close, he could practically taste the floral tobacco on his lips. “When were you thinking of stopping?” Minho whispered in the younger man’s ear, giving the lobe a soft nibble.

Changbin hummed, looking up at the stars for a moment, then back down to the dashboard. He had a suspicion of what Minho was up to, but he chose to play along regardless. “Probably somewhere in the next hour. We should be getting up to Wickenburg by then. Why?”

“Don’t mind me, just pay attention to the road, okay? It’d suck to die in a crash because you couldn’t contain yourself.”

“Minho, what are you—” Changbin was cut off as Minho pulled his hand away from the hand on the gear shift, running it over the front of the younger man’s dress pants. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re not seriously going to—”

“I am. I just want you to know how much I love you and how much I love sticking it to the man with you. Now, shut up and drive while I take care of you.” Minho fumbled with the button and zipper of Changbin’s pants a bit before he was able to peel the black slacks open. The younger man gripped the steering wheel so tight, his knuckles turned white, cold air sneaking through the opening of his boxers, causing him to tense.

“Minho,” Changbin whined into the air through gritted teeth. He was determined to keep his eyes on the dusty asphalt in front of him. As much as he wanted to, there was no way he could fathom watching Minho, because he absolutely would flip the car over. Changbin took one last long, steady drag from his mostly-smoked cigarette, then tossed it out of the window. He took in a quick breath through his teeth as he gripped the steering wheel with both hands.

Minho danced his fingers around onto the rapidly firming erection in front of him, his tongue licking gentle circles into the soft flesh between his palms. “Baby,” Changbin mewled, desperately focusing so hard on the road in front of him, headlights illuminating the nothingness in front of them. He bit his lip back before taking one of his hands from the steering wheel, tangling his fingers into Minho's hair.

Changbin tried desperately to keep his noises bitten back, hoping that the warm desert air whipping around them would drown the noises out. Every movement that Minho made caused him to dig his fingernails into the leather of the steering wheel, the other hand tugging a bit too firmly at Minho's hair.

“Bet you wanna fuck my face so hard right now, paint it all with your cum,” Minho teased at a volume just barely loud enough to carry over the wind. His words caused Changbin's cock to twitch in his palm, which elicited a smirk from the older man. Minho pressed his elbow into the centre console a bit to prop himself up. He licked the side of Changbin's neck gently, his hand slowly stroking up and down the length. His fingers were delicate, yet offered pressure in varying degrees as he stroked from base to tip, making sure to run the pad of his thumb around the base of the head ever so delicately.

“Fuck,” Changbin whined as he involuntarily twitched, barely maintaining his composure. “Trying to focus on the road, Min. You're making this impossible.”

Minho licked his way up Changbin's neck, pausing as he reached the ear in front of him. “Good.” His voice was low, syllables drawled out impossibly slowly. “I don't want your cum on my face, not until you've got me bent over the car and you've got me crying out your name into the empty air.” He jutted his chin out just enough to take the tender flesh of Changbin's earlobe between his teeth, tugging at the sensitive skin gently.

“Minho!” The brunette arched his back, then frantically eyed their surroundings. There wasn't anywhere decent that they could stop off at, so Changbin hoped for the best as he pulled down a dirt road. “Get off me for a sec, babe,” he gripped the elder's thigh with a momentary squeeze. “Thank god we're in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

The blonde smirked, removing his hand and bringing it up to wipe up under his bottom lip. “I told you that having our last heist in the middle of nowhere was smart, for multiple reasons.”

Like their heists, the couple moved fast and in tandem with each other. As soon as Changbin pulled the emergency brake, Minho already had a condom foil between his teeth and a small bottle of lube in his hand as he exited the car.

“Over the back,” Changbin commanded as he loosely fastened his pants together, “the hood of the car is too hot and I don't want you to burn yourself.”

“Aw,” Minho whined sarcastically, “but I like the rush of it all. Maybe you should stick a finger in the gunshot wound in my leg, too. That'd be a real rush.”

Changbin cocked an eyebrow as he walked around the car, trying to brush off Minho’s brash request. “You want me to fingerfuck the wound in your leg? Seriously? Is the rush of fucking out in the open, in the middle of a vast, open desert not enough for you, babe?”

Minho gripped the collar of Changbin's shirt as he approached, the button holding the fabric together popping at the motion. “It’s not the craziest thing I’ve requested, you know. The fact that we could get caught is a rush, sure,” he reached his hands up, fingers dancing against the slightly damp, clammy skin of Changbin's neck, “and anything's good as long as it's with you, but life is short.”

“Min…” Changbin’s voice trailed off, his expression faltering a bit.

Minho frowned for a brief moment before he brought his lips to Changbin's for a quick kiss. “I didn't mean it like that, love.”

“I know, I know,” the brunette sighed, bringing his hands to Minho's hips, their warm bodies softly brushing against each other. “I just can't help but—”

“You're killing the mood, baby. C’mon, let’s not do this sad shit for once.”

Changbin rolled his head up a bit, staring up at the starry sky. “Sorry.” He breathed a quiet, genuine apology into the night, his voice barely loud enough for Minho to hear. A lot of their recent sexual moments would turn serious at the worst time, Changbin's fears getting the best of him as he worried over Minho. The worry was expected, he loved Minho with all of his heart and he wasn't ready for time to catch up to them.

A sharp nibble at the side of Changbin's neck pulled him from his thoughts. “Ow,” he whined, furrowing his brows. “Why'd you do that?”

“You're getting mopey on me,” Minho whispered before biting at the younger man's neck once more, much more gently this time. “It's been months, and you're acting like you're the one that's gonna die.”

“You're not—”

“Stop it.” Minho pulled away from Changbin, staring directly into his eyes with a fierce gaze. “Shut up and fuck me. You didn't pull off of the main road just to talk about all of this, did you?”

A soft breeze gusted between them, carrying a bit of sand along with it. “No,” Changbin shrugged, letting his gaze fall to an indiscriminate spot on the trunk of the car.

“Hey,” Minho reached up and turned Changbin's head by the chin. “I love you, okay? Besides, if we're gonna catch the sunrise in Mexico, we'd better hurry up, yeah? Time’s ticking.”

There was nothing for Minho's moans and Changbin's heavy breathing to bounce off of, their pants and moans carrying far off into the vast Arizona nothingness.

“You know,” Changbin’s voice was stern as he slowed down a bit, grinding against Minho to make him squirm, “I think you’re really fucking hot when you’re angry. You know what’s fucked up, though?”

“The fact that you’re not fucking me harder,” the blonde whined, attempting to fuck himself on the younger man’s cock.

Changbin smirked, biting his lip hard for a moment as he offered a single, rough thrust, causing Minho to yelp and slam his hands down against the back of the car. The brunette leaned in, nipping at the upper cartilage of Minho’s exposed ear for just a moment. “You with a deadly weapon. I really wanted to fuck you on the floor of that rundown place, maybe have the cameras catch you coming undone all for me.”

“Oh,” Minho curled his fingers into the car, his eyes going wide for just a moment as he registered the image. “That’s fucked. I love it, yeah.”

“I knew you would.” It was impossible for Changbin to not feel some sort of arrogant pride as Minho endorsed his somewhat sick fantasies like this. He brought his hands down to the older man’s hips, using his grip as leverage to fuck into him harder, with more drive than before.

“Fuck if it turns you on like this, you should’ve told me sooner, after the first time we fucked post-heist.” Minho refused to keep his voice at a reasonable volume, taking full advantage of the open area around them. “I love the way you feel inside of me, keep fucking me just like that, fuck me like you’d take me on the floor, like we were being watched by a crowd.”

Changbin took a hand from Minho's hip, shakily reaching it up towards his blonde hair. He watched how every thrust he made caused Minho to roll up against the cool metal of the car. His skin would leave smudges that would need to be wiped off, but that didn't matter. As much as he wanted to rush the sex so that they could get back on the road, he couldn't bring himself to speed through the motions.

He desperately tried to capture the sight of Minho stroking himself, breathlessly panting out Changbin's name as he trembled against the car. Minho's expression as his face shifted between pain, pleasure, and ecstasy. Minho's soft skin against Changbin's exposed stomach. Minho's voice shifting upward in pitch as he inched closer and closer to his orgasm. Minho's fingers digging at the car, scratching the paint ever so slightly. Everything about him, about Minho, every little detail he could keep, as if he were imprinting it onto film that could last forever.

Minho. He loved Minho so desperately, passionately, without any rhyme or reason.

“Minho,” Changbin whined, “I'm close, babe.”

“A little more.” The blonde's voice was at an elevated pitch, his shoulders twitching the way they always did right before he came. “Want you to, ah, to come on my face,” he panted, a few squeaks escaping in between the words.

Changbin pulled out of Minho, gripping the base of his erection firmly as he tore the condom off haphazardly discarding it to the ground beneath him. “Get on your knees, then.”

Minho whined at the loss of Changbin, the sudden emptiness inside of him. However, he remained composed enough as he scrambled to the ground. He rested on his knees, looking up at Changbin pleadingly as he resumed stroking himself. “Want you,” he whined with a whisper, “please, love, all over me, please.”

The view of Minho, skin glistening under the moonlight, knees dusty from the sand, mouth wide open and eager for him. As much as Changbin wanted to try desperately at etching it into his mind, he found it too overwhelming. His back arched a bit, eyes clamping shut as his orgasm overtook him. “Minho,” he whined into the open air, praying to himself that he wasn't missing Minho's face.

A sharp cry came from beneath Changbin, and the younger man was able to catch Minho falling apart in front of him. His breath hitched in his throat as he watched his cum drip down Minho's face, mouth hanging open and some of it rolling into his mouth. Minho thrusted into his hand one last time, back arching as cum shot into the air.

“Changbin!”

For all of the soft, tender moments that Changbin loved about Minho, he felt the slightest bit of shame for admittedly loving these filthy little moments nearly as much as the soft ones. Whether he intended to or not, Minho was always good at putting on just enough of a show to drive Changbin mad.

Minho exhaled forcefully, resting back on his heels, then colliding up against the back of the car. "Fuck," he panted, wiping one of his eyelids with the back of his hand. He stared up at Changbin with a wide grin. “I love you.”

“I love you too, so, so much.” A euphoric grin spread across Changbin’s face as he knelt down and stroked Minho's face, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?”

After a quick change of clothes and a decent cleaning and bandaging of Minho’s wound, the duo were cruising back down the highway in about twenty minutes. Minho popped open the glove compartment, pulling a bright orange disk from the binder of CDs. He ejected the disk from the stereo, swapping the matte silver disk for the orange one in his hand. The bass of the song shook the sides of the car door as it started.

Changbin pulled a Parliament from the pack in the cupholder, brows furrowing in confusion as he lit the cigarette with a match. “Well, this is new. What's this, some sort of weird Star Trek shit?”

Minho took the lit cigarette from Changbin's fingers with a coy grin. “Savage Garden. Not even close.”

The younger man pursed his lips and bit back a scowl as he watched Minho take a long drag from his cigarette. “You could’ve asked.”

“C’mon, I’m not that dumb. You'd have told me no.”

Changbin sighed heavily, repeating the same process with a new cigarette. Minho was correct: Changbin absolutely would have told him no, scolding him in a way that would make Minho poke fun at the irony of his protest. The blonde would have teased him for saying he was cutting his life shorter, too. “That's because you know that you shouldn't—”

“Don't.” Minho cut him off abruptly, his voice serious. “Don’t scold me, Changbin.” He turned his head away and stared up at the stars in the night sky, blowing out a plume of smoke into the cool air. “I love you, but I know where your mind goes after we fuck, and I’m not going to go there right now.”

As much as Changbin wanted to protest, he didn't have the energy to argue, not after a heist and definitely not when there was still over four hours of driving ahead of them. There was enough anger and there were plenty of tears over the past year, many of their arguments caused not by each other, but by fear and a panic of the unknown.

After all this time, Changbin knew better than to scold Minho for something as stupid as a simple cigarette after sex. Sure, he was angry that Minho was cutting his time further short, but if it gave him a sense of normalcy, Changbin would let Minho have it.

“Oh,” Minho perked up, discreetly rubbing his cheek as the song shifted to something a bit more upbeat. “I love this song.” He reached down to the plasticky volume dial, turning it and further stressing the shoddy speakers in the doors of the car. “It's fitting,” he grinned at Changbin, “the song. ‘I Want You’. It's one of my favourites off this CD.”

A lazy smirk crept up the side of Changbin's face, his concerns fading along with the smoke that came from his lungs. He took a final drag off of his cigarette before discarding it out the window. His nicotine-stained hand gripped the steering wheel, and he reached down to Minho's thigh with his right hand. “This song sounds like something you'd like.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Minho playfully whined, interlacing his fingers with the hand on his thigh. “You like my taste in music, so you'd better not be about to insult me.”

A chuckle came from Changbin. “Yeah,” he nodded his head once, eyeing the lights of a nearby city far off in the distance. “I didn't say it was bad, it's just you.”

“Hey,” Minho leaned into Changbin's personal space, pressing a quick peck to the younger man's cheek. “I really do love you, you know. Whether we're together for five more years or fifty. We completed the last heist, the big one we planned. Now, we've got all this cash and gold, we'll be set for as much time as we need to be. You did a great job planning this one, love.”

Changbin nudged his head against Minho’s forehead and grinned. “I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

“Help?” Minho scoffed. “I don’t think you can consider what I did as help.”

“Semantics, remember?” The younger man countered, smiling at the memory of the night prior.

The amount of paperwork Changbin collected for heists was astounding, but this one blew all of their previous heists out of the water. He had several briefcases hidden away in the trunk of their car, a small suitcase for their heist suits and other gear, and another small suitcase for their normal clothes. They didn’t have much room, so they made do with the little room they did have.

“Love,” Minho whined, wrapping his arms around Changbin’s waist. The younger man didn’t flinch, resting his elbow against his knee, biting aimlessly on one of his fingernails as he pored over a map that contained the layout of a small bank just outside of Prescott, notes scribbled over the blueprint in red permanent marker. “Binnie, love,” Minho grumbled with a bit more irritation in his voice. He hated being ignored by anyone, but especially his boyfriend.

It was their last hit. The Big One, as they coined it.

Changbin continued to ignore Minho, but not purposefully. When he got into a project, he really got into it, finding it near impossible to acknowledge that life went on around him. The bank was small — deceptively so. A grin crept up on his face as he looked at the vault location on the paperwork. It was the small banks in rural locations that were always the best to be hit, usually serving as a domestic alternative to offshore accounts for those that couldn’t afford it, but still needed to hide their money in forms of local “donations”.

“Bin,” Minho’s voice was lower and was closer to Changbin’s ear. He was purposefully breathing heavily, letting little squeaks come up from his throat, trying desperately to distract the younger man.

The small, rural banks always had better payout-to-risk ratios. Their final heist would likely be the easiest, and the best payout they would’ve had yet — as long as Changbin could hack into the system. Y2K was either going to make this easier or far more difficult than he anticipated. Judging by the fact that everything about this bank seemed grotesquely antiquated, Changbin was willing to bet that it was going to go well, yet he still prepared for the worst.

“Changbin!” Minho shouted, scrambling around into the younger man’s lap, pushing his torso back and startling him. “Pay attention to me, dammit.” The older man flopped both of his hands down to either side of Changbin’s neck, and he playfully pouted. “I let you have your time looking over your stupid paperwork for the sixtieth time today and I’m being needy.”

While he was taken aback, Changbin wasn’t really surprised. He let his face fall into a grimace as he stared up at his boyfriend. “I was in the middle of thinking about the heist tomorrow. You know how—”

“How you’ve gotta look over everything a thousand times because you just—”

“Might miss something critical.” Changbin looked up at Minho with a scowl, but he failed to maintain his composure as the blonde pouted down at him. “I don’t want it to go poorly, y’know? It’s the last one. The most important one to date.”

Minho huffed, dropping to his elbows and colliding his head against Changbin’s chest. “It’ll be fine. I know it’ll be fine, because you’ve been planning this for months.”

Changbin scratched at Minho’s scalp, taking some strands of hair in between his fingertips. He eyed the way that his roots were starting to show more and more, his blonde fading into the dark brown sprouting from his scalp. When they met by chance a few years prior, Minho’s hair was closer to that deep brown, but covered with a rich auburn that complemented his olive-toned skin.

“You know what?” He scoffed, continuing to play with Minho’s hair. “I think you should go back to that weird shade of red you had when I met you, since you’re gonna have to dye your hair soon.”

Minho lifted his head up and scowled. “It wasn’t a weird shade. I liked the red, thank you very much.”

A smirk curled up the side of Changbin’s mouth as he watched Minho pout. “I never said it was bad, just that it was weird.”

“You’re weird,” Minho countered.

“Oh, come on,” Changbin reached down to Minho, wrapping his arms around the older man’s torso and spinning him around so that he was the one against the mattress. Changbin smiled as Minho’s eyes went wide. He kissed Minho from his forehead down to his exposed collarbone, offering a small nibble at the raised skin over the bone. The blonde let out a squeal and yelped at the sensation, playfully smacking the brunette.

“C’mon, love,” he whined, smacking his hands against his face, poorly attempting to cover the blush that was rapidly blooming on his skin. “I can’t go again already.”

“You were the one practically moaning in my ear just a second ago, you know.” Changbin lifted his head and nudged Minho’s chin with his forehead. “Hey, Min? I’m glad we met at that horrible rest area in New Jersey. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad your car was busted and you didn’t know shit about cars.”

“I still don’t know anything about cars,” Minho peeked through his fingertips, sticking his tongue out for a brief moment before hiding his head in the crook of his elbow. “I still can’t believe you fell for that stupid ‘I don’t have much cash on me, how else can I repay you?’ line.”

The younger man craned his head up, reaching up and pulling Minho’s arm away from his face. “I’d have done it for free, but I guess I couldn’t let you go.” He smiled as he kissed the man underneath him, dropping to one of his elbows for leverage. “And you know what? I’m glad I didn’t.”

Minho laughed against Changbin’s lips, uncovering his face. “Thank you for the violent reminder as to why fucking in the back seat of a tiny sedan is a horrible idea.”

“Technically,” Changbin pulled back and brought an index finger to his nose, “we didn’t actually fuck. I offered, but you were adamant about getting your mouth around my—”

“Semantics!” Minho shrieked as he cut Changbin off, pushing the younger man off of him. “Don’t you have to get back to planning this stupid heist tomorrow?”

A coy grin spread across the brunette’s face as he reached his hand over the brunette’s waist, pressing the heel of his palm against the erection that was growing. “Seems like I have something more important to take care of, first.”

“I just said I couldn’t—”

Changbin looked up, biting his lip with a grin. “I believe in you.”

Somewhere towards the end of the CD’s second playthrough, Minho had fallen asleep, his head craned in an impossibly uncomfortable position. “Minho,” Changbin reached out to the blonde’s face, stroking it with his index and middle fingers. “Babe, you’re gonna fuck up your neck if you sleep like that.”

“‘m not sleeping,” the blonde grumbled, knitting his brows together as he sleepily reached down to the lever to adjust the pitch of the seat. He lazily dug backwards, causing the back of the seat to tilt just enough to let his head tip towards a more comfortable position. “Just letting my eyes rest.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Changbin scoffed as he fumbled with a few controls on the dashboard. The roof of the car slowly creaked its way over them, and the sudden loss of the ambient noises of the empty night caused his ears to ring. They were just outside of the outskirts of Phoenix, which meant that there was about three hours left until they were on the coast of Mexico.

They had believably fake passports, and plenty of extra cash for a bribe if necessary. It was their first time leaving the States, especially as wanted criminals, but Changbin had hoped it would pan out. The initial plan was to hide away in a small Mexican community for the pressure on them to die down a bit, but now that they had killed someone, anxiety started to settle in.

When Changbin and Minho met a few years ago in New Jersey, neither of them were technically criminals. Sure, they both skirted the lines of what was legal in their own rights, but who hadn’t? They had never planned on robbing banks, but then Minho’s precarious lifestyle had caught up to him. The years of swapping sex for favours and party drugs couldn’t go without something coming crumbling down on him.

In all honesty, neither of them expected Minho to contract HIV, but that was just the way the cards played out. The diagnosis terrified Minho. He came home to their apartment after the appointment, trembling as he sat down on the couch. The first words that came from his terrified, pallor lips were, “please don’t leave me, Changbin. I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

Changbin pulled another cigarette from the pack, trying to bite back the overwhelming guilt and anger of somehow coming out unaffected always came bubbling up when he was left alone with his thoughts. He remembered being so mad at life threatening to rip the single good thing he had away from him. Sure, it wasn’t nearly the same death sentence it was twenty years ago, but the fear of the unknown was something he was never good at handling.

Minho had jokingly proposed going out in a blaze of glory, just like in so many of the movies they had watched together, nervously laughing as he said they could be a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde. However, he didn’t expect Changbin to actually take him seriously. Their lives were too monotonous, too simple to spend wasting away working at jobs they both hated. When Changbin responded with, “just tell me when and where, I’ll plan it out,” Minho thought he was kidding.

Minho figured that Changbin was joking until they were escaping the first rural bank they had robbed, covered in sweat, blood, and gunpowder. Reality didn’t set in until they started seeing wanted adverts on television and in newspapers. It was a rush, something so incredibly terrifying, but strangely addictive with each successful heist they notched into their belts.

They had robbed a total of seven banks across America now, deliberately saving the one in Prescott for last. Go out guns blazing, or die trying. Changbin always hoped for things to work out, but he expected it to end in a hail of bullets. The rush of excitement that he felt after every heist was euphoric, the sight of Minho’s excited smile and the glow in his eyes made it all worth it.

“Christ,” Changbin jumped, nearly dropping his cigarette, as the introduction to another song played through the speakers. He quickly turned the volume down, then eyed Minho for a brief moment to ensure he was still asleep.

Minho was completely unfazed, his expression soft, almost mockingly angelic. His head was tilted, resting up against his left shoulder, his lips slightly parted as he slept peacefully.

Changbin couldn’t help but smile inward. He loved everything about this man, partially because he was wild and he refused to be controlled, pushing the boundaries of the limits life shoved upon him. Minho was the perfect complement to Changbin’s boring life prior. He worked at a budding tech company as a programmer after graduating from a state university. Nothing about his life was exceptional: top twenty per cent of his class, only middle-range at the company he had been at, normal family life. In all honesty, he expected to live his life quietly, completely normal and unnoticed.

In a way, he owed Minho for giving him his life back — a life he never knew he wanted, but the life he needed.

“I wanna go back to sleep,” Minho whined as they left the border crossing, entering Sonoyta. He rubbed his neck, frowning in discomfort as he cracked the joints in his neck.

“I mean,” Changbin shrugged, eyeing the time, “you can if you want. We’ve got an hour until we get to the end of the world.”

“That’s dramatic.” Minho turned his head towards Changbin, huffing as he pouted. “You know, the CD I burned with the Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears, and Smash Mouth is like, an hour long.”

“No.”

“But—”

Changbin rolled his eyes and cut Minho off. “I’m so burnt out on them, dude. I love you, but I can’t do it. Savage Garden for four hours straight was pushing it.”

“In my defence, I was asleep, but fine,” Minho drew out his protest with a grumble. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the binder of CDs. He ejected the bright orange disk from the player, holding it in the air around his index finger as he rifled through the various sleeves of CDs. “Downward Spiral?”

The brunette squinted as he mentally recalled the CDs in the collection. “Nine Inch Nails? Nah, that’s for fucking, not for driving.”

Minho’s eyes went wide. “We’ve never fucked to that. Wait, you’d fuck to that? Dude.”

“Well…” Changbin shrugged, biting back an embarrassed smirk.

“Of course you would. I love you, you weirdo.” Minho went back to rifling through CDs, trying to hold back a laugh. “Okay, hold on, I think I’ve got something upbeat in here, just not quite to the same degree as Top 40. Just trust me on this.”

Minho swapped the orange CD for a bright yellow disk, the reader skipping over the CD for a moment. “C’mon, you greasy fucker, I know it’s in horrible condition, just play the damn—” Before the blonde could eject the disk to clean it, the aggressive rock of the first track filled the car.

“That’s ironic,” Changbin bit his lip as he recognised the song. “Nice guys really do finish last, huh?”

“I dunno, I think you’re pretty nice, but you always finish first.” There was a hint of playful arrogance in Minho’s voice as he flashed his teeth with a wide grin, throwing his hands behind his head.

Changbin reached down to the volume dial, turning it up in irritation. “You’re the worst, you know.”

“Hey!” Minho shouted, moving to turn the music down. “I never said it was bad, it’s kinda cute!”

Sunrise wasn’t technically for another hour, but the warm rays of the sun started to creep up on the beach as Minho and Changbin splayed themselves out onto the sand, far from the heart of Puerto Peñasco. The brunette quickly melted into the granules, exhaling a deep sigh of relief as he closed his eyes. As much as he wanted the ground to eat him up, let him sleep for hours, the sudden collision of a bag on his chest prevented him from rest.

“What’s this?” He grumbled, pulling the bag up over his head. “Wait, are you fucking serious?”

Minho nodded, “I told you, we get to the beach, then we celebrate with a trip. You thought I was kidding?”

Of course Minho wasn’t kidding. As much as he had calmed down over the years, he still had an unpredictable wild streak within him that demanded to be released every so often.

“I hate mushrooms, though,” Changbin scowled as he opened the bag. “If I wanted to experience eating rotten dirt, I’d have grabbed a fistful when we left Prescott.” Still, he poured the contents of the ziplock bag into his mouth.

Minho passed him a bottle of orange juice from his bag. “Trust me.”

Without hesitation, Changbin grabbed the bottle and swallowed the last half of its contents down. “I always trust you, even if you’re a little unhinged sometimes.”

The blonde grinned, pushing the younger man back down into the sand and pressing a kiss to his lips. “You love that about me, though, yeah?”

“Of course I do,” the brunette ran his tongue over his teeth and tangled his fingers into Minho’s hair. “I love everything about you, even the unexplainable things. Hell, I probably love those little wacky things about you the most, since nobody else could ever be as weird as you. You broke the monotony of my daily life and, while I’ve left everyone I knew behind, I’d go back and do it all over again.”

A soft, slightly pained smile spread on Minho’s face before he brought his head down to Changbin’s chest, rolling over to stare up at the sky. “I’d do it all, too. I’d probably be dead if it weren’t for you and that happy accident in New Jersey all that time ago.”

“Never have I been so happy to see a broken-down car.”

“And I’ve never been so happy to be stuck.

The drugs started to have an effect on both men relatively quickly; within maybe forty-five minutes, the psilocybin started to have a stronger effect on them as it coursed through their veins, causing them to melt into the sand and into each other.

“I feel…” Minho started to prattle on, “heavy. Like, everything’s so physically overwhelming, but not mentally. You know?”

“Kinda, yeah. Really tired, but not.” Changbin stuck his hand straight up into the air, watching his hand be absorbed by the vibrant blues, purples, and reds of the sky, momentarily becoming one with the air. “Hey. You ever wonder if there’s a god out there, Min?”

Minho chewed his bottom lip, looking up at Changbin’s hand being wildly distorted and skewed around. “Probably not.” It was more of a grumble than a confident statement. “Why’d I get sick if there’s a god? Why make it so some people are born only to suffer and die? Doesn’t seem very just to me.”

Changbin watched a ray of sunlight dance between his fingertips, like a pixie wrapping his hand in a ribbon of twinkling, mysterious light. “Does a god need to be just?”

“I swear,” if there was a decipherable sound as Minho rolled his eyes, it would have been clearly audible along with his heavy sigh. It would have been similar to the way that ripples felt on still water. “You read too many of those nerdy tabletop RPG books. There’s so much morality and, uh, I dunno, dragons and shit in those things.”

The brunette closed his eyes and brought his hand down to his face with a laugh. “C’mon, dude, just because it’s got dragons in the title doesn’t mean it’s all dragons. I’ll have you know there’s, like, cat people and lizard people and shit. Way more than dragons. Fuck paragons, though.”

Everything felt so warm. Minho’s warmth against his skin felt like a warm shower after torrential rain. All of the little moments like this compiled up, blooming like daisies inside Changbin’s chest, each petal feeling like the happiness that came from the delicate way that Minho let his fingers dance and twirl around his skin and tangle in his hair.

“Hey, Changbin,” Minho whispered, grabbing the cheek of the younger man, staring up at him and letting the warmth of the sunrise soak into his skin. “I want you to know something,” he said with sincerity. “I know it’s probably kinda wack during the middle of a serious trip or whatever, but, like, I love you, from here to the ends of the earth. From that shady rest area in New Jersey all the way to here. You brought me here. I probably wouldn’t be here — alive, that is — without you. And I love you for it forever. I’m sorry that I got sick and I might die too early because of it.”

“Come on, man, don’t apologise for that,” an irritating sting of tears started building up in Changbin’s eyes at the shift of tone. “Don’t ruin this moment now, Minho,” he whined. “Someday we’re gonna get married and tell everyone that hated us to fuck off. Some smart person somewhere’s gonna come up with a magic drug and you’re gonna get better and outlive me because I’m not gonna stop smoking until then.”

“You idiot,” Minho grumbled, “this is all I could’ve ever asked for, to sit here on the warm beach on the coast, watching the sunrise come up while we’re tripping our faces off. We’re here together. Alive.” He took in a long, deep breath as he shifted his head against Changbin’s chest. “We did The Big One. We finally made it all work for us. You know it’s only a matter of time before luck catches up to us.” Minho exhaled forcefully, bringing the back of his hand up to his face. “If that happens, you gotta promise you’ll live on for me, alright?”

Changbin sighed heavily, rolling his eyes and pulling Minho into his arms, gripping his shoulders tightly and nuzzling his cheek against Minho’s soft hair. It felt like static danced around the ground beneath them, the earth vibrating up against his skin as he laid in the warmth of the sun, with Minho’s impossibly warm energy feeding into him.“Yeah, yeah. Shut up. I don’t wanna think about you dying any time soon, okay?”

He didn’t need the sun to thrive, he only needed Minho.

“Would you do it all over again?”

“What?” Changbin shook his head, unsure if he was speaking clearly enough for Minho to understand. “I just told you I—”

“I know, I know, but I mean, would you still stick around if you knew I was gonna get sick, Bin?” Minho bit his lip and closed his eyes. “Would you still go through all of this shit with me?”

“I oughta slap you, Min.” Changbin scoffed, then pressed a quick kiss to the top of Minho’s head, a kiss that felt like the way that a hammer struck a piano string, its shockwaves reverberating in his head, tingling and lingering on his lips. “Of fucking course I’d do it all over again, dude. Every single thing. Every heist. Maybe change it so we got shot less, but I’d absolutely do it all over again. I’d do anything for you, Minho.” The two of them laid there, listening to the ocean’s waves lap up against the shore. “I love you, from that shady rest area in New Jersey. All the way to here. All the way around the world, a million times over. I still think you’re all that and a bag of chips, dude.”

Minho cackled relentlessly, his laughter causing Changbin’s head to spin with how intoxicating it felt, like he wanted to bottle it up and keep it for a rainy day. “Are you kidding me?”

“What?” Changbin whined in response.

“You’re so goddamn cheesy,” Minho continued to laugh, sitting up just to turn back and stare down at Changbin. He took his hands and grabbed the younger man’s face pulling him in for a kiss, his fingertips and lips feeling positive and electric on his skin. “I love you and your stupid jokes. I love you and I love your stupid face. I love everything about you, you dorky, weird man. Even that nerdy calculator watch you adore so much.”

Changbin sat up, pressing his forehead up against Minho’s, rolling his head a bit to give the older man a soft kiss. “This kinda talk sounds like wedding vows, doesn’t it?”

“You said we should do it anyway. If I remember correctly, your exact words were, give or take, ‘fuck what the law says’.” Minho grabbed Changbin’s neck softly, letting his lips brush up against the brunette’s for a moment. “They never gave a shit about people like us, anyways. Why should we give a shit what they think?”

A smile curled up Changbin’s lips. “You offer an excellent point, baby. So, am I taking your last name, are you taking mine, are we making up a new one?” The two continued exchanging soft kisses and gentle touches back and forth as the sun wrapped its rays around them.

“My last name’s too common, but yours is boring too.”

“Maybe we should be boring people for once. We’ve had enough excitement to last us ten lifetimes. We could become the infamous John Doe couple, how about that?”

Minho rolled his eyes and scoffed at the proposition. “Your sense of humour is bad.”

“No, it’s not.” Changbin sarcastically grumbled, lightly guiding Minho to the ground. “You said it was one of those things that drew you in.” His limbs felt weighed down as he moved, yet he kept pushing forward. Minho leaned back, awkwardly colliding to the sand beneath him, a few excited giggles coming up from him.

“You,” he whispered, reaching up to Changbin’s neck, “everything about you draws me in. You were a mystery when I met you, and I feel like you’re a puzzle I’m putting together slowly, but surely.” He drew each word at the end of his sentence slowly, his breath hitching in his throat as he punctuated the end of it with a clack of his teeth.

“You,” Changbin continued, drawn to Minho like a magnet, right up against his ear, “you’re my everything.” Without hesitation, he craned his head down to the base of Minho’s neck, reaching his tongue out, licking up the salty, briny skin with languid laps. A few granules of sand got caught up in the way, but it was negligible as he made his way up. He elicited tiny squeals from the blonde, which blended into whines, evolving into breathless, desperate pants. “Everything. Beginning to end.” All the way up to Minho’s ear, everything getting progressively sweeter and brighter along the way. “The only thing that fucking matters.” He nipped at Minho’s ear, a bit harder than he anticipated, and the older man jolted, thrusting his hips up against Changbin’s leg, desperate for attention.

“Prologue to epilogue,” Minho reached his hands up under Changbin’s shirt, drawing inane, temporary illustrations into his flesh. He purposely tilted his head in closer to the brunette’s ear, breathing harder and more aggressively as he continued to rock upwards. “Start to finish,” he emphasised the word ‘finish’ with a pant.

Changbin took a moment, running Minho’s electric words around his head until they made sense. “Really? On the beach, while we’re trying to have a calming trip?”

Minho was less subtle than normal, reaching out to grab Changbin’s wrist, desperately guiding his hand down to the waistband of his jeans. “It wouldn’t be the first time, love.”

“Alright, alright. Anything to watch you come undone,” Changbin assisted Minho in undoing the button, scrambling to separate the barriers of cloth from his skin. “You never know if someone’s gonna see us, so try to stay quiet and—”

“No.” Minho’s tone was firm, guiding Changbin’s hand around his cock. “Stop panicking,” he let his head fall backwards, rolling it into the sand as their joint effort caused him to get transported off into a different plane of existence. He breathed out Changbin’s name at varying cadences, occasionally dragging his fingernails against the younger man’s hand.

It was nothing more than a simple handjob, but the heightened risk of being caught, along with the added visual and auditory hallucinations that accompanied each small movement made Changbin’s head light and his body to feel dizzy, like he could get addicted to the euphoria. “Minho,” he panted, watching a halo of vibrant neon energy dance around the blonde’s head. “You’re so effortlessly beautiful like this, when you’re all mine.”

“Yeah,” Minho rolled his head, thrusting his hips up, keeping his eyes clamped shut. “All yours,” he repeated with a whine, “all yours, love. Don’t stop touching me, you feel—” he sharply gasped, his back arching. “Impossible, you feel impossible.” His voice was scratchy, like vinyl catching on a needle. “You can’t exist, it’s just not feasible for your touch to feel so otherworldly.”

As much as he loved watching Minho unravel, Changbin couldn’t resist devouring the neon pink lips in front of him. He didn’t bother with soft, tender kisses like normal, instead opting for aggressive, sloppy, and desperate kissing. The kind of kisses that would take Minho’s breath away as their tongues danced against each other, his lips to swell with each harsh nibble, saliva spilling from the corners of their mouths and down their chins. The kisses that served no romantic purpose, only fuelled their passionate, primal drive.

Minho was emerald green to Changbin’s cranberry red: so glaringly opposite, yet nothing but complementary when paired with each other. In everything they did, they blended when they should have contrasted. From their relentless efforts during their heists, to the way that they moved against and into each other, in tandem with each other’s movements.

“I love you, Minho,” Changbin gasped in between their frantic kisses. “I know you wanna come, so let go. I’ve got you, I promise.”

That was the final push that the blonde needed to unravel, much like a taut rope finally coming undone after valiant attempts to undo it.

“Changbin!” Minho reached his free hand up to the back of the brunette’s neck and dug his nails in as he arched his back, practically screaming out into the open air as his movements turned erratic while he came harder than normal, his cum splattering all over their clothes and blending into the sand. “I love you, I love you — fuck, I love you.”

“I know,” the brunette watched his lover’s face turn from a soft hint of crimson back to the pale olive tone he was used to, slowly coming back down to reality. He pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, down the slope of his nose, then let his lips stay melted against Minho’s, only breaking the kiss long enough to utter another string of affirmations. “You’re everything, Minho. You’re my everything.”

It had been a few years since The Big One. Somehow, several months after the heist, Changbin and Minho were able to sneak their way up through the west coast of the United States, then bribe their way up to Canada. “I dunno,” Minho had shrugged, “something about it sounds nice. Easily accessible. Not too big, not too small. Not as hot as here. Not as batshit as America.”

As informal and hasty as it seemed, that was simply how they had decided that Canada just seemed right for them.

It paid off.

It was the summer of 2003 when the opportunity for further normalcy approached at their doorstep. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Changbin shouted from the living room of their high rise apartment. “Minho, this is a big fucking deal. I know you spent all night on that draft, but seriously, wake up!”

They had a nice, comfortable life now. When they moved, they had money to buy an apartment; enough for connections, documentation, and bribe money good enough to speed their very legal immigration paperwork through faster. They didn’t have much left after that, but that was doable, since they had each other and they had gotten away with it all. Changbin now, ironically, worked for a cybersecurity firm, had a normal, boring 9-to-5 job that paid the rest of their bills, and Minho was able to work on his freelance writing career at his leisure.

“What?” Minho grumbled, wiping the sleepiness from his eyes as he slowly sat up, clearing his throat as the sheets shifted around him. Changbin sat at the edge of the bed, then paced nervously for a moment, biting his lip and furrowing his brows. He muttered unintelligibly as he paced, and Minho sighed. “Baby, what is it? You’re concerning me.”

“Where the fuck is it, where the fuck did I put that goddamned—” Changbin looked up at the ceiling, mentally recalling something. “Oh,” he gasped, “that’s right!” He rushed over to their closet, digging around until he pulled out an abandoned, dusty briefcase. That briefcase was the only one they kept, the one where remnants of fabric from their last heist and other seemingly useless little trinkets and physical memories were stored. Changbin rapidly shifted the dials, then undid the fastenings, opening the briefcase with an audible pop.

“What the hell are you doing, dude?” Minho rubbed his temples, then rested his head on his hands. “You can’t seriously be thinking about a heist, not after all this time?”

“No, no, no. Not at all. But you were so, so right, Canada was a good idea, we just didn’t know how good it was.” Changbin whispered breathlessly as he practically leaped onto the bed. He grabbed Minho’s clammy hand and brought it up to his chest, rubbing the back of it with his thumb. “Just like always, you were right. Canada was a great idea, even if it was just a whim. We can do it now, Min.”

The excitement on Changbin’s face caused Minho’s to wrinkle up in confusion. “We can do it whenever you want, man, you just gotta ask me and tell me how you want me. Why are you so excited about that?”

Changbin rolled his eyes and exhaled sharply. “You always think with the wrong head, dude.” He took Minho’s hand, poring over it for a moment, then softly smiled as he spun a cool piece of metal around his ring finger. “We can get married now, man. Actually married. Legally.”

The gears in Minho’s head turned, his face going through a myriad of different emotions as he looked down at the ring on his finger, then back up to Changbin and the dorky smile painted on his face. “What are you talking about? I thought we were already married?”

“No, dude,” Changbin rolled his eyes and bobbed his body up and down with excitement. “We can actually get legally married. I know we talked up a big deal about ‘fuck the system’ and all, but we should do it anyways.” His eyes sparkled a bit and he bit his bottom lip back in anticipation as Minho tried to process everything.

“On one condition,” Minho said, a serious tone to his voice.

Changbin nodded his head several times. “Yeah, yeah, what is it?”

“You take my last name. We’ll be common and boring together.”

“Fuck it, yeah, deal, I don’t care as long as I get to marry you,” Changbin leaped forward, crashing his chest against Minho’s, wrapping his arms around the older man’s shoulders, causing them to both collide against the bed. “Let’s go to the courthouse tomorrow. Get it all done.”

Minho smiled, working his way around to kiss Changbin. “Tomorrow sounds great,” he sighed, nuzzling his face into the brunette’s warm neck. “You know, I still love you, from that shady rest stop in New Jersey, down to the sunlight-kissed desert in Mexico, and now, all the way up to the cold, sea-breezy air of Canada, all the way to wherever the hell we go next.”

“And I love you and still think you’re all that and a bag of chips, baby. You’re my everything.”

#fight the daylight #skz smut #skz fics #minbin #seo changbin #lee minho #lee know #changbin x minho #minho x changbin #wherevermyway

[wherevermyway]

worked on some photomanip for we’re professional in celebration of posting chapter four on AO3! chapter four: unacceptable is 20k words, so it won’t be posted here.

hope you like it!

note: these are real photos, i just edited them heavily in photoshop. while i did paint over them (they were really low resolution) and edit them, they’re not paintings. ;;

#wherevermyway #skz fics #we’re professional #skz photo edits #skz edits #seo changbin #lee minho #lee know

[wherevermyway]

the spectator (2/2) // minchan & binchan // horror // 16+

two: i was never here at all series navigation: [desktop] [mobile]

⚠ POTENTIAL TW: READ WITH CAUTION! ⚠ pairing: bang chan x lee minho | bang chan x seo changbin rating: mature! 16+ warnings/tags: major character death, possession, obsession, horror, descent into madness, mild acts of violence.  word count: 1,318 also on AO3

originally posted: 18 february 2021

Changbin is concerned about Chan’s new obsession.

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.

“We need to leave this house,” he begged and pleaded with Chan during one of the good days. “This place is fucking haunted, I can’t do it anymore.”

“Val bwae nal jikgwa lma?”

Changbin’s eyes went wide as he momentarily forgot how to breathe. “What did you just say?” His ears had to be deceiving him, but—

“Klae ben qwael mi.”

Chan looked so… unaffected as he spoke in a foreign tongue. It wasn’t English, Korean, or even the French that Chan promised he’d keep speaking after university. There was something so off-putting about it, like his database of language had been swapped as if it was a cassette tape.

“Dude, Changbin, you’re gawking again.”

And then he was back.

“Are you okay?” Changbin pressed, feeling his face going cold. He didn’t want to alarm Chan when he seemed so fragile.

“I’m fine, man,” Chan grabbed Changbin’s hands, pressing a quick kiss to the backs of his hands before he froze.

It was minute, but it was there.

Chan is mine.

The whisper on the air was nearly impossible to catch.

“I’m fine, man,” Chan reiterated, smiling as he went back to his book. “Weren’t you saying something about fixing the stove?”

Changbin knew better than to bring up leaving. “Yeah,” he turned to his cup of lukewarm coffee, no longer able to stomach the thought of drinking another sip.

Things got worse after Chan opened the box of photos.

“I love you, Minho. You’re so perfect.”

Chan refused to leave the spare room, the room filled with all of Minho’s possessions. He would sprawl himself out on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with an empty gaze. Occasionally, Changbin would hear him speak in the foreign language. There would be laughter.

Chan would be laughing, and Changbin would be curled up in his bed across the hall, covering his face with Chan’s pillow as he cried himself to sleep. It was impossible: he wasn’t able to get Chan to come back, stuck in this peculiar trance that possessed him. Chan was turning increasingly violent and unpredictable as time went on, slapping or shoving Changbin every time he questioned anything about Minho or his belongings.

One day, when he was seemingly normal, when they were about to make their way downstairs for breakfast, Chan started wildly cackling to himself, which caused Changbin to turn around. “Are you alright?”

“Optal vren kal.”

“Chan,” Changbin sighed, shutting his eyes for a moment in exhaustion before hands were on his shoulders, lightly pushing at him.

Changbin collided against the staircase, sliding down the carpet that ran down the middle of it. He landed at the foot of the stairs, seemingly unscathed, but looked up in terror at the man that he loved.

Chan stared down at him, his irises gone for a moment and a playful grin on his face. A soft laugh came up from his chest before he came back. When Chan returned, he panicked for the briefest of moments before it was like his memory was wiped halfway down the staircase.

He was slipping away, becoming less and less Chan-like the further time went on.

One night, Changbin woke up to the sound of laughter from the room across the hallway, and he decided that enough was enough. Still sore from being shoved down the staircase, and tired of fearing the man he loved, he got out of bed. He had no idea how he could combat a ghost, but he decided he would try to get Chan away from the house, no matter what the cost was.

He wanted Chan back, but a rush of guilt overtook him as he briefly considered just leaving him here.

Still, he stood at the doorway of the room staring at the shell that resembled Chan.

“Chan,” he sighed, “please get up. Come back to me.”

The older man rolled his head, gaze empty as he stared. “Xep kal mwe.”

Changbin took in a deep breath, then walked into the room, desperately reaching out towards Chan.

Crossing the threshold was a mistake.

“Get out of my house!” Minho threw books at Changbin, trying to get him to leave, but the man stood firm, tears streaming down his face as he shook his head.

“Give me Chan, and I’ll leave.”

“You can’t have him,” Minho taunted, getting into Changbin’s face. “I’ll make sure you never have him again.”

Chan’s gaze was empty, his pupils and irises gone again as Minho wrapped around him, dangling from his neck, whispering things into his ear.

Changbin stepped back once, until he was in the middle of the doorway. He stared at Chan, his body shaking and trembling from fear and how cold it was in the house. The lights flickered, a few bulbs popping and cracking, the frail, fragile glass collapsing to the ground.

“Leave.”

“Intruder.”

“Get out of this house.”

The hissing of the voices came back, so loud in Changbin’s ears. He wanted to run up to Chan, to grab him and drag him out of the house, but—

It felt like hands grabbed at him, yanking him back to the wall across the door.

He was frozen in place.

“Chan!” Changbin shouted at the top of his lungs as cold hands wrapped around him, pulling at his throat, tangling fingers in his hair.

Minho grinned from ear to ear as he stared at Changbin. He slowly made his way to the frozen man, bringing his cold lips to Changbin's ear. “You had your chance to leave. But Chan is mine forever, now. You’ve made your bed, now lay in it.”

Changbin trembled, trying to force himself free of the grasp that locked him in place. “Please, don’t do this. Please, I love Chan, let him go and you can do whatever you want with me, just let—”

Minho’s eyes glimmered with a red sheen for the briefest of moments as he forced Chan to look at Changbin again.

“Changbin,” his voice was so familiar, yet foreign and far away.

Distant.

“I love Minho. Minho is perfect.”

It was the last thing he said before Minho reached his hands through Chan’s chest.

Chan’s irises came back, his pupils flickering around for a brief moment as he shouted in agony, blood sputtering up from his lungs, blood spilling from his eyes.

“Changbin, please!” He cried out, then fell forward, blood pooling out on the floor, rapidly spilling into the cracks of the wooden floor, into and around the strands of his hair.

The door slammed shut, and Changbin sank into the floor, relinquished from the grasp of the supernatural. His tears fell from his face as he shook, pulling himself across the floorboards. With great effort, he reached up to the door handle, afraid of what he would see if he opened the door.

But he had to.

“Chan,” he whispered, tears slipping into the cracks of his lips as he spoke.

He turned the door handle.

He was prepared to see blood.

He was expecting to see Chan, sprawled out and dead on the floor.

Instead, there was nothing but the boxes stacked up in the corner of the room, up against the window. There were cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, the dust-covered silk delicately dancing in the rays of light that streamed in from the window.

“Changbin,” a familiar voice came from behind him, “dude, get off the floor. This place is haunted, let’s get out of here. Didn’t you hear the realtor? It’s not worth it, even if it’s this cheap.”

There was something about the boxes, though. There was a man that sat atop them, encased in a halo of light, his feet dangling as he softly grinned. He was ethereal, somewhat translucent.

“Hello, Changbin,” he taunted, reaching a hand out towards him. “My name is Chan. Remember me? Remember how much you love me? Come set me free.”

#the spectator #skz fics #skz horror #horror #minchan #binchan #bang chan x lee minho #lee minho x bang chan #bang chan x seo changbin #seo changbin x bang chan #chan x minho #minho x chan #chan x changbin #changbin x chan #wherevermyway

[wherevermyway]

the spectator (1/2) // minchan & binchan // horror // 16+

one: back to the dust, where i began series navigation: [desktop] [mobile]

⚠ POTENTIAL TW: READ WITH CAUTION! ⚠ pairing: bang chan x lee minho | bang chan x seo changbin rating: mature! 16+ warnings/tags: major character death, possession, obsession, horror, descent into madness.  word count: 1,214 also on AO3

originally posted: 18 february 2021

Chan just wants to be with Minho, but things keep going wrong.

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.

Sunlight danced in between cobwebs, delicately draped down from the ceiling to the top of the box of books Chan wanted to unpack. He stared at the empty spaces between the geometric, meticulously crafted shapes left by the ghosts of spiders past.

Staring.

Staring until the sunlight had shifted, from sunrise to high noon.

In between the gaps, he saw Minho dancing in his mind. His eyes drifted from strand to strand of dust-covered silk and he heard Minho’s laughter shift upward in pitch as his eyes rolled up.

“Chan,” Minho taunted him as the rays of sunlight cupped his face, the same way that Minho would lift his head. “Move the boxes.” The floorboards creaked as Minho’s voice drifted, slipping further and further away from him.

“Can you hear me?”

Minho kept taunting him, his voice warping and fading as Chan got lost—

“Chan, you’ve got to stop doing this to yourself.”

His voice wasn’t there anymore, replaced by Changbin. Minho’s voice would never be there again, never bounce off of the walls in the empty home.

Cold fingertips wrapped around Chan’s wrist, tugging him backwards.

“Come on. I’ll move the stuff in this—”

There was a slap that reverberated against the walls, echoing in Chan’s ears, turning everything else into static for a brief moment. Tears spilled from the edges of his eyelids, the sensation shocking him as he stared at Changbin cupping his own face.

“Don’t touch his things.”

“What?” Changbin stared at him, cocking his head ever so slightly.

“San qualba men twae.”

There was a heavy sigh. “You’re doing it again.”

More incoherence. It was happening more frequently: seemingly innocent sentences would sound fine in his head, but his tongue forgot how to translate the words from his brain into actual English.

Why was it so hard for anyone to understand that he just didn’t want anyone touching Minho’s belongings?

“I’m locking that door so you can’t go in there when I’m not around.”

Chan clawed at the door until his fingernails cracked and his skin started to bleed, the blood rolling down the grooves he had created in the door. He sank to the floor, pressing his ear to the empty space between the door and the floorboards. For a moment, he could hear Minho soothing him in between his sobs.

“I’m here, Chan.”

His voice was so soft and calm, like a parent comforting their child.

“I’ll never let you go, but you have to let me free.”

“Minho,” Chan tilted his head, whispering into the room.

Minho was the only one that understood him, and they were so impossibly in love with each other.

“I’ll let you out of there, I promise.”

Fingertips came out from under the door, and Chan brought his bloodied fingers to the space, reaching out to touch the nothingness that felt like somethingness.

“I love you, Chan.”

“I love you, too, Minho.”

In the few times that Chan could actually sleep, Minho was so warm, so welcoming in his dreams. The energy that followed Minho was vibrant: he smiled so widely, his eyes turning into crescent moons that complemented the sunlight of his smile. Minho was always laughing in his dreams, his fingers so warm as they cupped Chan’s face; his arms feeling like they were custom-moulded to fit around Chan’s waist.

“Don’t forget about me, Chan.”

Chan was imperfect.

“Don’t leave me, Minho.”

But Minho was perfect.

Chan could only sleep when Changbin wasn’t around, which was problematic, because Changbin would stop him from trying to get into Minho’s room.

“You’re driving yourself insane, Chan, please, just come with me—”

Another slap.

He needs to stop getting in the way of us. You’re mine, not his.

He didn’t mean for it to happen, his body just moved by itself.

He needed to protect Minho, after all. Changbin was a threat to Minho.

Changbin needed to stop trying to get Chan to leave. The further he got away from Minho’s room, the more and more uneasy he felt, anxiety and adrenalin coursing through his veins.

What if?

What if Minho came back?

What if Minho felt alone?

What if Minho disappeared forever?

What if?

“He’s not coming back,” Changbin sighed, as if he could read Chan’s mind. “He never—”

Chan screamed, tugging at his hair while he shook his head.

Not real.

Lying.

Liar.

Minho was right there, Changbin just needed to close his eyes and open his mind. He would feel Minho the closer he got to the boxes of his books.

Chan blinked, and he was in front of the door again, throwing himself against the wood.

“Let him go,” Changbin’s fatigued voice followed, too tired to get in between Chan and the door. There was a heavy, languid sigh that followed. “Never should have moved into this house, I swear.”

“He’s getting in the way again,” Minho’s voice caused Chan to stop. He scrambled his way to the floor, pressing his ear to the gap between the door and the ground. “He’s keeping you away from me on purpose.”

“I’m so sorry, Minho, I—”

“Chan,” Changbin leaned up against the wall, staring down at Chan with pity.

“Chan,” Minho pleaded.

Changbin knelt down, reaching his hand out to Chan’s shoulder, the touch feeling disjointed and cold in comparison to Minho’s.

“Open the door,” Minho whispered into Chan’s ear. “I promise, it’s open. Open the door. Let me out of here and we can be together.”

“Really?”

“Trust me.”

Chan stumbled his way upright, putting one of his hands on the cold door handle, the other brushing up against the bloodstained scratches from the days prior.

“What are you doing?”

All he needed to do was open the door.

“Chan, stop.”

He turned the handle, surprised at the click.

“What the fuck? I locked the—”

He threw the door open and his eyes darted around the room.

The boxes.

Minho’s boxes.

“Don’t do this, Chan.” Changbin reached out to grab Chan’s wrist as he pleaded, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Chan scrambled over to the boxes, tearing the cobwebs away.

“You’re only going to hurt yourself.” He wasn’t sure who was speaking, the voices too loud in his mind, blurring together as he panicked. “The truth is not what it seems.”

It didn’t matter.

“Set me free, Chan.”

Minho mattered.

Chan clawed his scabbed fingertips at the box, ripping open the fragile cardboard to reveal framed and unframed photos, not books.

This wasn't what he expected.

“That’s me,” Minho’s voice danced in Chan’s ears. “All of those years ago, so long ago.”

They were greyscale, sepia around the edges, some were stained with liquid and faded from aging. Lost with time.

“Chan, let it go,” Changbin pleaded from the doorway, his voice cracking, clearly exhausted.

Chan took the photos in his hands, dozens of them scattering to the floor as one in particular stood out to him.

That was Minho. He had never seen Minho, but he knew it was him.

“Don’t you love me, Chan?”

“I love you, Minho. You’re so perfect.”

Silence filled the air, until the floorboard creaked, Changbin slowly approaching.

“Chan,” his voice was soft, distant.

Minho mocked the way that Changbin spoke, imitating the way he fearfully said his name.

“Chan, who is Minho?”

#the spectator #skz fics #skz horror #horror #minchan #binchan #bang chan x lee minho #lee minho x bang chan #bang chan x seo changbin #seo changbin x bang chan #chan x minho #minho x chan #chan x changbin #changbin x chan #wherevermyway

[wherevermyway]

beside you in time // seungbin // horror // 16+

❄ part of yuki’s favourites! ❄

⚠ POTENTIAL TW: READ WITH CAUTION! ⚠ pairing: seo changbin x kim seungmin rating: mature! 16+ warnings/tags: major character death, mental instability, paranoia, insomnia, suicide, character study.  word count: 2,148 also on AO3

originally posted: 17 february 2021

"Come back to me."

Things always got bad from hours twenty-four to thirty-six. From thirty-six to forty-eight, however, was more akin to running a chainsaw through an industrial-sized tin of diced tomatoes.

There was always one person that kept Changbin grounded, however.

"Come back to me, Changbin."

And that person was Seungmin. Seungmin was always there to guide him back to some semblance of normalcy.

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.

“Come back to me.

I just want you to come back to me. Not this shell of you, but the whole you.

The entirety of you. The old you.

Come back, Cha—”

31 October 2005 Monday

—

It was Monday. Monday at midnight. Changbin stared at the bright red of his alarm clock, staring the 00:00 directly in between the empty spaces of the square zeroes.

It was the staring contest he had every night.

Right on schedule, he lifted himself out of bed, sliding his feet against the cold wood of his bedroom floor, careful to not make any noise so that he didn’t disturb his boyfriend. Quietly, he slipped his way around the floor, out of the open doorway and into the kitchen. He flipped the switch on the wall, the halogen lamp flickering four times exactly before its sickeningly bluish rays illuminated the off-white kitchen walls and the grey cabinets.

Changbin took a step forward: the sink on his left-hand side, the stove on his right-hand side. He stared at the white wall in front of him, his expression empty as he stared at twenty-nine red Xs marked through each day prior. His left hand reached out to the drawer, not breaking his gaze from the calendar as he rummaged through until he recognized the way the red permanent marker felt in his hand. He continued to eye Sunday, as if it was prey, and his permanent marker was the hunter.

He licked his lip, biting it as he removed the cap from the marker, taking a few steps forward until he was face-to-face with his archnemesis: the constant reminder that time was limited, that he couldn’t even fucking remember what day it was without the stupid fucking calendar staring at him in the face.

Two diagonal lines from end-to-end of the damned square.

The 30th of October could join the twenty-nine days prior in hell.

Changbin paced around the living room, his footprints brushing over the rug in the middle of the room, leaving worn treads in its fabric. This was his routine as he waited for Seungmin to come home. He wasn’t able to focus on anything for too long before—

Time, time, time.

“Would you fucking shut up? I just told you to leave me alone.”

Before the voices came back.

Changbin knew he sounded unstable as he shouted to himself in the empty living room. He couldn’t stop it, though. The words always left his lips before he could stop himself from saying them.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Things always got bad from hours twenty-four to thirty-six. From thirty-six to forty-eight, however, was more akin to running a chainsaw through an industrial-sized tin of diced tomatoes.

“Just stop, just fucking stop.”

He knew eyes were watching him, he could feel the stares boring into the back of his skull, eyes running all over him. Changbin gripped at the tops of his shoulders, repeating to himself that he wouldn’t turn around — he couldn’t turn around.

“Go away,” he whispered into the crooks of his elbows as he embraced himself, “go away, just go away.”

Why are you here? Fade away, Changbin.

The creaking of the floorboards startled him, unsure if it was his mind lying to himself, creating something that wasn’t there.

Tick—

“Changbin.”

But there was someone there. The energy that came from the words was different, warmer than the way the other voices that circled his mind. The voices floating in his head were never so—

“Come back to me, Changbin.”

There he was, right in front of his face. Seungmin was tangible, unlike the hallucinations in his head. Changbin hadn’t slept in days, yet Seungmin somehow looked far more fatigued than him.

“I’m so sorry, Seungmin, I just—”

“I know,” Seungmin sighed, gently dancing his fingertips against Changbin’s clammy skin. He was gentle as he pulled the shaking man into his arms, and even gentler as they sank to the ground together. “We need to get you back on your medication. Get you back to who you used to be before everything got bad again.”

“No,” Changbin shook his head against the younger man’s chest, “you know what happened the last time they put me on those fucking pills. I can’t lose myself again.”

Seungmin gently stroked the top of Changbin’s head, shushing him and rubbing small circles in between his shoulder blades. “Okay, okay,” he relented, his voice quiet and calm. “We can talk about it more later. Does that sound okay?”

Changbin nodded once, grabbing at Seungmin’s woollen sweater, hiding his face away from the world. “I just don’t want you to leave me because I’m losing it.”

A quiet chuckle came from Seungmin before he pressed a quick kiss to the top of Changbin’s head. “I’m never gonna leave you, baby. I love you. I’ll be here with you until the end of time.”

“You promise?”

“Always.”

14 November 2005 Monday

—

Until the end of time. Always.

Seungmin’s voice was soft as it echoed in Changbin’s head, pulling him from the darkness.

It was Monday. Monday at… nine in the morning?

Time, time, time.

Changbin rubbed his eyes, starting to hyperventilate as he stared at the clock. He turned to the side of his bed, expecting to see Seungmin there, but there was nothing but wrinkled sheets in his place.

“Work,” he muttered to himself. Seungmin had to be at work. It was Monday, which meant that Seungmin was back in the clinic. His breathing calmed down as he mentally prepared himself for another day. He would get through the next few hours until Seungmin got home.

Changbin haphazardly made his way to his feet, his footsteps padding against the cold wooden floor. His footsteps were so loud, echoing against the empty walls of his apartment. He flipped the light switch at the entrance of the kitchen, letting the halogen lamp flicker four times before it steadied itself.

No.

Changbin’s eyes went wide as he stared at the calendar, red Xs missing from the days prior. He stared over the entire month of November before he ripped the calendar off of the wall, rapidly flipping through every page of every month, trying to check for the marks through his days.

Nothing.

From January to November, there were no marks, not a single mark through any of the days he had lived through.

Tick, tock.

Changbin dropped the calendar, letting it collide against the floor as he ran to the landline they kept in the living room. Seungmin would reassure him that, yes, the marks were on each day, that this was just his brain playing tricks on him yet again.

His fingers trembled as he entered seven digits into the phone, the number of Seungmin’s clinic the only thing he could keep memorised after all of these years. Changbin called him at least twice a day whenever Seungmin was at work, often many times more.

The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

“What?”

Changbin shook his head, staring down at the phone as a dial tone filled the air. It was possible he had made a mistake, sure, fumbled with the wrong numbers since his hands were shaking, but—

The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

It had to be a lie.

The number you have dialed is no longer in existence.

The tick you have tocked is—

He threw the phone at the wall, the cheap plastic shattering as it collided against the drywall. Changbin screamed at the top of his lungs, tears falling from his eyes as he tugged desperately at his hair.

Why wasn’t Seungmin’s line working?

He needed Seungmin, but he couldn’t—

“I love you, Seungmin,” his own voice echoed in his ears, the voice trembling and shaking like a small child.

“Seungmin, come back to me.” Changbin blinked once and saw a wrecked car in front of him, blood splattered against broken glass.

He stared at the accident, the car totalled up against a brick wall, another severely damaged car in the distance. The car he was staring at was familiar, the shouting of the voice haunting him as he approached. With his breath hitched in his throat, he stepped closer and closer to the front of the car, each step allowing him to make more and more sense of the wreckage behind the spiderwebbed windshield.

“Come back to me,” the voice pleaded again.

Changbin’s voice. Changbin’s very broken, raw voice.

“Seungmin, please, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—”

Blood. There was so much blood all over the inside of the car, all over Changbin and all over Seungmin. He stepped backwards, nearly colliding against the asphalt as he recoiled in terror, the memories of that day flooding his head.

Can’t go through this again. Can’t.

Changbin looked down to his hands as he shook in fear, his hands caked in rapidly-drying blood that was turning from crimson to brown. The scent of copper lingered in his nostrils as he shook his head, screaming at the top of his lungs.

Again.

Come back to me, Seungmin.

Let me go, Seung—

Changbin blinked his eyes rapidly until he was back in his apartment, warm arms wrapped around his torso. He stared at the broken plastic littering the floor and simply felt nothing, like the switch to his emotions in his brain had been turned off.

“Come back to me.” Seungmin’s voice was so gentle, so soft in his ear. “It’s time for you to wake up and come back to me, Changbin.”

The switch was ripped off of the wall, there were no emotions to feel anymore.

“Let me go, Seungmin,” he weakly whispered, reaching up to the arms that weren’t there, yet still felt so real.

“Come back to me,” the voice was louder as Changbin lifted himself up off of the floor, haunted by the way that the ghost of Seungmin’s touch lingered on his skin.

He slid his feet against the bare wood floor, unable to register that the smooth texture was cold, only recalling it in memory. Like an empty shell of a human, he drifted into the kitchen, where Seungmin stood in front of the wall, calendar in his hands.

“It’s Monday,” he whispered, pointing at the date. “The thirteenth of November. You wondered why there were no marks, right?”

“Leave me alone, Seungmin,” Changbin’s voice was weak, his voice expressionless as he stared forward.

“It’s time to wake up, Changbin. It’s not 2005.”

Can’t go through this again.

“You know it’s not 2005. You’ve been wading through this year like it didn’t exist.”

Life and death, teetering on the edge of it for a year straight. It was ironic, really, that Changbin only slept on the anniversary of the day that he killed Seungmin.

It was an accident.

“It was an accident. You should have been on your medication again.” Seungmin repeated, as if he could hear Changbin’s thoughts. “But every action has a reaction. You know this. You cost me my fucking life.”

Changbin snatched the calendar from Seungmin’s grasp, ripping each page from the calendar and letting them scatter about the floor. Alone he stood, like some fucked up sculpture in the midst of chaos — the chaos of three hundred and sixty fucking five days staring right back up at him, laughing and taunting and driving him insane.

“Come back to me,” Seungmin took a step forward, grabbing the sides of Changbin’s face and pulling him in to kiss his forehead. “Wake up and come back to me, Cha—”

Changbin reached his right arm out, until his hand wrapped around the handle of his chef’s knife, pulling it from the block.

“Make it all stop,” Seungmin taunted. “Come back to me, be with me forever in time, right where you belong, and it’ll stop.”

A tear rolled down Changbin’s empty face as he stared forward, at the empty wall. Seungmin wasn’t there, but it felt like he was there. “I’m so sorry, Seungmin. I loved you so much, I loved you and I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

A cold hand wrapped around Changbin’s hand, helping him bring the knife to his own throat. “I know you are,” his voice was soft, soothing. “And I still love you. So, make it stop. Your time is running out.”

Time, time, time.

“Tick, tock, Changbin. Make up your mind.”

Sweat started to bead in Changbin’s palm as he whispered endless apologies. Tears streamed down his face, his eyes clamped tightly shut as he quickly undid the flesh of his throat with the knife in his hand.

Come back to me.

There was a thud.

Come back to me, Changbin.

The white wall of the kitchen was stained in splatters.

Come back—

The days of the calendar were finally marked in red.

“Changbin—”

Keys fell to the floor.

#beside you in time #skz fics #horror #skz horror #seungbin #seo changbin x kim seungmin #kim seungmin x seo changbin #changbin x seungmin #seungmin x changbin #wherevermyway

[wherevermyway]

bittersweet lullabies // binchan // oneshot // 16+

❄ part of yuki’s favourites! ❄

pairing: bang chan x seo changbin rating: mature! 16+ warnings/tags: angst, friends-to-enemies, enemies-to-lovers, symphony AU, implied sexual content (seriously, it’s barely even there and probably very easily missable), alcohol, referenced underage drinking, past seo changbin x jung wooyoung (ateez). word count: 15,000 also on AO3

originally posted: 07 february 2021

Several years ago, Bang Chan and Seo Changbin were best friends in middle school. They quickly became rivals in high school, starting not long after Changbin got the lead first chair for the viola section, something Chan had also been vying for. When Changbin became valedictorian, they got into a heated argument and Changbin swore he would never talk to Chan again.

After university, they both received offers to work in the same symphonic orchestra. When they run into each other for the first time in four years, conflicting emotions bloom, tensions arise, and it all comes to an apex when Changbin storms off into the Seattle rain, and Chan can’t let him go, not after the guilt he had after all of these years.

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.

“I earned this, Chan!” A voice shouted in a cold, empty hallway. “Do you understand how many sleepless nights I pulled to get here? The sacrifices I’ve made?” There was a loud clattering against metal lockers that echoed against the linoleum flooring and the bland drywall. Papers fell, scattering about the floor as the overhead lighting flickered, illuminating two young men dangerously close to one another.

A scoff came from the slightly taller, blonde man. “Do you think I didn’t work hard?” He slapped his hand against the metal locker behind the brunette man leaning up against them. “I tried so hard, had the same grades as you, the same SAT score, and yet you somehow got valedictorian? What’s your secret, Changbin?”

“Can you leave me alone, dude?” The smaller man gave the blonde a shove, and attempted to storm away, before he was tugged back by the wrist. “Come on, man, they could only pick one person for valedictorian. You still get a speech, now let me leave. I’ve got stuff to take care of.”

Chan, the blonde, shook his head, looking down to the floor. “You really think I only want a stupid fucking speech? I didn’t want to be salutatorian; I don’t want to play second fiddle to you for one more goddamned thing.” He looked back up to the brunette, Changbin, and his eyes were glistening and tinted red. “I just wanted this one thing, to be better than you at something for once. You got lead first chair for orchestra. You got lead tenor for All-State. You’ve always been better than me, and this just proves it and it hurts.”

The two of them exchanged a painful glance, but said nothing. Changbin tugged his arm away, glaring at the other man, pity hidden behind his stare. If this were some sort of coming-of-age, poorly-written Hollywood dramedy, this would be the part where they would make out against the lockers. He would ruffle his hands through Chan’s hair, tell him some cheesy line, like “fuck what everyone else thinks, I may be valedictorian, but you’re the top of the class in my heart”.

However, this was real life. Nothing worked like the movies.

“What’s done is done, Chan,” the brunette sighed, rubbing his wrist. “Grow up and get over it. I’m tired of doing this shit with you every time I earn something and you throw a fucking fit and get jealous.” Changbin turned away, stepping on some of the discarded papers as he quickly walked away, down the corridor. “Don’t ever talk to me again,” he shouted, his voice firm and bouncing against the hard surfaces, echoing loudly in the emptiness.

Chan shook his head and let a tear slide down his face. “I miss the old us.” He remorsefully whispered to himself, dropping to his knees and collecting up the papers he dropped when he shoved the younger man into the lockers. He missed his former best friend, lamenting over how much he let his competitive nature ruin their friendship, the only friendship that really mattered to him.

Four years after Chan and Changbin graduated high school, they still found themselves thinking about each other as they graduated from university. Changbin had somehow completed a bachelor’s degree and a master’s degree in four years during his time at Yale, and Chan finally got his coveted valedictorian title at Dartmouth. They may have hated each other, not speaking at all in four years, but they were polite enough to give each other half-hearted congratulatory messages on social media for university graduation.

Everyone did it, right? It was the thing to do for birthdays and graduations, like some unspoken rule. Perhaps it would bring them closer, start the path of building up the bridge back to friendship that they had burned years ago. It was unlikely, but he’d never know if he never tried.

Chan wondered how much Changbin had changed in the previous four years. He had typed up an apology that spanned several pages of text, had it saved in his message drafts for weeks, but never built up the courage to send it. The overwhelming guilt and shame for treating his former best friend so poorly would never allow him to send that message.

Changbin appeared to be happy for once, losing himself in his studies and performances, happy and in love with his fiancé Jung Wooyoung, a classmate of theirs that also ended up at Yale. Everything seemed to be going well for him; Changbin had just accepted a job with some renowned symphonic orchestra that he was moving cross-country for.

Perhaps they would never mend, and this was fate telling Chan to move on.

Changbin saw Chan’s polite “congrats, man” timeline post, and couldn’t help but scoff at how insincere it came off to him. He had stalked Chan’s profile for the entire four years they didn’t speak to each other, seeing some bad drunken frat party photos, reading interesting concepts he proposed about the transformational theories in music, and watched a couple of short-lived relationships bloom and subsequently fizzle out within only a couple of months. Chan was always chaotic, and Changbin kind of missed that unpredictable nature about him. Someday he’d reach out, he figured, but that day wasn’t today.

It had been a couple of months since graduation. Changbin had a stressful time planning a move cross-country that his now former fiancé didn’t support. Fuck it, he figured, a career with the symphonic orchestra in Seattle was worth it. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, something that was incredibly selective, that he was invited to be a part of, and he deserved it. Wooyoung was halfway out of the door, anyway. They were always picture-perfect online, but Wooyoung stopped putting in any effort into the relationship well over a year ago, something about “focusing” on some technical project that he’d likely never complete.

Wooyoung never completed anything, and when Changbin broke off their engagement, the younger man simply shrugged it off.

It didn’t matter. Out with the old, in with the new. Whatever it took to convince Changbin to stay sane, to feel like he hadn’t wasted three years on someone not worth his time. He didn’t resent Wooyoung, but their relationship felt like it was lacking from beginning to end. Maybe he would find someone that would light a spark within him on the other side of the continent.

From the week he spent in Seattle during his interview and audition, Changbin deemed that Seattle was far superior to Connecticut, anyways: something about its dreamy, rainy, “chronically sipping lukewarm earl grey tea while listening to chill synthwave” vibe excited him. It was something completely different than what he was used to, and it was going to be drastically different than the uptight nature that the east coast gave off.

Connecticut was vivacissimo. Seattle was andante . It was time for something calming and slow paced for once in his life.

It only took Changbin an hour to bring in everything from his car and settle into his new apartment. The human resources team was kind enough to help him find a cozy, furnished apartment that was a short walk away from work. It was nestled in the bustling Capitol Hill neighbourhood, and he knew he was going to love sitting inside and watching people scurry about from his third-floor balcony. He had a few days to settle in before he would show up for orientation, and he couldn’t wait to explore the area.

For now, though, he would unpack a bit, then sleep. A week and a half of driving cross-country, while beautiful, was exhausting. Three thousand miles. Constant playlist shuffling. Talk radio while driving through Illinois and Wisconsin to hear asinine political commentary. Getting carsick and vomiting where I-90 met I-35 in Minnesota. Nearly breaking down close to Mount Rushmore in South Dakota. Almost hitting a coyote in Montana. Seeing the sunrise as he drove over a mountain pass as he approached the Idaho state border. The thrill of finally approaching Seattle and getting lost as he made a wrong turn, somehow ending up in Tacoma. It was an adventurous trip, but it sapped the life from him.

There was one thing, however, he could rely upon to restore his drained energy: his viola.

He took his prized, cherished viola out of its well-maintained case, running his thumb over the chip under his chin rest, and Changbin felt like he could finally breathe a sigh of relief. This viola got him through so many hard times in life, keeping him grounded and sane regardless of how hectic his schedule was from the last half of high school and all throughout university. If he was stressed, he would simply take the viola out of its case and let something flow from him.

As he brought the viola up to his chin, strategically placing his fingers at the end of his bow, he looked out the window taking in the view of the sunset, and aimlessly started playing something. It somehow slowly blended into his part from Lament, which was a duet that he and Chan had performed their junior year of high school.

Perhaps it was because Chan had been invading his thoughts lately, but his improvised practices always turned into Lament . It was a beautiful duet; they had won first place at the state competition for it, earning a perfect score, which was something that was incredibly rare; it helped them pad their resumes to get into Ivy League universities. They practiced for months, starting the summer before their junior year, because they wanted to actually take home an award for it. “We’ll show them,” Chan arrogantly smirked as he puffed out his chest. “We’re better than just some deeper violins stuck in the middle of the orchestra. That’ll teach them all for making fun of us.”

Changbin remembered being nervous about it. The sweat beading on his palms as they waited in the wings of the stage prior to their performance, the pounding of his heart against his ribcage, the sound of the blood rushing between his ears. He was so nervous that he would trip, or he would drop his viola, maybe that everything would go impossibly wrong. However, the minute he and Chan looked at each other as they prepared to start their duet, a sense of calm overtook him, and he lost himself within the music.

Somehow, they managed to make it through the entire performance without faltering. As soon as they were hidden behind the black curtains of the stage, Chan gave Changbin the closest, warmest hug he had ever received in his life.

“I told you we’d do it, man!” Chan excitedly whispered into Changbin’s ear. “You fucking killed it!”

“You did really well, too,” Changbin had shyly whispered back, offering a couple of nervous pats in between Chan’s shoulder blades. He remembered feeling lucky that the backstage area was so dark, because it was very obviously apparent that he was blushing.

He pulled himself from the memory, unable to finish playing his part from the duet, the notes sounding correct, yet feeling dissonant in his heart as he played. His shoulders drooped as he stared off into the skyscrapers far off in the distance. Sure, the relationship he had with Wooyoung was tumultuous, but Changbin wasn’t entirely innocent, either, often daydreaming about Chan during the most inopportune times.

When Wooyoung would dance his fingers against Changbin’s bare flesh in the darkness of their room, he was guilty of letting his mind wander to the what-ifs: what if Chan were there? Would Chan nip at Changbin’s neck with the same passion? How warm would Chan’s breath feel against his earlobe as his teeth dug into the tender flesh? Would he take Changbin in his arms and pepper his skin with soft kisses and haphazard ‘I love you’s as they tangled themselves up in each other?

It was insufferably suffocating, being weighed down by the ghosts of his past as he tried to move forward with his life.

For a long time, Changbin was infatuated with Chan. Starting in seventh grade, he wanted to spend time with only Chan; they would spend their weekends and summer vacations together, text each other until they fell asleep, and they were a part of all of the same extracurricular activities. To most people, all the way up until their junior year, they were essentially brothers that weren’t related by blood.

Nobody could have been closer than them.

One night, not long after they received the results that they had gotten a perfect score on their duet, Chan invited Changbin to a party at their friend’s house. Changbin, being the shy introvert that he was, would have said no otherwise, but he couldn’t bring himself to say no to Chan. There was nothing special or memorable about the house party itself, not until they both drunkenly stumbled into an empty bed together.

They had slept next to each other several times, but this was different. Changbin wrapped his arm around Chan’s chest, tucking his head underneath the elder’s chin, letting himself get lost in the warmth of their embrace. The alcohol convinced him it was a great time to be honest — perhaps a bit too honest.

“Chan,” Changbin had slurred out in a near-whisper. “Can I, uh, tell you something?”

“What’s up, dude?” Chan responded, sleepily rubbing his eyes.

Changbin took in a deep breath, and sat up, staring down at Chan in the dark. “I think…” his voice trailed off and he swallowed audibly, “I think I kinda like you?”

Chan just laughed, patting Changbin’s thigh. “I like you too, dude. It’s why we’re friends.”

“Nah,” the brunette huffed, smelling the stale, cheap beer on his breath and shuddering as he shook his head. “Not like that.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“Like,” a moment passed and Changbin recoiled into himself. “I like you, dude. I wanna take this to the next level. I dunno, man, this shit’s awkward and hard to admit.”

The two of them sat in silence for a while, until Chan sat up and leaned in close to Changbin. “Bin,” he sighed, firmly gripping his junior’s thigh, “I like you, too, but I don’t know. We could, like, seriously fuck up our friendship. I mean, you saw what Seonghwa did to Hongjoong when they went from friends to boyfriends.” He hiccupped and awkwardly chuckled to ease the tension blooming between them. “I don’t wanna ruin what we’ve got, since we’re basically brothers and shit.”

Changbin shook his head. It really was stupid, after all. The alcohol, however, gave him confidence that he didn’t ask for and didn’t need right now. He batted his eyelashes and brought his face in, up close to Chan. “Can I at least kiss you to see how it feels?”

Chan giggled, likely out of nervousness and drunkenness. “I mean, I don’t see why not. But neither you nor I have kissed anyone, ’s probably gonna be weird.”

“I don’t care.” The words left Changbin’s lips as he boldly reached up to Chan’s neck, pulling them closer to each other. It was awkward, painfully obvious that they really didn’t know what they were doing. Their lips were a little too dry for it to feel as magical as Changbin expected. Still, they continued; a tiny spark igniting between the two of them. It may have been awkward, but it didn’t feel wrong.

Chan brought his hand up to Changbin’s soft, brown hair, letting his fingers grip the strands gently. He brought his other hand up to the small of the brunette’s back, pulling him in. They couldn’t quite figure out which side their noses should be on, and when they opened their mouths to let their tongues adventure around, they clashed their teeth together one too many times, causing pain to echo throughout their heads.

Regardless of the awkward nature of their kiss, it was perfect for them. It felt like they kissed each other for hours, eventually rolling around the sheets, fingers skirting around on warm, flushed skin. Changbin didn’t even remember falling asleep, just the comfort of losing himself in Chan’s touch.

The next morning, however, was far from perfect. They were both grossly hungover, and Chan was oddly distant. “I dunno, dude,” he had sleepily grumbled, avoiding looking at Changbin at all, “I still don’t know if this is right.”

Chan was going to say more, but Changbin waved him off in a panic with feigned confidence. “Nah, dude, it was just us being drunk.” He let out a nervous laugh. “Sorry for being weird, I guess I was just a little too curious to have a kiss. Shame our first kisses were while we were drunk, huh?”

“Yeah,” Chan awkwardly smiled, “little weird, but whatever.”

Unsurprisingly, they started having problems not long after that. Chan had started getting irritated with Changbin putting more and more focus into his studies, starting to surpass him academically. Then, Changbin got first chair for the violas in orchestra. He beat out two seniors, and Chan was right behind him. Chan was always right behind him in everything. They were so close, they were like minor seconds in a chord: just two notes right next to each other that sounded uncomfortably dissonant when played together.

When Changbin got stressed, he focused. Conversely, when Chan stressed, he brooded.

“Come on, man,” Chan had whined right after practice one day, “you and I both got that perfect score on our duet. How’d you get lead first chair over me?”

The annoyance of Chan’s constant negative behaviour was draining on Changbin, causing the younger man to grow more and more irritated by the second. “I don’t fucking know, okay?” He snapped while opening his viola’s case. “Someone had to get it, and it was me. Stop taking out your shit on me, man, it’s exhausting.”

Chan frowned in response. “I’m not taking it out on you,” he huffed, “you’re just getting a lot of good shit lately, and it’s not fair.”

“You should have fucking tried harder, then!” Changbin shouted, taking a step towards Chan, clutching the neck of his viola tightly. “You know what’s not fair? What’s not fair is the fact that you’re being a broody sack of shit at me because you’re just not practicing as hard or studying as hard and that’s not my goddamned fault! You need to grow the fuck up, dude.”

Chan scowled and shoved Changbin back in anger, harder than he anticipated. He didn’t expect it to be such a rough shove, but Changbin didn’t always have a good sense of balance. The younger man tumbled backwards, and his viola hit the ground with a thud, a discordant twang coming from the delicate instrument and echoing throughout the room.

The silence that followed the scuffle was deafening. Chan tried to apologize, knowing just how important Changbin’s viola was to him, but he just incoherently sputtered and panicked. Changbin stared up at Chan in horror, blinking away tears that were budding up in his eyelids.

“How could you?”

It was the last thing that Changbin said to Chan for months.

The memories flooding up in Changbin’s head caused a gnawing pain to bloom within his stomach as he stared out the window, the sky now a deep shade of indigo. He sighed, then put his viola back into its case. He thought playing it would make him happy, more comfortable in his new apartment in a new town, but it just made him feel cold and alone. It felt like there was nothing but dissonant chords reverberating inside of him.

Changbin stared down at his viola, hesitating to close the case. The chip from the day it collided against the ground was still there, glaringly obvious as the memory burned itself into his head. He recalled that the musician that repaired his viola offered to fix it up, even though it was just a surface blemish and wouldn’t cause any musical problems. “No,” Changbin had told the man, “it’s right under the chin rest, so I’ll see it every time I go to play it. It’ll remind me to be more cautious.”

Cautious of his instrument, that’s probably what it sounded like to the musician. What Changbin really meant, however, was how he’d be cautious of letting anyone close to him in the future, no matter who it was.

Uncertainty rushed over him, but Changbin was certain of one thing: he needed to get Chan out of his head. Sooner, rather than later. He couldn’t afford to be distracted when he started with the symphony.

Maybe he’d be alone forever.

Monday came quickly, and Changbin was running early. He had left far too early, showing up nearly an hour before he needed to be at the practice hall. He shrugged the nervousness from his shoulders as he made his way to a nearby cafe to grab something caffeinated to help perk him up. Seven in the morning was far too early for his schedule after all of this time off from university.

It was a brief walk, maybe only a couple of minutes to the cafe down the street. Changbin opened the door, inanely scrolling through his emails as he walked through the front door and got in line. There was one email from the conductor, Lee Minho, sent out to everyone earlier that morning, welcoming the new members of the orchestra. Names, ages, instruments, and where they were from.

“What can I get for you?” The barista at the counter politely asked, causing Changbin to look up from his phone, his face flushing in embarrassment.

“Oh, sorry,” he whispered, locking his phone, sliding it into his pocket. “I’ll take a shot in the dark, medium, three shots, please.”

“Your name?”

“Changbin.” He was curious to see how terribly the barista would butcher his name as he tapped his card against the payment terminal. A minute later, he stepped off to the side, grabbing his phone to scroll through the email again. Since he was early, he might as well try and learn who was who and where they sat, what they played.

The wind and brass instruments were first. A new French horn player, a new trombonist, a new bassoonist, a new flautist. He was about to scroll through the percussion and string players when the second barista mumbled something that sounded kind of like his name. He walked up and grabbed the paper cup that was placed on the countertop, eyeing the scribble on the cup that barely resembled his name, rolling his eyes at the attempt.

Changbin took a cautious sip of the hot liquid as he made his way towards the front of the cafe, taking a seat at the window bar, placing his viola case down on the ground and his cup on the table, looking through his email. He didn’t care about the percussion section, but when he got to the strings, he perked up a bit. Two new violinists, two new violists, and a new cellist.

There was another new violist along with him, and Changbin bit his lip in excitement. He wondered who they were, where they were from. Then he saw the name, right under his. He stopped tapping his toes in excitement and his jaw dropped. If he was holding his coffee cup, he would have dropped it in shock.

Viola: Changbin S., 22, Connecticut. B.A., M.M., Music: Yale University.

Viola: Chan B., 23, New Hampshire. B.A., Music Performance: Dartmouth University.

“Holy shit,” Changbin whispered as all of the colour drained from his face. He had to have been hallucinating. There was no way that Chan was actually in Seattle. There had to have been another Chan from Dartmouth that was coming all the way here, right? That it wasn't just some crazy fever dream that Changbin was having?

He sat and stared at the email on his phone until the screen automatically turned off from inactivity. If Chan was seriously going to be in the symphonic orchestra with him, right next to him, what was he going to do? The two of them hadn't said anything more than polite passing phrases over their birthdays or for their graduations over social media, for fuck's sake. What the hell was going to happen when — no, if, it had to stay as an if — the two of them met?

The soft bell of the front door opening made Changbin shake his head, crashing back to reality. He turned his phone over, putting it down on the counter so he didn't have to look at it, and brought his cup back up to his lips. The coffee in the cup was nice, a bit more mellow and mild compared to the coffee he was used to on the east coast, like this was brewed with care and love, not in a hurry for someone just trying to get their fix.

“That's the third symphony,” a quiet voice came up behind Changbin, his ears twitching a bit as he heard something related to music. Perhaps this person was another musician, part of the orchestra? Letting his curiosity get the better of him, he turned his head over his shoulder and actually dropped his cup, spilling the warm liquid all over the table and into his lap. In a rush, he grabbed his phone as he stood and let out a crisp, sharp interjection.

As the coffee cooled in his lap and the barista from earlier approached him with a towel, his brain caught up to the realization that his former best friend-turned-rival, Chan, was right behind him. Before he could fully process what that meant, Changbin found himself madly dashing back to his apartment, phone in one hand, viola case in the other. Reality hit him in the face and burned as much as his scorched legs as he collided into the door of his apartment.

This wasn't a dream.

Changbin was thankful that he was always early to things. After rushing to apply some burn cream to his legs and change into a fresh outfit, he had somehow made it back to the concert hall with fifteen minutes to spare. He gripped the handle to his viola's case tightly, palms sweating as he tried so hard not to panic. Beyond the doors of the practice hall, he knew that Chan was going to be there. Nothing he did could prepare him for that, and he knew it.

He took in a deep breath, and let off a quick exhale as he pushed the door open. The crowd of other players was massive — there had to be nearly a hundred people crowded up in small circles. The newer people were very obvious, awkwardly off to the side in their respective sections. Some people were off in random seats, tuning their instruments. Then, in the middle of the room, he saw someone seated, alone, anxiously scrolling through his phone. It was the same brassy blonde that was in the cafe.

Chan.

Almost as if the energy in the room cooled as Changbin entered, Chan shifted in his seat and aimlessly scanned the room, looking at the other members, until his eyes landed on Changbin, and his lips parted. They stared at each other, seemingly like they were frozen in space and time, that there was no one else around. A conflicting rush of warmth, excitement, and terror washed over Changbin all at once as he stared at his former best friend.

Changbin shook his head, letting his eyes fall to the floor for a moment. “This is going to be fine,” he quietly reassured himself as he walked towards the middle of the room. “You two don't have to look at each other, speak to each other, just be civil. If you're lucky, you won't even have to interact much. Hopefully.”

That was a boldfaced lie, but it helped reassure Changbin in the slightest way possible.

“Hi,” Chan awkwardly whispered as Changbin got close. “Long time, no see, huh?”

He simply couldn't resist looking up at Chan and somehow wrinkling his face up into an uncomfortable grin. “Hi, Chan.” His tone was a bit cold, but what else could he do? They left each other on horrible terms, not even speaking to each other during their high school graduation ceremony. Changbin had given his valedictorian speech, and remembered Chan walking up to the podium, giving him a pitiful expression as they crossed paths.

“Looks like your assigned seat is right next to me.” There's a tapping noise as Chan's fingernail repeatedly strikes the plastic seat next to him. A large, black binder sat atop the chair, with "Changbin S., Viola’ emblazoned on the top of it in silver, serif lettering.

Fate was a cruel bastard.

Changbin stifled a sigh under his breath, placing his viola's case underneath the chair as he grabbed the binder. He sat down in his seat, pretending to rifle through the paperwork. There was simply no way that he could focus, knowing that Chan was right next to him. It was completely awkward and uncomfortable. Changbin could practically feel the warmth of the blonde sitting next to him, even though they were about a foot away from each other.

“We're gonna pretend like all that time together never happened, huh?” Chan's voice was cold, and he tsked as he brought his phone back up to his face. “I really thought four years would've changed you, Bin.”

Changbin slammed the binder shut and leaned into Chan's face. His eyes darted around, knowing that he was getting some strange glances from people that weren't preoccupied, but it didn't matter. “You're the one that refused to grow up and handle things responsibly like an adult. I don't want to hear another fucking passive aggressive word about this from you.” His tone was hushed, but venomous and seething. “You had all this time to apologize, but you never did. I sincerely hope we don't have to interact much, because this two year contract is going to be hell on me if you're here.”

Chan scoffed. “Whatever, dude,” he shook his head and looked back to his phone. “I just wanted to try and be civil, but if you wanna play that game, then you can. Go right ahead.”

This was outrageous. Changbin opened his mouth to say something, but a man with a calm demeanour walked into the room, his presence demanding attention from everyone as they scattered to their seats.

“Good morning, everyone,” his voice boomed throughout the corridor. It was soft, inviting. “Welcome to your first day of the season. If you would kindly find your seats, we'll get started in a few moments.”

Changbin awkwardly fumbled with his binder, resting it on the music stand in front of him, then bent down to pick up his viola's case. He undid the latches, and pulled out the instrument, his eyes fixated on that damned chip under the chin rest. Naturally, after he stared at the chip for longer than necessary, he lifted his eyes up to Chan, who was rubbing his bow against the brick of resin in his hand.

Chan was always delicate with his instrument. He put in so much love when he polished his viola prior to competitions and performances, always lovingly eyed the hairs of his bow as he carefully watched the resin coat each strand. Typically, he would hum some inane melody to himself as he got lost in the process, in the care of what he did.

Today, Chan wasn't humming.

It felt like the energy around him had gone from its usual bright cheerfulness, and turned into a dark, gloomy cloud.

“Please,” the instructor spoke yet again, looking up from his stack of paperwork on the podium, “if you haven't done so, begin tuning your instruments. Hopefully they're all tuned up, but I'm sure some of you have been slacking since we last practiced together, hmm?”

Changbin didn't need to tune his viola, since he tuned it last night in anticipation, but he went along and pretended to tune it with his plastic electric tuner. The light shone green as he kept strumming against the C string. Changbin tried to stare at the light, but he couldn't take his eyes off of Chan. While he wasn't humming, the elder still put in so much tender energy while he cared for his viola.

It had been all this time, but Changbin still felt his abdomen and chest light up with fire when he saw Chan, no matter how much it hurt. It was apparent that Changbin was still so madly in love with him, even after all of these years and all of the emotional torment they had put each other through.

This man was going to be the death of him.

The beginning of the first day with the symphony wasn't eventful. There were some warm-ups and some scales practice, but that was simply to get everyone prepared for the performance season. After all of that, the conductor, Minho, went through each section and asked the new members to introduce themselves. Percussion went first, then woodwinds, brass, strings. Second-to-last was the viola group, and Chan went first.

“Chan,” he said with a smile, his dimple prominently on display, “I'm 23, originally from New York, but I've been in New Hampshire for the past four years thanks to university. I recently graduated, with honours, top of my class, from the music performance faculty at Dartmouth. I hope we all get along well and you'll treat me kindly. Let's have a great season!” He sat down, and his smile faded as Changbin rose.

“Yeah, uh, hello,” Changbin awkwardly stuttered, folding his hands together behind his back. “I'm Changbin, 22, also originally from New York, but I've been in Connecticut for the last four years where I matriculated at Yale. I have a bachelor's and master's in music, specifically: music performance for viola and piano. I've been playing the viola for most of my life, and I hope I will serve everyone well here. Uh,” he paused, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. “Thanks.”

There were a couple of polite chuckles as Changbin sat down. Despite having a penchant for giving well-manicured speeches, he hated giving unprepared introductions. He felt tense enough already, knowing that Chan was right next to him, making him all the more uncomfortable.

The new violinists introduced themselves, and Minho clapped once. “Excellent,” he praised. “Now that introductions are out of the way, please split off into your respective subsections until I'm able to get to each individual group and assess your skills for placements. Those of you that have finished by your lunch break are welcome to leave, unless your principal seat deems otherwise.”

A couple of musicians groaned.

“It's nearly autumn,” Minho said with a soft smile as he adjusted his necktie, “you all know that placement seats, other than principal seats, aren't guaranteed.”

Changbin nervously swallowed. He knew that placements were, yet again, going to be a source of contention for both of them. Chan was top of his class at Dartmouth; Changbin was top of his class at Yale. Both of them were going to be a force to be reckoned with, especially up against other top-class talent.

This orchestra recorded for multiple high-budget films and would perform in the pits of renowned theatrical performances. There were just over a hundred seats in the orchestra, but thousands applied for open spots after contracts ended and spots opened up. It was nerve-wracking, and Changbin wasn't confident that he, for the first time since high school, would be placed in one of the first viola chairs.

“Hey,” a voice perked up as everyone started to shift around and break off into their own groups. “I'm Seungmin,” a young man stood in front of Chan and Changbin, probably about the same age as them. “I'm the principal chair for the viola section. Changbin and Chan, right?” Both of them silently nodded once in affirmation. “Nice, Ivy Leaguers like me. Cornell, graduated last year. Anyway, don't worry too much about placements. Not much you can do until you actually have to perform, and Minho is pretty great about making you feel comfortable if you're nervous. Why not come meet everyone in the section?”

There were polite greetings and less-formal introductions shared, a couple of people made jokes to ease the tension, as to be expected. Seungmin discussed the projected schedule for the season, going over some of the pieces that they would need to practice together and individually. They went over all of the general housekeeping, discussed the placement procedures, and that they were free to go after they were done, since there was no real point in sticking around for the rest of the day.

“Alright, well,” Seungmin stood up as his alarm went off, “lunch starts now, so I'm gonna head off. See ya in an hour; just meet up here and don't be late. For strings, the violin section goes first, then us.”

Changbin looked down to the floor, an uneasy pit growing in his stomach. Part of him knew he should stay and practice, just to get his mind in the right order, but he couldn't pull himself away from the fact that Chan was still there, right next to him.

“Get up,” Chan muttered, lightly tapping Changbin's chair with his foot, startling the brunette to attention. “Look, dude,” he tucked his hands into his pockets and huffed with discontent, “I know we haven't spoken in years, but there's some things I wanna talk to you about before we go in and compete against each other for yet another stupid thing. Come grab lunch with me, alright?”

“I'm not hungry.” Changbin's eyes darted to the side, furrowing his brows in frustration. He just wanted to focus on practicing his piece for placements; there was no time to worry about eating at a time like this.

“No,” an exasperated sigh came from Chan as he folded his arms and rolled his eyes. “You're just nervous and you don't wanna talk to me. Unless you've drastically changed, you do this shit before performances, too. Just come on, it's not gonna be that bad, I promise.”

Changbin wasn't sure why he agreed to this. The two of them sat at a table in the hipster pho shop next to the cafe, awkwardly poking at their warm bowls of noodles and broth as they sat in silence for at least a good five minutes. “So,” the younger man sighed, “what did you want to talk about?”

The blonde sucked his lips in between his teeth and chewed on them for a second before he set his chopsticks down into the bowl and looked up, meeting Changbin's gaze with a hint of nervousness behind his eyes. “Changbin,” he huffed, tilting his head to the side, “all those years ago, I was horrible to you.”

“I know.” The brunette abruptly cut him off, seething through his teeth while he sat back in his chair.

“Bin,” the older man shook his head, his eyes wincing with pain, “dude, I had this big ass draft saved in my messages that I wanted to send to you after we graduated.” He brought an elbow to the table and nestled his head into his palm. “For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to ever send it. I don't know why; it was probably out of embarrassment and cowardice. The way I treated you all that time, over some stupid competitive shit, I'm sorry, Changbin. Honestly, I'm so sorry.”

A tsk left Changbin's lips as he rolled his eyes away, looking at the wall to his side, just for a moment. He leaned in, pressing his arm into the table, mere inches away from Chan. “Yeah, you did a lot of shit, and yeah, I know you’re sorry or whatever. But you know what hurts me the most, Chan?”

Chan nervously swallowed and bit his lip.

“You did all of this shit to me after I kissed you. None of this started until then.” Changbin shook his head in disappointment. “I'm not upset about the way you reacted, not really, at least, but I am upset over the fact that you kissed me back so hard, like you actually wanted me as more than a friend. After all that, you started treating me so horribly, like you had to prove that you were better than me. Like our years of friendship suddenly didn’t matter anymore.”

“Changbin, I just couldn’t—” Chan started, but Changbin sat back and shook his head, speaking up and cutting off the blonde.

“You hurt me.” There were tears budding up in the brunette's eyes. “It's taken you four and a half years to apologize. Chan, I’ve waited for fucking years for this. I wish you would have sent me some bullshit, half-assed stupid text message apology that summer. It would have hurt less than this. All of this time, I thought you hated me. That my best friend wanted nothing to do with me. Nothing else hurts more than that, to have your favourite person in the entire world suddenly hate you, and it’s all because you thought he had feelings for you, too, but he just threw them back in your face and laughed at your pain.”

Changbin stood up and grabbed his phone from off of the table. “I'm not ready to forgive you, Chan. Not after all of this shit. So, please,” a couple of tears rolled down his face as he bit his bottom lip, “just respect me enough to leave me alone for a little while. I need to think about this, about us.”

He stormed off before Chan could attempt to stop him. An overwhelming fear of nervousness took over: partially due to the unsteady ground their relationship was on, and partially due to the fact that his placement exam was going to take place soon, and Changbin was nowhere near the right mental capacity for that.

“Shouldn’t have done this,” Changbin whispered to himself as he wiped the tears from his face, his footsteps hard and heavy against the concrete sidewalk. “Fuck you, Chan.”

“Capriccio,” Minho smiled, his face relaxed and expression warm. He held his clipboard in hand as Changbin eyed the sheets of music in front of him. “Composed by Vieuxtemps. I picked this as the sight reading for today’s placement exams.” The conductor was welcoming enough, but his calm demeanour didn’t ease the nervousness vibrating throughout Changbin’s body.

All those years ago, I was horrible to you. Chan’s apology still sounded so clear in his head, Changbin constantly replaying the memory unwillingly as the notes on the sheet music danced around, tangling itself up into an unintelligible mess.

“Changbin?”

I’m so sorry, Changbin. He was so angry: at Chan, at himself, at the fact that he ran away, that he couldn’t concentrate on the important task at hand in front of him.

“Hey,” Minho’s voice was layered with concern as it pulled Changbin from his thoughts. “Are you feeling alright? It’s just a standard placement exam, nothing to be too nervous over.”

Changbin stood in the empty office, viola carefully cradled in his hands as he blinked his way back into focus, the sheet music suddenly becoming clear and normal. “Sorry,” he shook his head, trying to rid Chan’s voice from the depths of his ears, “I guess I’m just nervous.” Capriccio. It was a piece Changbin had heard, but he had never played it before, as to be expected for sight reading, but the anxiousness in his stomach blossomed like a large black lily of doubt, poking its petals at his ribcage. “How long do I have to look at this?”

“I’ll give you two minutes to look over it,” Minho leaned against the back of his chair and rubbed his chin with his thumb. “Once you’re ready to start playing, I’ll take notes. We’ll do the scales exercise before that, as well as a piece of your choosing. Are you sure you’re ready, Changbin?”

“I’ll be fine,” Changbin huffed, trying to calm the nerves inside of him as he readied his viola. He had to be fine, he had to beat out Chan with this. “Let’s do the scales, then.”

Changbin kept telling himself that had to beat Chan, but he didn’t know exactly why.

“Hey, man!” Seungmin said with excitement as he patted Changbin on the back, right outside of the practice room. “How'd it go?”

Changbin groaned and rolled his eyes, gripping the neck of his viola a bit tighter. “It was alright,” he grumbled, walking to where his case laid on his chair. Chan had gone before him, and was deliberately looking away from Changbin as he approached. As soon as he started shuffling with his case, Chan got up with an exasperated sigh and walked away.

“Are you two,” Seungmin pressed, lowering his voice as he approached Changbin, “do you know each other or something? I'm getting some weird vibes from you both.”

The brunette gritted his teeth as his bottom eyelid twitched. “We were classmates, yeah,” he admits, “back in high school.”

“Oh! That's exciting!”

“No,” Changbin sighed, “I wish it was more interesting than that, but we stopped talking after we both got into different universities”. It wasn't a complete lie, yet it wasn't a complete truth, either. Changbin quickly weighed the options of being honest with Seungmin about how strained their relationship was, and chose to just fake it for the greater morale of the group. They were both too new to start something so petty so early on in the season.

Seungmin grinned as Changbin turned around. “Well, hey,” he bopped his head back and forth to the side, humming a bit, “it's kinda cool when you've got people that know each other and work well together in the same group. Maybe the violas will be a bit stronger this year.”

“We'll see,” Changbin said with a fake smile. Whether he was talking about the group or about his relationship with Chan was uncertain.

It was nearly a full day until placement results were revealed. Both Changbin and Chan got first chair, but they were at the bottom of five. What stung the most, however, was that Chan had beaten Changbin, likely due to nerves.

Changbin was at the bottom of something for the first time in his life, and he didn't know how to handle the whirlwind of emotions raging inside of him.

“Sorry,” Chan whispered as they both stared at the sheet. “At least we're both first chairs, not second, though, yeah?”

He shouldn't have been upset, because these were some of the best performers in the entire country, but Changbin was seething. Fists clenched, teeth gritting, and he was sweating with how infuriated he was at being in the bottom for the first time. Ever. Seos were never anything but first, and this was going to eat at him from the inside out for a long time, especially since he was beaten out by Chan of all people.

“Hey, guys,” Seungmin leaned up against the wall, causing them both to break their gaze at the sheet of paper for a moment. “Congratulations on getting first chairs during your first contract year. Not many people get that.”

Changbin didn't care if “many people” got first chair or not, he was still fixated on the fact that he got beaten out by Chan. He wanted the assistant principal seat, but wasn’t even remotely close to it. So, he determined he’d have to work harder, to set his eyes on the principal seat when placements opened. This step backwards could cost him that opportunity when it came up in the spring, and he hated it.

Chan elbowed Changbin in the side, causing the brunette to snap back to reality.

“What?” The younger man bit back, viscerally reacting as his eyes widened and he bared his teeth. He wanted so desperately to throw Chan up against the wall and yell at him for distracting him right before his placement exam, when he knew he should have just stayed back and practiced. Chan broke his routine and all Changbin could think about during the exam was how angry he was at his former best friend.

“Chill out,” Chan sighed, eyes widening for a brief moment in shock. “Seungmin just asked if the two of us had any plans after practice.”

Seungmin shook his head. “It's cool if you do,” he smiled awkwardly, sensing the tension blooming around them, “a bunch of us, including most of the newbies, are all going out to Vivace. It’s that little bar down the street. Could be a good chance for everyone to get to know each other a bit better. Seems like you two have a head start on that, but now it's time for us to get to know you.”

His voice was sickeningly optimistic. Changbin gritted his teeth together under pursed lips and was about to decline, until Chan spoke up for both of them. “Yeah,” he said in a fake pleasant voice, “Changbin and I are down for that.”

“Don't speak for me,” Changbin said through his teeth, but Chan turned to look at him and frowned.

“Team morale. Be a good player, dude.”

Brooding. Failure. Fucking failure.

Changbin never was one to brood, but he was never one to fail, either. Today was a day of firsts, none of them good. He frowned as he leaned over his glass of warmed cognac, staring down into it in disgust at his reflection. The entire group was bonding with each other, smiling and laughing without a care in the world, and he was being the awkward loner in the corner again, silent and reserved.

“That didn't seriously happen,” a young man with short platinum blonde hair drunkenly giggled. Felix, probably. That's the name that Changbin thought he heard him mention when they all introduced themselves. He was the new French horn player. “Hyunjin, dude, you've gotta stop it with picking up random people in clubs.”

“It's Cap Hill, baby,” the man with long, black hair half-heartedly whined, martini against his lips. Hyunjin. Second chair cellist. “Sometimes you see someone hot, and you just gotta take them home, y’know? Of course you don’t, you’re too prudish to get fucking laid.”

A laugh bubbled up from the group, but both Chan and Changbin were staying relatively quiet. “Hey,” Chan said in a low voice, leaning against the table that Changbin was resting his elbows on. “You should come participate with everyone.”

“Why?” Changbin rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Nobody here really cares about each other. It's all polite bullshit anyways.”

“Seriously, would you just fucking stop with this mopey shit, dude?” Chan tried to keep his voice down, setting his pint of stout on the table. “Come on, you're not a kid anymore.”

Changbin tilted his head back and sighed. “I never lose, man,” he brought his head back upright, staring down Chan as the alcohol loosened his lips. “You know I've never come in second, much less last, for anything. Let me just be down for once.”

As Chan opened his mouth to retort, another short, young man came up to the table. Jisung, the lead second chair violinist slammed his lager on the table with a wide grin. “What’s up, newbies? We're doing shots. Team bonding, yeah?”

Changbin's lip curled up in disgust, already annoyed by how chipper the other man was. “I don't do shots,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jisung dismissively waved his hand in the air and scoffed. “We get it, you’re pretentious and better than us or whatever. You're doing a shot with us anyways, a'ight? If you're drinking, it ain't optional.”

Seungmin, Felix, and a quiet brunette carried a few small glasses of amber liquid, setting the tiny shot glasses down on the table. “I don't know why you recommended Fireball for this, dude,” Hyunjin grumbled as he shook his head, taking a shot glass from the table and stepping right behind Jisung.

“It's good!” The smaller black-haired man shouted with a wide smile. “I've met nobody that doesn't like this stuff.”

“I hate it,” Changbin grumbled in protest, vaguely recalling memories of getting hammered on the foul liquid during a house party his sophomore year of college. A layer of regret gripped at his ribcage, thinking of the way Wooyoung’s boozy breath lingered on his lips as they made out on the patio of some stranger’s house. The regret clawed at him while he recalled how he looked up at the stars and wished that it was Chan there instead of Wooyoung. “I hate it a lot,” he repeated, unsure if he was still talking about the liquor or if he was talking about the memory creeping into his head.

His quip earned him a finger in the face from the loud young man, pulling him from his lamenting. “Not tonight, you don't. You can hate it after our fifth shot of it. Hate it tomorrow morning. Yeah?”

Everyone grabbed a shot glass, several reaching out in reluctance, and Seungmin puffed his chest out. “Alright,” he proudly said with a triumphant grin, holding his glass in the air, “we're gonna have a great year. Newbies and violists may be outcasts, but we're all a family. Yeah?”

The group let out an affirmative, albeit jumbled, noise.

“On three,” Jisung said with a smirk, then counted to three. All of the men lifted their glasses to their lips and chugged down the cloyingly sweet and uncomfortably spicy cinnamon-flavoured liquor.

“Oh, that's horrid,” Changbin shuddered, nearly dropping the shot glass as he recoiled. Chan nodded his head as he hissed, while Seungmin and Felix scrunched their faces in discomfort.

“You're disgusting, Ji. Let's get more!” The brunette from earlier perked up, the first time Changbin caught him speaking during the gathering. “It's not a good night unless someone pukes before we leave, yeah?”

Jisung slapped his hand on the table and collected the empty glasses from everyone. “Hell yeah, Jeongin, that's my dude!”

It wasn’t until the cool, late summer breeze hit Changbin as he stumbled outside that he realized that that fifth shot of Fireball that Jisung convinced everyone to take was, in fact, not a good idea. He groaned to himself as the cool air gradually revitalized him. “That shit was horrible.”

“Yeah,” Chan's aching voice slurred up from behind him. “You gonna be good getting home, Bin?”

Changbin wouldn't have responded if he was sober. He would have, and should have, just walked away, waved Chan off with an insincerely polite farewell, but the alcohol gave him a slight boost of confidence. He shrugged and sighed. “Probably. I live just down the street, uh,” he brought one hand to his temple as he blinked, eyeing his surroundings, eventually slinging his right arm up and pointed lazily towards the right, “that way. Somewhere.”

“You've never been a good drunk, have you?” Chan sighed, walking up to Changbin and interlocking his arm with the younger man’s, gently pulling him towards the direction he pointed in.

The brunette shook his head a few times and whined. “What're you doing?”

“Making sure you get home in one piece.”

“You dunno where I live, man.”

Chan tugged Changbin’s arm a bit and sighed. “You said this way, so I'm making sure you go that way. Besides, I live over here, too. It's on the way.”

“The Bushnell Apartments.”

The blonde stopped in his tracks and stared down at his drunken compatriot in shock. “How'd you know?”

“What?” The younger man lazily lifted his head up and knitted his brows together in confusion.

“That's where I live, dude.”

“No,” Changbin scoffed, “you big dummy, that's where I live.”

“Wait a minute,” Chan chuckled inwardly, “you live in the same complex as me?”

“Sounds like it, yeah,” Changbin nodded once, bringing his free arm up to rub the back of his neck, “third floor, room 325.”

“Holy shit. I'm in 324. I wondered who was playing music a few weeks ago when I was moving my stuff in.”

Changbin laughed nervously as the realization that Chan lived so close to him, not only in the same apartment complex, but right next door to him, slapped him in the face. “Fate's a real bastard, innit?”

“What?”

As much as Changbin wanted to say something, a look of discomfort quickly washed over his face. “Oh shit,” came out instead of the quip he was planning on, and he quickly, awkwardly dashed to the curb of the sidewalk, violently emptying the contents of his stomach all over the pavement instead.

A drunken laugh came up from behind him as Chan cackled maniacally. “I knew you were a lightweight.”

The next morning, Changbin woke up and even the most ambient of sounds were painfully louder, every light was uncomfortably brighter. He let out a weak whimper, and curled into himself as the world spun around him. “Goddammit,” he grumbled. “Fuck Jisung and fuck last night. I'm never drinking again.”

As if fate was teasing him, taunting him with how unfair it truly was, there was a knock against the door, the faint rapping pulling him out of his daze. He sighed heavily, rolling over onto his back, coming to terms with the fact that he was going to have to get up in a moment. “Be there in a sec,” he attempted to shout in the most decent, cognizant way possible.

It took Changbin a few moments to reorient himself as the walls spun around him. He stumbled his way through his bedroom, out to the front door, not bothering to look through the peephole. Changbin fumbled with his deadbolt for a moment, scolding himself as he realized he forgot to do the chain-link before he passed out at some point earlier that morning. He pulled the door open, instantly regretting leaving his bed as he saw the man at his door.

“Chan?” He rubbed his eyes and grumbled. “How'd you find out where I live?”

“You told me last night, dude.” The taller man offered a plastic bag around his finger, almost as if it were some sort of physical apology. “Figured you could use some of this, especially since you don't remember all of last night, do you?”

Changbin stepped back, opening his door wide. There was no way he had the energy to yell at Chan, not when the man had brought him food as a peace offering. “I'm still upset with you, you know.”

“You told me last night,” Chan shook his head, tutting in feigned irritation as he took a couple of steps into Changbin’s apartment. “Several times, actually.”

The two of them sat on the couch in awkward silence as they ate their lukewarm, greasy diner takeout. Changbin curled up into a ball, clutching his sports drink to his chest as he rolled his face into the couch cushion. “God, I feel like shit,” he whined. “How are you so okay after all of that? You ended up drinking more than me.”

Chan chuckled. “I was part of a frat, dude,” he took a sip of water from his glass, then set it back down on the table. “Beer was an acceptable substitute for water in Sig Ep. Practically its own food group. Ah,” he stuck a finger in the air and his face turned stoic, “unofficially, of course.”

In all honesty, Changbin never realized that Chan had become such a different person after he went to university. He was still caring and kind, but to picture him as a typical frat boy was jarring. “You still got honours and valedictorian after all that shit?”

“Yep,” the older man clasped his hands together, bringing them behind his head as he leaned back into the couch. “Don't know how I did it, though. Talent probably got me far enough.”

“You were always really good at playing the viola, dude.” The compliment was sincere, Changbin rolling his eyes up to catch the profile of his best friend, staring longer than he should’ve.

Chan turned slightly, sucking in some air through his teeth as he looked at Changbin. “Never as good as you.” His voice was low, like there was something hidden deep under his words.

The two of them were quiet again. Changbin couldn’t help but ruminate on Chan’s words, memories of their constant rivalries and the night of their drunken kiss violently replaying over and over in his head. Chan always wanted to beat Changbin out on one thing, and Changbin was afraid it would cause Chan to look down on him as somehow lesser than.

Oh.

A sour, queasy feeling rolled up the back of Changbin’s neck as he realized he had probably treated Chan poorly in everything they competed for when he beat him out. How could he have treated his childhood friend so terribly for something so petty and trivial? Changbin had no other friends, not since he and Wooyoung split up, and the loneliness he felt bubbled up in his chest, commingling with how horrible he felt for the way he had treated Chan after all this time.

He should have apologized, too.

“Hey, Bin,” Chan leaned further into the back of the couch, drawing his arm out against the frame and he stared down at his sickly junior. “If I had reached out to you and apologized, do you think you would’ve forgiven me? We said some horrible shit to each other and, honestly, I never thought we’d see each other again. I’m glad we got to see each other after all this time, but I can’t help but think we’d never talk to each other otherwise.”

Changbin couldn’t help but look away, staring off into the tiny chip on his wall next to his calendar. He chewed on his teeth, unable to resist thinking about all of the stupid, petulant rage he felt over their trivial fights. He brought his thumbnail to his teeth and anxiously nibbled at it, honestly unsure if he would’ve forgiven Chan if they didn’t end up in Seattle together after all this time. “I dunno,” he muttered, words coming out with a slight lisp against his nail. “I think you’re probably right. I mean, we hadn’t talked in four years, why start now? What’s the point of resurfacing old wounds just to tear into them?”

A heavy sigh came from Chan as he looked up towards the ceiling. “I guess you’re right. I figured you had everything going perfectly for you. You graduated with a bachelor’s and a master’s degree, were happily engaged, and had just accepted some prestigious job somewhere. You were succeeding and surpassing me in so many ways yet again, and I couldn’t even come to terms with the fact that I—” Chan quickly cut himself off.

Changbin lifted one of his eyebrows at the sudden silence, turning to look at Chan in confusion. “The fact that you what?”

The blonde shook his head, quickly standing up and brushing his shirt off. “I-it’s nothing.”

“Wait,” Changbin reached out to grab Chan’s arm without thinking, loosely grasping at his thin wrist. “Chan, I know it’s been years, but you can tell me anything.”

“No,” Chan shook his head, refusing to look at Changbin. “I promise, it’s not that important right now.” Almost as if he could sense Changbin opening his mouth to protest, Chan spoke up again. “Look, eat the rest of your food and drink a lot of fluids. We can talk about this all later, I just,” Chan offered a quick smile over his shoulder before he tugged his wrist free of Changbin’s grasp and made his way towards the door, “I can’t talk about it right now. Sorry, man.”

Changbin cursed himself for drinking so much the night prior, his hangover preventing him from chasing after Chan. As much as he wanted to know what Chan was about to say, he figured he would just drop it for now, then press for more information later.

Chan’s ‘talk about all of this later’ turned into a lot longer than Changbin expected.

It should have been days, weeks at the most. However, the end of summer resigned itself to Seattle’s torrential autumn rains, the symphony’s first performance of the season came and went, they all worked through their planned Thanksgiving break to finish recording a score for a film with an unbelievably large budget. All of that came and went, and there was still no conversation broader than casual discussion between the two of them.

Every time they passed each other, Changbin’s eyes lingered on the blonde. What was Chan thinking? What was he going to say that caused the energy between them to shift so drastically?

There were polite conversations in passing between Chan and Changbin off and on. Occasionally, they would walk to the practice hall together, but it was by sheer accident, only because they had left their apartments at the same time. Every interaction between them seemed accidental, too pleasantly sterile for what had to have been harbouring beneath the surface.

Autumn bled into winter. Rain turned to sleet, which morphed into snow a few times during January and February. February blended into March. March blossomed into April. More performances, more anxiety, more productions, more nervousness, more expectations, more, more, more. More from the symphony, and less, less, less from Chan.

The sleepless nights brought on by extensive late-night practices were tolerable; tired mornings after these were easily remedied with a few cups of coffee. Conversely, the few times Changbin had gone to bed at a reasonable hour, he found himself tossing and turning, restlessly thinking about Chan, unable to sleep. His heart pounded with nervousness, Changbin swearing he could hear his heartbeat echoing against the beige drywall of his bedroom. He reached his fingertips up and brushed them against the wall behind him, where he assumed Chan was laying on the opposite side, peacefully slumbering away.

So close. So far away. Chan was always right there, but so far out of reach.

I couldn’t even come to terms with the fact that I—

What exactly was Chan going to say on that day? Months had passed, but Changbin could still hear every syllable that came from Chan’s lips, the way that his tongue punctuated each hard consonant with a staccato against his teeth, haunting his dreams. He could picture the moment that Chan’s expression changed, shifted from ease to uncertainty, how his eyelashes twitched when his eyes went wide with fear.

Late one sleepless April night, Changbin had found himself staring upwards yet again, lost in the grooves and valleys of stucco against his ceiling. His nervousness of the upcoming principal seat exam weighed him down, forcing him to sink further and further into his mattress, heavy with doubt. Earlier that day, Chan stepped back, saying he wasn’t interested in fighting for the position, which Changbin read as neither truth nor fiction.

“I just want you to have the best chance possible,” Chan had told him with a seemingly fake smile. “You’re so incredibly talented, Bin. You’ve got the leadership skills, and I support you all the way.”

No. Something about that wasn’t right.

Changbin frowned, knitting his eyebrows together as he bit down on his lips. He tried to recall exactly what the expression was on Chan’s face while he said those words with a layer of insincerity. The insincerity was juxtaposed with honesty and pain, so many conflicting and contrasting things said without words.

Then, it hit him.

You’re so incredibly talented. It sounded so familiar, the layered pain and genuine jealousy.

Never as good as you.

It had been months since Chan told him that, when they were sitting on the couch nursing their hangovers at the beginning of the season. Months had passed, but the words were suddenly so crisp and clear, as if Changbin was right in that moment again.

It wasn’t jealousy. No, it was never jealousy.

In a near panic, Changbin reached out for his phone on his nightstand, bringing it up to his face. The bright light burned his retinas, but it didn’t matter. He started scrolling through Chan’s social media page, down countless months and years, endless photos that started with him in various spots in Seattle, then to his graduation, followed by various frat gatherings and university happenings.

It was like Changbin was travelling backwards in time, seeing several familiar names and faces pop up, partially reliving the moments he had spent over the years angrily scrolling through his timeline on the nights he where Wooyoung was sleeping soundly next to him. Names that caused Changbin’s stomach to tense with varying degrees of jealousy started popping up with each season he travelled through.

Senior year: Son Chaeyoung, five months.

Junior year: Minatozaki Sana, seven months.

Sophomore year: Im Naeyon, three months. Hirai Momo, two months.

Freshman year: Park Jihyo, two months. Yoo Jeongyeon, two months.

Changbin recalled all of the people — all of them women — that Chan had dated, how none of them really seemed like they were serious relationships, that they were maybe friends with benefits at most. The photos Chan had taken with them were all stiff and felt rushed, like he was putting on a show that he was happy with them, when he clearly wasn’t genuinely happy.

It wasn’t jealousy. Of course it wasn’t jealousy.

Chan was hiding something, and Changbin’s heart sunk into his stomach as he found himself staring at the ceiling yet again. All he could find himself thinking about now was a single word ruminating, burning into his head.

Why?

Changbin made sure to leave well in advance prior to the start of the day. He didn’t want to risk running into Chan, not when the principal seat exam was today. He had spent too much time ruminating and worrying over Chan and the what-ifs the night prior, his lack of sleep apparent as his limbs ached with fatigue.

The walk to the practice hall was uneventful; drizzle had languidly fallen from the sky, embedding itself into Changbin’s jacket, temporarily turning the crimson fabric just a few shades darker. After several months, Changbin had gotten used to the nonstop Seattle rain, varying from drizzle to torrential downpours with occasional reprieves of sunshine peppered in throughout the year.

In a way, it was oddly calming. The rain kept people from lingering in the streets too long to chatter, but there was also a stubborn resiliency as people just accepted the downpours. Umbrellas and ponchos were only seen with tourists, people that seemed afraid that the slightest bit of drizzle would cause them to melt. There was an influx of tourists in March, when the cheap cruises up along the coast to Alaska started. With the influx of tourists, there were more and more performances that were crammed into Changbin’s schedule.

Honestly, the transition from March to April seemed so minute, like the drizzle turning to heavy droplets of rain, the rainstorm he constantly found himself in. It was a beautiful time of year, and Changbin hadn’t ever truly appreciated the fact that there were so many varying shades of grey along the spectrum of white to black.

The transition from August to April seemed to be so subtle, too. Within a few months, the barista at the cafe got better with his name, eventually able to speak it with confidence at about February. Changbin assumed she was flirting with him a few times when she passed his cup to him with various doodles and scribbles on them, but he shrugged it off.

Today’s cup holding his shot in the dark had a heart next nestled up to his name. Perhaps it would bring good luck for the principal seat exam.

Practice was uneventful, since the entire group was only together for the first half of the day. As the group disbanded into its respective sections for individualized practice, nerves bubbled up in Changbin’s veins as he steeled himself in preparation for the principal seat exam. Seungmin had wished him the most polite “good luck, man,” he could muster, even though they were both competing against each other.

Changbin had been in the middle of practicing his solo piece when a familiar voice pulled him from his concentration.

“Fantasia Cromatica?” The voice was layered with nervousness and anticipation.

The brunette sighed, trying to bite back his irritation at the loss of his focus. “Yeah,” he turned his head over his shoulder, eyeing the man that approached him. “Surprised you recognized it, Chan.”

Chan’s hand twitched as he lifted it for a brief second, like he was about to reach out to Changbin. “I’ve eyed that piece several times,” he brought his hand up to the back of his neck, awkwardly chuckling as he stood a respectable distance away from the brunette, “it’s intimidating, but it’s such a well-known viola solo. I guess I’m not surprised you picked something without accompaniment with how independent you are.”

It was supposed to be a compliment, but Chan’s words struck a sour chord within Changbin. The younger man shook his head once, eyeing the floor before he turned to look at the blonde. “I’m trying to practice,” his voice came off harsher than he had meant it to. Chan’s expression fell from nervously optimistic to slightly hurt, and Changbin rolled his eyes with a huff as he tried to pedal backwards. “Look,” he started, making awkward eye contact with Chan for a brief moment, “after I’m done with all of this, can we talk? I’ve got some stuff on my mind I wanna discuss with you.”

Chan looked excited for a moment as he nodded rapidly. “Sure,” he bit back a smile, “yeah, I’ll be here.”

“Thanks,” Changbin half-smiled as he turned back to his sheet music.

“Good luck, Changbin,” Chan brought his hand up to the brunette’s shoulder, offering a quick, warm squeeze that didn’t last nearly long enough. The slight touch caused Changbin’s breath to hitch in his throat, all of the air around him turning cool as Chan left.

Somehow, the younger man felt revitalized with the well wishes of his friend still lingering on his shoulder and dancing in his ears.

“So,” Minho greeted Changbin with a warm smile as the brunette entered the room. “You’ve decided to audition for the principal viola seat. After the initial chair placements, I didn’t think you would try, in all honesty.” The auburn-haired man smiled, tipping his wire-rimmed frames down his nose slightly, red pen in his hand.

Shit. Nerves lit up all over Changbin as he started to doubt himself, like he wasn’t supposed to be here.

“I’m glad you did.” Almost as if he could sense Changbin’s nervousness, Minho offered kind words in his usual soft, gentle voice. “Listen, I should be clear about something. I specifically sought out both you and Chan, as well as a few others, for this year’s contract placements. I don’t think you recognized me during the interview process, and I’m surprised you didn’t notice after the season started.”

“What?” The brunette cocked his head to the side, eyelids squinting upward in confusion.

Minho set the clipboard down on his desk, leaning forward as he rested his elbows on the table. He interlaced his fingers together and rested his chin on the backs of his hands. “I used to live on the east coast. I was in New Jersey for a while until I moved to Seattle a couple of years ago for this job. You and Chan performed Lament at the state competition in New York a few years ago. I believe you were both juniors back then, correct?”

Changbin’s throat went dry as he recognized Minho from so long ago, feeling somewhat dumb for not realizing it sooner. All those years ago, he was sitting in between two other judges, wearing the same wire-rimmed glasses as he wore today. “Y-yeah,” he stuttered. “That’s right.”

A smile crept up Minho’s face. “You both earned a perfect score, which was a rarity in and of itself, but what really captured me was how well both of you worked, the way you both blended together so naturally, beaming with raw, unadulterated talent. Such balance can’t be taught, only naturally weaved together by fate.”

Uneasiness came over Changbin in waves, like he was about to be judged far more critically than he anticipated.

“Anyway,” Minho brought his hands to his desk and sat back a bit. “The details of it all aren’t important. Just know that I’m happy that you’re both here. I’ll admit, however, that I was disappointed when Chan told me that he wasn’t interested in auditioning for the principal seat.”

A jolt surged up against the length of Changbin’s spine. “What?” He pressed, taken aback, unsure if what he just heard was accurate. “Chan told you he wasn’t interested?”

Minho nodded once. “He told me that, if given the opportunity, you deserved it more than he did, that he believed you were more talented and had the right leadership skills for the position.”

Changbin knitted his brows together. Nervousness had been replaced with a rush of anger. He initially found it odd that Chan wasn’t going to audition for the seat placement, sure, but the fact that he deliberately told Minho that Changbin was more talented and deserved it? That they didn’t even get to have a fair chance of competition between the two of them?

He felt strangely hurt, like Chan had somehow betrayed him. All for what, a seat placement? Something so trivial, after all these years?

His eyes looked down at his viola, eyeing that familiar chip one more time. The familiar word that echoed against Changbin’s head the night prior was so loud yet again.

Why?

Chan was pacing in the hallway when Changbin emerged from Minho’s office. “Hey!” He perked up with a smile on his face. “How’d it go, dude?”

Changbin shook his head, unable to look at Chan. A scowl curled up his lips as he bared his teeth, briskly walking to where his viola’s case rested. Practice was supposed to be for another hour, but he couldn’t bear another minute of being under the same roof as Chan, in the same claustrophobic space as him, not when he was seething with anger.

“Changbin?” Chan’s voice was closer, but quieter than before. “Was it that bad?”

The brunette’s fingers trembled as he shakily rested his viola in its case, eyeing the chip one last time before he slammed his case shut. He didn’t say anything as he made his way over to the instrument lockers, deciding to leave his viola in the practice hall overnight. Chan trailed behind him, his voice growing more and more concerned as Changbin paced away.

“Dude,” Chan pressed, reaching out to grab Changbin’s wrist as he slammed his locker door shut. “What the hell happened? Are you okay?”

“Why?” Changbin wanted to say so much more, but the single syllable was all he could muster.

Chan winced, shaking his head in confusion. “What are you talking—”

“Why didn’t you audition for the principal seat?” His voice was terse, yet was still draped in a layer of fragility. “No, why did you tell Minho you didn’t deserve it? We’re supposed to be rivals, right? Push each other and make ourselves better, like when we were kids. What the fuck happened?”

“Changbin,” the blonde’s composure dropped with his shoulders, a look of pity washing over his face. “I didn’t mean for it to be like that. I just… I didn’t want you to worry about it.”

“Tch, typical. You know, Chan,” the younger man scoffed, rolling his eyes before he stared down the blonde, “I don’t understand you. I’m not some fragile thing that needs to be protected, not by anyone, not by you. I deserved a fair shot at the principal seat placement, I deserved to compete against you, and you just insult me like I had no chance if you competed.”

Chan curled into himself slightly, hurt by Changbin’s words. “I didn’t realize—”

“Of course you didn’t.” Changbin shook his head and spun on his heel, padding off towards the exit in anger.

After a moment, Chan heard the downpour come through the door as Changbin ran off. He rushed to his locker, grabbing his jacket and his umbrella. “Changbin, wait!”

Seattle rain was never forgiving, especially during spring. The precipitation clattered against the ground at near-torrential speeds, the heavy noise only amplified as it reverberated against the concrete and the walls of nearby buildings.

“Changbin, please,” Chan shouted as the younger man stormed out of the practice hall and into the downpour that enveloped Capitol Hill in a dark haze. He took a few long strides as he chased after the seething brunette.

Changbin spun on his heel, shouting at the top of his lungs as he stared down Chan with wild eyes, his voice barely carrying along the heavy pattering of rain against concrete. “I don’t understand why you keep hiding, Chan! Why did you turn me down all those years ago?”

Chan shook his head, avoiding eye contact as he motioned for Changbin to come back. “Come here, Changbin, get under my umbrella before you get sick.”

“No!” Changbin shrieked in anger, tears streaming down his face as all of the emotions he had bottled up over the years suddenly erupted all at once. “Do you not understand how much I’ve loved you all these years? Ever since we were kids?”

“Bin, please, I—” The blonde’s shoulders sunk down as he recoiled into himself, eyes darting around as he was frozen in place.

“Everything! Everything I did was because of you, Chan!” The words burned as they came up from Changbin’s chest, the black lily of nervousness entangling its petals in between the empty spaces of his ribcage. “I put myself through hell to distract me from you, to get all of these thoughts out of my head, to stop fucking thinking about you for once!”

Chan was quiet, lips parted as he stared at Changbin in disbelief, tears unknowingly spilling from his eyelids.

The brunette refused to relent, shouting over the Seattle rain. “You were the only person that believed in me. You pushed us to do that duet, even though I thought it was stupid. You’re the reason we got the perfect score. You keep saying that I’m so much more talented than you, that you’d never be as good at me, but you’ve always been the one that’s naturally better at all of this.”

A beat passed between them before Changbin let out an anguished, angry shout. He was so tired of all of the pain and anguish he had felt over the years, and letting it all finally explode after so long, like a rubber band wound up too tightly, felt unnaturally liberating. Regardless of how Chan felt about Changbin after all of these years, he could finally let go of his agony, which was equal parts terrifying and relieving.

“Why? Why the fuck did you never apologize to your best friend, Chan? I have been in absolute fucking misery since you and I kissed so long ago and I don’t think you understand how much I wanted you to be there. How you kept creeping into my thoughts, even after all of these years, all I could think about was you.”

The blonde advanced, his face pulled into a downward scowl as his footsteps were heavy against the slick concrete. “It’s because I didn’t want to admit something,” Chan spoke in as low of a voice as he could while he pulled Changbin to his chest. “When you kissed me all those years ago, I was terrified about all of the what-ifs that started rushing around in my head. Like, what if I ruin my friendship? What if you’re not actually into me? What happens when I’m not good enough for you? What if I was actually straight and I was going to cause you nothing but pain after all this time?”

“Chan, stop.” Changbin shook his head, bringing his damp hands to Chan’s clammy face, rubbing away the tears that started spilled over, down his chilled cheeks. “You’re always good enough for me. You’re the only one that’s good enough for me; the only one I ever wanted.”

“What?”

“Listen,” the brunette sighed heavily, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved Wooyoung, but, the thing is…”

Chan watched the expressions on Changbin’s face cross a spectrum from confusion, to anguish, to regret.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, as horrible as it sounds. Sure, we were drunk when we had that one kiss, but it was the best kiss of my life. Hell,” he hiccuped, trying to swallow back tears, “I thought I lost my chance with you forever after high school. So, I settled. Wooyoung was the only other friend I had, and he was interested in me. I took a shot with him and, yeah, we were fine, but it wasn’t anything spectacular. I was ready to settle for a life of mediocrity until he decided he didn’t want to come to Seattle with me. I was finally free of both of you when I got here. I could leave you both behind.”

Changbin brought his forehead down to Chan’s wet shoulder, the fabric squishing against his skin as he rolled around and sighed. “It’s horrible,” he dropped his hands and clutched at the lapels of the blonde’s jacket, pulling himself closer into the older man’s embrace. “I was so glad to be free of both Wooyoung and the ghost of you. So, when I saw you that day at the cafe, it was like all hell had broken loose; everything came rushing back and I was overwhelmed by the weight of my past. I was forced to reconcile with the one person I hurt the most, the one who hurt me the most, and the one I never thought I would be able to forgive.”

A soft chuckle echoed around Chan’s chest as he rested his cheekbone against Changbin’s sopping wet brown hair. “We can’t escape each other.”

“I guess not,” Changbin quietly relented, releasing Chan’s jacket from his grasp, his arms languidly falling to his side in exhaustion. He was tired of being angry for so long, for harbouring such a deep-seated resentment against his best friend, for being mad at himself for never forgiving Chan after all this time over something so minor. So fucking tired. “I’m sorry, Chan. For all of this shit.”

The tapping of Seattle rain against Chan’s umbrella seemed so muted as the men stood up against each other, lost in their little bubble as the world disappeared around them. Nothing else mattered but being warmed by each other. Chan dropped his hand from Changbin’s back for a moment, then brought his fingers up to the underside of Changbin’s chin.

“Changbin,” his voice was timid as he tilted the younger man’s chin upward, both of them making awkward eye contact for a moment. A few drops of rain fell from Changbin’s hair, mingling against the tears that were rolling down his face, the droplets joining to become something greater, a small river down the valley of his cheek. “Even if you don’t forgive me after all this time, I forgive you. We were both idiots back then. What matters is that we’re here now. We can leave everything behind and move forward — together.”

“Together.” Changbin repeated, his voice cracking in between the syllables. He hated feeling so weak, but he couldn’t help it. All of the emotions from the past few years coming up, burning in his chest as the realization that what he yearned for all this time settled. After all this time, he was finally where he felt comfortable, secure, happy, with no strings attached.

Chan.

His arms were warm, a shelter to protect him from the weakness he was feeling. The happiness in his eyes and the bright smile on his face was Changbin’s sunshine during the overcast, dreary Seattle days.

Chan was home. His home.

The pattering of rain against Chan’s umbrella was suddenly so quiet, a rush of warmth blossomed up from Changbin’s cheeks to the tips of his ears. The black lily of anxiety that rested in between the spaces of his ribcage blossomed from black, to crimson, to a vibrant pink. All of his feelings for Chan became crystal clear, and he couldn’t hold them back any longer.

There was nothing left to lose.

“I love you. Still, after all of this time. I love you so much, Chan.” The words left his lips before he crashed them against Chan’s, much less awkwardly than their kiss so many years ago. His hands reached up to Chan’s blonde locks with a sudden renewed, yearning energy, grasping at the strands and tugging at them as if he would sink into the ground if he let go.

Rain came pouring down all around them as Chan dropped his umbrella, bringing one of his hands down to the small of Changbin’s back, the other hand softly cupping the younger man’s face. “I love you too, Changbin,” he whispered breathlessly as he pulled back for just a split second. Chan brought the brunette closer into his grasp, droplets of rain falling between them, rolling down their faces and in between their lips.

Like Connecticut, Changbin was vivacissimo, as wild as the hustle and bustle of the east coast. Like Seattle, Chan was andante, languid and calming.

Chan was his home, where Changbin belonged all along.

#bittersweet lullabies #skz fics #binchan #bang chan x seo changbin #seo changbin x bang chan #chan x changbin #changbin x chan #wherevermyway

[wherevermyway]

why can’t we drink forever? (1/2) // minsung // 18+

one: i will only complicate you series navigation: [desktop] [mobile]

⚠ POTENTIAL TW: READ WITH CAUTION! ⚠ pairing: lee minho x han jisung rating: explicit! 18+ warnings/tags: creator chose not to use archive warnings, explicit sexual content past character death, alcohol abuse/alcoholism, depression, edgy cynical depressed jisung, ambiguous/open ending. word count: 5,883 also on AO3

originally posted: 20 january 2021

After being arrested for driving under the influence, Jisung learns that money can buy his way out of jail time, but it can’t buy his way out of his feelings.

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.

“I don’t know how things got this way, Sungie, baby. I’m worried about you.”

A sarcastic huff leaves the lips of the young man seated in the passenger seat of a sleek, new all-white Audi. He kicks his feet up on the dash, earning a frown from the middle-aged woman driving the vehicle. The young blonde stares out the window as he fumbles around his hoodie pocket. Out comes a white pack of Marlboro Gold cigarettes and an engraved silver lighter.

“You and me both, ma,” he tuts as he pops a white cigarette up from the pack into his mouth, flicking the dial of his lighter as he takes in a deep breath. He jams a finger down on the window button, the crisp winter air blowing the grey cloud around, the acrid scent of burnt tobacco filling the car. “Guess if we knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be in the car now, huh?”

“Maybe you’d have gotten into a better university,” his mother sighs as she shakes her head.

A devious smirk curls up on the young man’s mouth as he brings the cigarette up to his lips again, taking a long drag. He knows better than to verbally respond with a cynical quip.

Maybe I’d be fuckin’ dead.

Alcoholics Anonymous sounded like a cult following: a twelve-step programme where all of its members had to follow a strict code, be mentored by a sponsor, and thank some bullshit deity to be given a new chance every day. “Every day is a new chance,” the cult leader would say at the beginning of every meeting. “May God grant us the serenity…”

“I’m Jisung, and the courts told me I’m an alcoholic, so I guess I’m an alcoholic,” the artificial blonde shrugged his shoulders, the ghost of burnt coffee still dancing on his tongue as he spoke.

The mindless cult drones spouted off a casual “hi, Jisung,” in monotonous, unenthusiastic unity as the young man sat down.

“How did you get here?” The meeting’s leader was relentless in prodding the young man. “You’re not obligated to tell us, of course,” which was a boldfaced lie, “but acknowledging your problems might help your recovery.”

Jisung brought the styrofoam cup full of lukewarm, acrid coffee to his lips and took a long sip. He winced at the taste and pursed his lips as he made eye contact with the leader. “I was abducted by aliens, man, now I’m here. Shit was crazy.”

The leader frowned, ready to interrupt Jisung.

“Nah,” the young man kicked his feet out from under the metal fold-up chair, flipping his hood over his head with his free hand. “I got drunk, went out to get more booze, then hit a tree on the way back and the cops pulled me over since my headlight was out. The internet wasn’t lying when they said all cops are fuckin’ bastards.” His quip earned a laugh from a few younger members, whereas several of the older people shook their heads in frustration.

“Please,” the leader sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “let’s refrain from political commentary. Thank you for your,” there’s a pause as the leader clears his throat, “for your candor, Jisung. Now that we’ve introduced all of our new attendees, why don’t we move along with the next step in the meeting?”

The meeting was pointless, all of the same shit that Jisung had read about in the fliers that were handed to him with his sentencing. He had to endure twelve months of this, but it wasn’t like he was doing much else with his life, anyways. Jisung poured the last of the disgusting coffee from the cardboard takeaway box into his cup, then tossed the box into the large rubbish bin at the end of the table. One last cup of free shitty coffee before he left; it would pair nicely with the cigarette he so desperately craved.

“Hey!” A bright voice came up behind him and Jisung rolled his eyes at the way optimism dripped from the trill. He slowly turned around, taking a sip of the cold coffee in his cup. A young man with neon pink hair, probably the same age as Jisung, smiled widely as he stuck his hand out. “I’m Felix, nice to see someone here that’s about my age.”

Jisung gingerly accepted the hand and shook it twice before quickly sticking his hand back into his pocket. “Charmed. How long are you stuck here for?”

“Oh!” Felix shook his head, smile still wide on his face as he pensively looked down to his shoes. “I’m not here for… well, I’m a psychology major.”

Of course he was.

Felix tucked his hands into his jacket pockets and tapped his foot twice as he continued to smile at Jisung. “I’m also new here and was hoping I could make friends.”

Jisung shook his head, reaching into his hoodie pocket for his pack of cigarettes and familiar silver lighter. “I’m not a good influence. Don’t think I’d make good friends with someone so… nice.” He meandered a white cigarette out of the packet with a single hand, then tucked it behind his ear, lighter still tucked into his palm. “No offence, dude.”

The smile finally fell from the pink-haired man, who quickly pulled his hands from his pockets, “wait, wait!”

Jisung cocked an eyebrow at the man, biting his tongue as he felt the clawing at the back of his head, his synapses screaming a plea for him to get a hit of more nicotine.

“I don’t wanna sound desperate,” Felix ran his bottom lip under his teeth as he looked around nervously, “I just really wanna talk with someone that’s so different than me. I’ll even buy you dinner or something from the diner down the street.”

As insulting as the words ‘so different than me’ came off to Jisung, desperation was a bad look for anyone. “You got a car?” Felix nodded twice, biting his lip as he stared at Jisung. “Lead the way, psycho student Felix.”

Felix’s eyes went wide and his bright smile came back, beaming brighter than before. “It’s psychology, not psycho.”

The blonde rolled his eyes as he plucked the cigarette from behind his ear and tucked it in between his teeth. “I know what I said.”

The food at the diner was mediocre at best: rubbery scrambled eggs and burgers made from frozen patties that were likely a concoction of rejected organ meat slurry and textured vegetable protein. It was cheap, but it was always good. Rich in comfort, lacking in quality: the antithesis to Jisung’s life.

Jisung hadn’t been here in two years, not since his friend turned on-again, off-again boyfriend Changbin left for university, halfway across the country. This was the place they’d come to at three in the morning after hitting up a house party, where they would drunkenly curl up with each other and swap kisses that tasted like stale beer and watery coffee.

This was the place where Changbin broke up with Jisung for the final time, Changbin citing that they wouldn’t be able to stay in contact much anymore. However, he hadn’t told Jisung that he was sleeping with someone that graduated a couple years prior and was conveniently attending the same university as him.

That night tasted like vodka and strawberry soda, the latter of which Jisung never let grace his tastebuds again.

The blonde scowled down at his orange juice, watching the ring light above their table shimmer and ripple in the liquid. He hadn’t heard from Changbin in two years, and he was as bitter about it as the black, burnt edges of the hashbrowns that stuck to his plate.

“You okay?” Felix poked his fries with a fork, bringing one to his lips as he scanned Jisung’s expression.

“Are any of us okay, psycho student?”

Felix furrowed his brows and set his fork down against his plate, chewing on the crinkled french fry a bit before he swallowed. He folded his hands together and rested his chin against the interlaced fingers. “No, like,” he shrugged, eyes shifting around a bit, “I mean it. You seem kinda distant.”

Jisung rolled his eyes up to meet Felix’s and he cocked his eyebrow. He was starting to regret tagging along with this kid he barely knew, feeling like this was less of a potential friendship and more like a therapy session. “You don’t know me, man.”

“No, but I know people.”

“You’re a sophomore psychology student, dude. You don’t know shit.”

The pink-haired man sighed, back thudding against the plasticky booth. “I guess you’re right about that. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to know, though.”

“Your funeral, then.” Jisung followed suit, leaning up against the booth with a bit more tact, swinging his arm around the wood frame. “I had my first sip of alcohol when I was thirteen. Got bored when my parents fucked off to Italy on some shitty trip without me.”

Felix tilted his head up like a dog, suddenly alive with renewed interest.

“They’re only parents in blood and title.” Jisung looked down at the table, scratching inanely at a chip in the pale green linoleum. “I was raised by nannies and tutors until I was fifteen. Most parents would probably panic when they leave the house, coming back to an empty liquor cabinet. My parents? Nah, they just restocked it and told me not to drink too much at once.”

“That’s,” Felix’s voice trailed off as he looked away, milling over the new information.

“It’s fucked,” Jisung finished the sentence, then brought the plastic cup of orange juice to his mouth and took a long sip. He set the cup back down and pulled up the sleeve covering his left arm, presenting the flesh over the table. Felix visibly recoiled as he eyed dozens of scarred lines littered across the skin, some marks still relatively fresh. “Their response to this? ‘We’ll get you into therapy and you won’t do this again.’ It was always the best money could buy, but their money didn’t do shit to my brain.” He shuffled the cloth over his arm again, ignoring the look of pity Felix offered him.

“If money could buy them a better son, they would’ve traded me out, like upgrading a car on a lease.”

Felix stumbled over his words a bit as Jisung rifled through his pockets, pulling out his phone and his wallet. “You still wanna make friends with someone like me?”

It took a moment, but Felix tentatively nodded his head. “Doesn’t sound like you have many friends to begin with,” he nervously sputtered out.

Jisung cocked his head to the side and licked his teeth as he smiled. “I don’t do friends. But life’s full of surprises. Anyway, gimme your phone so we can swap contact info.”

They exchanged phone numbers and Jisung dropped a couple of bills on the table. “Don’t worry about it,” he said as soon as Felix opened his mouth to protest, “you’re a university student and I’ve got my shitty parents’ cash to burn.”

“I’ll see you next week?” Felix questioned as Jisung stepped out of his shoddy 2003 Toyota Camry.

Jisung nodded once, tipping his index and middle fingers off of his forehead. “You got it. Thanks for the ride, mate.” He slammed the door with a fake smile that faded as soon as he turned around. Sure, Felix was the antithesis of everything Jisung was, but he could prove to be a source of entertainment over the next year.

Despite being cynical and vehemently anti-religion, Jisung always said a quiet prayer to himself as he opened the door, hoping his parents weren’t home when he arrived. Today, it seemed like luck was on his side: his mother’s keys weren’t on the key rack, and his father had yet to return from some bullshit ‘business trip’ off in China. Perhaps it was Morocco or Norway; they all blurred together in a haze of indifference. All Jisung was sure of was the fact that his father had probably taken one of his mistresses away to some foreign country he was pretending to secure a business deal in.

“Everyone’s favourite fuck-up is home!” Jisung shouted in the empty vestibule, his voice echoing against the cold walls. He didn’t expect a response, so when he was greeted with a comfortable silence, he smiled to himself. He kicked his shoes off and unceremoniously tossed them into the corner by the key rack.

His heavy, heel-first footsteps echoed as he made his way towards the kitchen, pulling a bottle of wine out of a glass display cooler as he padded towards the main refrigerator. He pulled out a box of takeaway Indian curry from the night prior, setting both the box and the bottle on the marble kitchen island, shuffling his feet towards a drawer. He retrieved a fork and a wine key, tossing them onto the countertop as he pulled out his phone, pack of cigarettes, and his lighter.

Jisung opened the bottle of wine as he sat down on a stool next to the counter, tossing the cork towards the rubbish bin, shrugging as he missed. That was a problem for later, and he didn’t feel like dealing with it now. Completely ignoring the takeaway carton, Jisung grabbed the wine bottle, then took a long guzzle directly from it. He winced a bit as the flavour of fermented floral grapes perfumed his mouth with a sharp, sickly rotten scent. The bottle clattered loudly against the marble, the echoing reminding Jisung of just how alone he was in such a large house.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, bringing his phone up in front of his face, scrolling through one of his playlists until he found the right song. With a few taps, some Drake came through the kitchen speakers. Jisung turned up the volume to near max, his head subconsciously moving to the beat of “In My Feelings”. He took a cigarette from the pack on the table and lit it, the tip turning from paper and plant to a red, ashy ember as he inhaled.

Was he allowed to smoke in the house? Of course not.

Did Jisung give a shit? Absolutely not.

A text message popped up as Jisung aimlessly scrolled through his various notifications. He opened it, barely scanning through the entire message from his mother until his eyes stopped on a blue phone number. His eyes narrowed, poring over the entire message. “A coworker of mine offered to be a sponsor for you: Lee Minho. He’s a few years older than you, but he’s nice. Here’s his number, please reach out to him.”

Jisung sarcastically scoffed, locking his phone as he placed it back on the countertop, swapping it for the bottle of wine. He took a drag off of his cigarette, then took another long swig from the bottle. “We admit we’re powerless to alcohol,” he mutters the first step under his breath as he slams the bottle down on the counter.

“Maybe I don’t fucking care.”

Jisung woke up on the couch to the sound of heels clacking against the hardwood floor just before eight in the morning, his fingers jostling an empty bottle of scotch on the floor as he brought his hands to his face.

“Get cleaned up, please.” His mother’s voice was accompanied by bright spotlights suddenly shining directly on his face. “I’ve invited Minho over to meet with you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.” Jisung’s voice was low and gravelly, groaning as he sat upright. The world spun, his body carried by the false inertia his mind had created.

His mother trotted off to the kitchen, shouting over her shoulder. “I know you didn’t. I did it because I care about you, Sungie.”

The blonde rubbed his clammy hands against his face again, attempting to wipe the sleepiness from his eyes. He grabbed his phone off of the floor, then wobbled his way upright, the living room spinning around him in a familiar sense of uneasiness.

“You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself,” he muttered under his breath.

Somehow, Jisung managed to make his way upstairs to his room, stripping an article of clothing off with each lazy step from his bedroom door towards his personal washroom. By the time he got to the glass enclosure of the shower, he was totally stripped bare. Jisung distantly stared at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, a gaunt and ashy doppelganger staring back at him with a pained, empty look on his face.

Instead of stepping into the shower, Jisung approached the mirror, subconsciously bringing his hands to touch his flushed face. His cheekbones were more prominent now than they were earlier in the year, dark circles painted in broad strokes under his eyes. His gaze trailed down the scars he had inflicted on his arms and on his thighs, reminders of the failed attempts to take his own life that he was now forced to carry with him, wearing each line and mark as a badge of shame.

A warm tear rolled down his face as it contorted into an expression of terror and hurt, before he took his fist and crashed it into the mirror in front of him, a spiderweb of the impact left behind in the cracked glass as he pulled his bloodied knuckles away. Some glass shattered to the floor, some still wedged in the gaps between his fingers, and Jisung stared at the crack that split his reflection into several fragments.

How he was still alive was beyond him.

“Mrs. Han, please,” a lilted, unfamiliar laugh travelled up the staircase as Jisung slowly made his way down towards the first floor. He squinted at the noise that caused his head to throb, realizing that someone unknown speaking to his mother, likely the Minho she had mentioned earlier. With each step he took towards the drawing room, the voice got louder, each staccatoed laugh more pronounced.

“Jisung, come sit,” his mother said, replacing the genuine smile on her face with a fake, ‘Vaseline-on-the-teeth’ smile. She motioned towards the empty space on the couch, opposite from the young brunette that turned around.

Jisung met his eyes and it suddenly felt like his surroundings cracked and shattered around him, like the mirror upstairs. Rich brown eyes glistened behind the black and gold browline glasses that rested against the bridge of his nose. Rose-tinted lips curled upwards in a shy smile, revealing large, rabbit-like front teeth that rested softly against his bottom lip.

“Hi,” the stranger said with a gentle wave, “I’m Minho. Resident biochemist at the pharmaceutical company your mother works for.”

As Jisung made his way over to the open spot on the couch, he squinted, refusing to break eye contact with the strange invader. It felt like he was a wild animal on display, about to be poked and prodded by zookeeper staff or by scientists in some sort of underground, off-the-books laboratory. It would fit, after all, since the man was some sort of scientist.

“I’ll let you be,” Jisung’s mother says, rising to her feet. “Maybe you should tell Minho about your little misstep last night, hmm?”

Jisung rolled his tongue over his bottom lip and shook his head sarcastically. “Go enjoy your overfilled glass of wine at nine-fucking-thirty, ma. I’ll be here spilling my guts to a stranger that gives more of a shit about me than you.” Minho winced and his expression fell from cheerful to shocked.

The men stared at each other, Jisung’s gaze layered with arrogance, and Minho’s heavy with awkward discomfort. “So,” the younger man kicked his feet up onto the coffee table, pulling a pack of cigarettes and his trusted lighter from his sweatshirt pocket, hoping to wrap up the conversation as soon as possible. “I know you work with my mother, you’re an alcoholic, and your name’s Minho.” As quickly as Jisung could take in a breath, the cigarette between his teeth was lit, and he was glaring at the intruder through the grey haze that came between them. Their eyes met again, Jisung growing more and more wary by the second. “Why should I pick you as my sponsor, when I feel like you’re just gonna snitch to my mother?”

Minho’s jaw looked like it was clenched too tight, his bottom eyelids squinted upwards as he studied the younger man in front of him. They watched each other, eyeing each micromovement the other’s face made. About halfway through Jisung’s cigarette, Minho finally broke the uncomfortable eye contact, and took a deep breath. “I’m not asking for you to trust me, or to spill your life story,” he shifted, sitting upright, “but for you to see me as a mentor when things get hard and you want to dampen your feelings with alcohol. I’ve been there, Jisung.”

Indignation washed over the younger man’s face, quickly replaced by a familiar wave of arrogance. Jisung shook his head, ashing his cigarette directly onto the floor. “Doubt it,” he tutted, licking his teeth as he nodded his head, staring at the ring on Minho’s finger. He smirked to himself, then turned his head away and up towards the ceiling. “Looks like you’ve got someone that loves you. I don’t know what that feels like; never have, never will.”

The elder chewed on his bottom lip, clenching his fist as his eyes subconsciously scanned the ring on his finger. “Had.”

“What?” Jisung turned his head back towards Minho with a look of disgust on his face, ashes falling from his cigarette.

The brunette sighed, leaning further into the couch, nervously running his thumb over his balled up fingers. “He’s the reason I turned to drinking, to fill the void he left in my heart when he died.”

Shit.

For the first time in ages, Jisung felt a slight pang of regret twinge in his abdomen.

Minho swallowed hard, almost as if he were holding back his emotions. “We were married for five years, together since high school. You’d think I would’ve known the signs, but Chan was so good at hiding things, hiding his pain from everyone.”

The ember in Jisung’s cigarette died out as he found himself enraptured in Minho’s story.

Chan was Minho’s high school sweetheart. They started dating their sophomore year of high school, both attended the same university, and they got married when they were twenty. To Minho, Chan was everything. They supported each other, making the other man stronger and gave them a reason to go on.

Minho had no idea that Chan was severely depressed, holding his true feelings to his heart. Not long after Minho’s twenty-fifth birthday, Chan disappeared, only leaving a journal behind. It had started off with an apology, that if Minho found his journal, that it was too late to save him and that Chan had simply given up. On nearly every page, Chan reiterated that it wasn’t Minho’s fault, that Chan was just too far gone beyond repair, that Minho had given him a new lease on life, but it wasn’t enough.

Exactly three weeks after Chan had gone missing, police were on the doorstep of their shared home.

“Dental records,” Minho whispered, his eyes distant and glazed over as he lost himself in the memory. “That’s how they knew it was Chan. I don’t remember much after that, but I thought that I could find the answer to why Chan took his own life at the bottom of a bottle.”

Jisung’s grip on the arm of the couch was so tight, his knuckles had turned white and they were starting to ache.

“Several bottles,” Minho continued, “several bottles and several near-death experiences waking up in the hospital later, and I still hadn’t figured out the answer. I figured that maybe I’d see him again if I drank enough. Now,” he folded his arms, tucking his chin into his chest, “I’ve accepted that I’ll never know the answer to that question, that I need to live on for him. If there’s an afterlife, maybe I’ll get to ask him myself. Until then, though,” Minho rolled his teary eyes up to meet Jisung’s uncomfortable gaze, “I just want to atone for not doing enough before. I want to help others that are hurting, you know?”

They continued to stare at each other for what felt like hours, until Jisung finally shook his head. His voice cracked as he tried to speak. “Sorry,” his apology was shockingly sincere, “I guess I spoke before I thought.”

Minho awkwardly smirked, dismissively waving his hand in between them. “Don’t worry about it. I just wanted you to know that I’ve been at rock bottom and that there’s a way up and out, as long as you’re willing to put in the effort.”

Maybe Jisung was willing to give Minho a try.

At first, Jisung agreed to meet with Minho once a week after the mandatory AA meeting he attended. It took seven visits spanning seven weeks before Jisung eventually opened up about the neglect he faced from both of his parents, the emptiness he felt from being raised by nannies, feeling like money was more important than his own life.

Ten weeks in, they started hanging out on the weekends. Their relationship shifted from mentorship to friendship, and it was somewhat a relief that Jisung finally had someone he could trust enough to call his friend.

Week fourteen was when things started to shift further. Jisung hadn’t consumed alcohol in eight weeks, and things were clearing up, slowly but surely. He had been meeting with Felix more and more, too — maybe they weren’t quite friends yet, but Jisung was at least trying.

Things were looking up for the first time in Jisung’s life.

At week sixteen, Jisung stayed over at Minho’s apartment, convincing him that he needed to watch Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood. The blonde had vehemently pressed that it was, quite possibly, one of the best series of all time, animated or otherwise. After some gentle pressure, Minho finally caved, and they sat on his couch, diving into the show and into some mediocre takeaways.

They had gotten through the first three episodes and Minho finally relented that, yes, it was a good show and that, yes, Jisung was right.

“I knew you’d like it, dude,” Jisung snickered, playfully poking at Minho’s chest. The corner of his lips tugged upward into a crooked smile, and he wore Minho’s seal of approval as some sort of badge of honour.

The brunette turned away, softly smiling into his shoulder as a rush of crimson started to tint his face. “You’ve got me trying all sorts of new things, Ji,” Minho rubbed the back of his neck for a moment before he flashed his teeth at the younger man. “So much for me being the mentor here, huh?”

Jisung sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth at the nickname, trying to ignore the warmth blossoming up his face. He tried to stumble out some sort of response, but he caught himself getting lost in the way that the overhead lights shimmered in Minho’s eyes, highlighting the soft amber and warm bursts of hazelnut that erupted around his pupils. His expression started to falter, and he felt a familiar rush of excitement bloom in his chest, causing his nerves to come to life all around his body.

He remembered that this was how it felt right before he shared his first drunken kiss with Changbin, but something about this felt different. Perhaps it was the fact that Jisung was completely sober, but he desperately wanted Minho to kiss him, to want him back. However, Jisung wasn’t sure if it would have been a good idea, pondering over if Minho was really ready to start a new relationship, especially with someone he was supposed to be mentoring.

“Something on your mind?” Minho’s voice was soft as it gently guided Jisung back to the moment. “You’re kinda spacing out on me.”

“No, no,” Jisung stumbled around the words he wasn’t sure he could say, suddenly distracted by the television in the background. “I guess I was just thinking about the show.”

Minho’s head tilted to the side, concurrently lifting his brow in confusion. “You guess?”

Jisung waved his hand in between them and readjusted his posture so he was further away from Minho. “Yeah, I mean, I’ve seen it so many times, but it’s one of those shows that you watch and you see something new each time and—”

Warm fingers were suddenly on the side of Jisung’s face, pulling him back into Minho’s space. “You’re a terrible liar.” The voice was soft, yet assertive; low, but so loud. Jisung’s eyes went wide as Minho’s apartment blurred around him, his vision suddenly taken over by the sight of the brunette’s face right up next to his. In front of him.

Before Jisung could process what was happening, he was subconsciously pressing his lips into Minho’s, trying to remember exactly how kissing worked. It was years since the last time he had any practice, but it all came back to him as Minho helped guide Jisung’s face with his hands.

Minho’s tongue was soft, warm, and damp as it gently pressed up against Jisung’s lips, wordlessly pleading for entrance. Without letting his mind mill over the fine details and concerns he possibly had, Jisung parted his lips. Timidly, he rolled his tongue around Minho’s, his hands quivering as his fingers scrambled for purchase in Minho’s hair.

Unlike anyone Jisung had kissed before, this felt right, even if there were some uncomfortable grinding of teeth and awkward nose bumping. Within a reasonable amount of time, they slowly became experts at training the way the other wanted to be kissed. As if Minho could read Jisung’s mind, he would interrupt his soft kisses with gentle nips and grazes at Jisung’s bottom lip.

“Please,” Jisung’s voice cracked as Minho pulled his teeth down his bottom lip, “my neck, I…”

Minho swiftly moved his lips from Jisung’s, peppering tiny pecks against his jawline to his ear, stopping to take the blonde’s earlobe into his mouth with his tongue, grazing the tender flesh between his teeth. Jisung’s back involuntarily arched as the grooves of Minho’s teeth pulled at his sensitive skin, the sensation causing his nerves to come to life with an electrical jolt from head to toe.

The brunette chuckled, his warm breath brushing up against the tiny hairs on Jisung’s ear. He said nothing, simply moving down to press a few soft kisses to the skin just below the younger man’s earlobe. Minho’s lips were soft, gentle, only to be quickly replaced by a sudden, harsh bite into the tender flesh.

A yelp, accompanied by uncontrollable twitching, came from Jisung, who was simultaneously melting into Minho, but also pulling away. The elder’s fingers dug into the blonde’s waist, keeping him in the same position, not allowing him to escape. Jisung’s yelp had faded into a whimper, which evolved into a moan as Minho sucked the flesh between his teeth, quickly repeating the process several times in various spots along Jisung’s neck.

The moans were increasing in volume and breathiness, Jisung subconsciously, frantically rutting his pelvis into the couch. Minho must have caught on to this, letting go of Jisung’s waist to ease him down onto the couch. He pressed his lips to Jisung’s again, dancing his fingertips down to the waistband of the younger man, who was completely blissed out.

“Can I help you with this?” Minho’s voice was somehow both soft yet assertive as his palm pressed against Jisung's clothed erection.

Words eluded Jisung, verbal language suddenly turning into complex algebraic equations that didn’t translate from his head to his tongue. Instead, he groaned in affirmation as he hopelessly rolled his hips upward, finding himself pitiful that he was so desperately craving for Minho to just keep fucking touching him.

Things started to blur in a haze of wanton desire. Minho’s hand gently stroked Jisung’s cock, paying special attention to the way that his fingers and palm brushed against the head. Involuntary twitches took over Jisung as he whimpered and mewled, his shoulder blades grinding into the couch. Minho continued to nibble and bite at Jisung’s neck, occasionally whispering words of assurance and praise into his ear.

“You’re doing so well,” as he slowly dragged his hand from the base of Jisung’s cock up to his head.

“I can’t imagine how incredible you would feel around me,” as he gently thumbed the slit, rubbing precum around the sensitive head and causing Jisung to bite the back of his hand as he failed to stifle a cracked moan.

Jisung’s breaths turned erratic and he was nearly convulsing as his body started to twitch. Minho shifted his weight to his knees, slowing his strokes just enough so that he could awkwardly shift one leg off of the couch to position his head in a way he could take Jisung into his mouth.

“What are you—” Jisung started to question, until he found himself losing control of his body as Minho rolled his tongue around his cock. “Fuck, Minho!” He clamped his eyes shut, arching his back upward, hitting the back of Minho’s throat as he convulsed, his orgasm suddenly completely taking over him. “Minho,” he whined and unclenched his fists; “Minho,” he panted and opened his eyes; “Minho.” With one last breath, he was back to reality.

This had to have been the closest thing to heaven that Jisung thought he would ever experience.

Jisung had stayed over at Minho’s that night, too tired to function like a normal human. They slept on the couch together, necks crooned in uncomfortable positions all night long, bodies stiff from the unnatural firmness that Minho’s couch held. The next morning, they chose not to discuss the night prior, but they did exchange some soft kisses, until Jisung protested, mentioning that their morning breath was distracting him from actually enjoying the kiss.

Their weekends continued on like this: spending time watching a couple of episodes of their chosen programme until they got distracted and lost within each other. Nothing progressed further than handjobs, the occasional blowjob, and the one time that they rolled around naked, making out for so long and so intensely that the way they pressed their bodies together caused Jisung to come without any additional stimulation — and, hey, they liked it.

The budding relationship between them was confusing. During the week, Minho acted like the appropriate, wise mentor, with Jisung as his eager pupil. When the weekend came around, however, all bets were off. In everything but title, they were boyfriends for all intents and purposes. Every time Jisung tried to bring it up, Minho would shut down, saying that he wasn’t ready to really think seriously about it yet.

So, Jisung didn’t press. He was sure that their intimate interactions were causing conflicting emotions to arise within Minho, emotions he probably had been ignoring since Chan’s death, trying to shove them down as time went on. Even though he wanted to navigate the full spectrum of sexual experiences with Minho, Jisung remained silent until Minho was ready.

#why can't we drink forever? #skz fics #skz smut #minsung #lee minho x han jisung #han jisung x lee minho #minho x jisung #jisung x minho #wherevermyway