Chapter Text
Music plays loud enough that Kibum can hardly hear himself think, and the room sways but it’s comfortable enough in here, at this party, with these people, that he doesn’t mind.
It’s fine, just fine. It always is.
He can see Minho on the other end of the room, and Jonghyun’s left hours ago, so it feels like it’s just the two of them in this full apartment.
He spends most of the night ignoring him to the best of his ability, flirting and drinking and relaxing. One week of promotions in and several more to go. A long awaited comeback, and he’s blowing off steam.
His friends are here and he loves them dearly, and guys he’s known forever or just met tonight rake their eyes over him like they’re hungry and instead Kibum stalks over to the kitchen and doesn’t let himself think about it.
If he let himself think about it, there would be a lot of regret and a lot of confusion and a lot of convincing himself that there are a million reasons this is a bad idea. Starting and ending with the fact that this walk will lead him some place he can’t turn back from. Hauntingly, he knows that he’s reckless with his body and his mind and his sore little heart.
It happens like a wave, a haze, and he wants to yell, wants to ignite something. Every step is sobering and frustrating and his fingertips prickle. And he grabs onto Minho’s forearm and takes him off balance and he nearly falls over but his protests are half-hearted. Minho laughs like he’s playing the act they put on for the others, but otherwise seems too confused to ask Kibum what the hell he thinks he’s doing.
They’re entirely away from the party and into someone’s bedroom, clashing teeth and rough fabric, stumbling clumsily past the door frame. Minho tastes like some liquor deep and dark that hits the back of Kibum’s throat, and he’s afraid he’ll never get enough, and he’s clutching Minho’s stupid collared shirt, wants to rip the buttons off.
He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it. Watching Minho smile and laugh with people who can actually make him smile and laugh set something off in his brain and now they’re here and he knows he should feel disgusted with himself for wanting this so bad, but he can’t bring himself to stop.
The worst part, by far, is that Minho is kissing him back. It’s bitter on his tongue and Minho’s fingertips on his waist burn like he’s poison. And he’s aware there’s a piece of him that might have genuinely wanted this a lifetime ago, and another part, run by alcohol and comeback high and condensed pure rage that wants to touch the fire only once to snuff it out.
They’re quiet, but they never speak much, haven’t in a long time more than they strictly needed to. Minho opens his mouth to drag his teeth across Kibum’s tongue, and that’s enough conversation for either of them.
Kibum thinks distantly that this is a mistake, that he shouldn’t have done this. But his mind is almost entirely empty except for basking in the feeling of Minho’s hips against his, the chanting of more more more that he worries might actually come out of his mouth, pathetic and desperate.
Kibum’s hand finds its way to Minho’s hair and swallows up the low groan that follows. The glint in Minho’s eye right before he breaks contact is fiery and red and he feels the flames licking him up and this is what he wanted.
And then it’s Minho’s tongue, hot and rough on his throat, right at his pulse point, and it takes Minho pulling back to look at him to realize how much noise he was making, but he’s too far gone to shut up.
The bass from the party is too loud for anyone but Minho to hear it. He hopes it’s too loud, even for Minho, to hear his heart thumping off-beat in his chest.
There’s a moment where they’re not kissing anymore and they’re just heavy breathing, faces close, looking down at each other like they’re not sure they’re allowed to cross this line.
Minho breathes “can I,” and Kibum surges forward to kiss him quiet. He can’t let anything take him out of this haze.
And maybe it’s the alcohol or the party or the room neither of them recognize, but for the first time in his life he feels like it’s pure instinct driving him, widening his stance for Minho to fit in between and undo the button of his tight pants, wraps his broad hand firm around him and sends a shiver up his spine.
It takes a moment for his head to clear to reciprocate, pulling Minho out of his pants, hard and warm and even though they’re both here doing this, he’s almost embarrassed at how much he wants him.
Minho touches Kibum like he knows just how, like they’ve done this before, like Minho’s done this before. His palm is rough and dry so he pulls away just to lick a broad stripe up the center. And he’s electric and harsh and that’s just the way Kibum likes it, which makes his stomach stir in anger, because Minho shouldn’t be allowed to know him like this.
The room is humid and hot and closes in on them, and the only breathable air comes from each other’s mouths, wet and open and hardly kissing, just passing oxygen back and forth.
He could drown in it.
And it’s good it’s so good. So good it’s embarrassing and humiliating and the shame settles in his belly like a stone, and it’s with a crack in his voice and a swipe of Minho’s rough thumb over his head that sets him off far quicker than he’d honestly been expecting.
He hits his head on the back of the door when he comes, Minho’s hand covering his mouth to keep him from being too loud, one finger landing on his tongue. And even after, he’s still letting Minho thrust into his hand, breath heavy against his neck, shudder and groan against him, teeth dragging against his skin.
Kibum has half a mind to keep going after this, test his own limits, see what happens.
Minho pulls away, lips sticking to Kibum’s neck, and he feels dazed watching Minho search his face. Kibum’s focused on the bobbing of his throat, the way there’s almost a pull to suck a hickey there in retaliation. He’d feel shame if that hadn’t all gone out the window. If that hadn’t turned him on in the first place.
“Thanks,” is all Minho says, wiping at his mouth with a grin and pulling at the doorknob behind Kibum’s hip.
And then Kibum’s alone in the dimly lit room, sticky, satisfied, sober, and a little disgusted with himself. “Bastard.”
--
If Minho had his way, he would have stayed inside his apartment until the hickeys on his neck faded to green and he could blink without seeing Kibum’s flushed and blissed out face behind his eyelids. He doesn’t want to see anyone, really, not anyone who was at the party and saw them disappear into a room for less than ten minutes, not anyone else in the group, and certainly not Kibum.
It’s late afternoon and he’s eating leftover rice when Jinki lets himself in like he still lives there, sitting down at Minho’s kitchen table and very clearly trying not to gawk at the littering of hickeys he can’t manage to cover up.
“You have a good night?” Jinki asks, gently. His voice is soft and he eyes Minho’s food like he’s concerned, and Minho flicks his tongue out to catch a piece of rice on his lips and pretends he still doesn’t taste Kibum.
“It was great,” Minho starts, and then lies. “Like any of the other parties.”
“Hungover?”
Minho’s face crinkles. “More than I have been in my life, I’m pretty sure.”
Jinki laughs, bold and bright. “Serves you right. I’ve never seen you hungover before.”
“Well,” Minho takes a deep breath, “if it’s like this, I’m not sure I’m going to let it happen again.”
And he knows, he knows it isn’t the alcohol fucking him up. His head pounds, but it’s definitely just the wrestling going on in his brain, trying hard to figure out how he should feel. The fact that he stayed up late refreshing Kibum’s instagram.
Jinki sees through it. He always does. “Kibum was there too, right?”
“Yeah, I think I saw him around. Don’t know when he left but I was gone around midnight. Jonghyun was there too but I’m pretty sure he left early.”
It’s silent for a moment and Jinki has his lips pursed and Minho just wants to put him out of his misery.
“You can ask,” he sighs.
“It’s just that I’d congratulate you on whatever happened if it didn’t look like it was done maliciously.”
Minho presses his lips together in a hard line, feels the ghost of Kibum’s rough against them, feels it shock across the bruises scattered across his collarbone, sends a shiver down his spine. It’s with a little humor that he figures it was in fact done maliciously. Like Kibum was taking something out on him.
He wonders if Kibum looks the same.
He rubs his hand across his face, flustered and suddenly exhausted.
“I’m just glad we have a few days off. I don’t want to have to leave my apartment and have anyone see me like this.”
Jinki purses his lips. “I take it you forgot Kibum’s making us dinner tonight, then.”
Minho opens and closes his mouth a couple of times.
He considers not even showing up. He would, except for the fact that Kibum’s been inviting everyone to his place for a celebratory comeback home cooked dinner since he was the first one to move out years ago. It’s something like a family tradition.
And Jinki looks at him with big round eyes and he figures it won’t be that horrible if he can manage to make himself look presentable.
So he drives to Kibum’s apartment with Jinki in the passenger seat after applying more coverup than he ever has in his life. He has his shirt buttoned to the top and he hopes no one points it out and he tries not to wonder what Kibum’s wearing. And he talks Jinki’s ear off about the drama he finished recording and how Jinki felt about their first week of comeback promotions, because if there’s a moment of silence there are going to be more questions, and Minho doesn’t know that he can answer them.
Jinki knocks on Kibum’s door while Minho stands behind and puts on his part of the act.
Minho does his job and Kibum does his right back. He reaches for Jinki’s hand to drag him inside where Jonghyun and Taemin are already gathered in his cozy living room, assuming Minho’s going to follow.
He even looks back, and his expression is unreadable. It casts over his face and his clothes and his hair like he’s being surveyed, like Kibum’s taking data in.
It’s a game, more or less. A game only the two of them are in on. The others can’t know there’s anything wrong because they can’t know why. And because they’d become friends so long ago, left their past behind them. And if this is how it has to be to keep the peace, they’ll do it.
Every time in front of the others it goes like this:
Kibum asks Minho about some soccer game and Minho asks Kibum about whatever Italian recipe he cooks up, and the others fill in the gaps and it’s been like this for almost two years. They’ve become experts.
Their feud pre-debut was just practice. Child’s play.
This time is different, though. This dinner is different.
Minho thinks it might be a sick joke, because while his shirt is done up to the highest button at the base of his neck, Kibum’s is open almost down to his sternum. None of the hickeys are visible, and Minho wonders if it’s because he didn’t leave any or if Kibum’s just more skilled at hiding them than him. It lights a small fire in the pit of Minho’s stomach.
He pointedly doesn’t think about leaving marks on purpose.
Kibum laughs like he always has, with his entire body, leaning forward or off to the side like he’s showing off. He probably is.
Minho spends the entire night feeling like he’s trying to swallow cotton.
What’s worse is that he knows Kibum is completely aware of what he’s doing to him. Just the thought of Kibum knowing how to rile him up is so humiliating that it makes him feel sick.
Kibum rests his chopsticks on his lips in between bites and runs his thumb gracefully across the neck of the wine bottle before offering it around the table. His socks rub against Minho’s feet and he only ever makes bright and blinding eye contact, impossible to read.
And it feels like hours and hours that they’re there, dancing and acting and Minho realizes, distantly, that he’s angry.
Kibum is smug and he’s taunting him and by the end of the night Minho’s act has faded and his jaw is set and he doesn't know how he feels, other than frustrated at Kibum and even more disgusted with himself.
“I think we should probably head out,” Jinki says, after a hearty laugh. “It’s getting pretty late.”
Taemin stands from the table and stretches and Minho watches Kibum smile softly at him. His stomach sinks lower.
Kibum doesn’t smile like that at him. Hasn’t in years.
Jonghyun continues to chat with Jinki as they get their things gathered from Kibum’s pristine little living room and Taemin listens in fondly, and more than anything Minho’s just relieved to go home to his empty apartment and sleep off the tension that’s been building in his gut.
And Kibum goes around to hug them all when they pull their shoes on by the doorway. He has a way of making them all feel special.
He lands on Minho, a hand on his shoulder, and ever the actor, says “oh, you know what? I completely forgot. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Did you,” Minho says, monotone, desperate to leave.
“No, really. I did want to talk to you about something,” and Kibum sounds genuine, which makes his blood pressure spike up. “If you could stay for a bit.”
Minho looks back at Jinki, thrusts a thumb towards him. “I’m his ride home, actually.”
“I can drive Jinki home.” Jonghyun offers, smile high in his voice, like he was waiting for the opportunity.
Jinki grins back, “I’m fine with that.”
And something stirs ugly and thick in his gut because he and Kibum have been alone in a room together only a handful of times in the past few years, and the last time. Well.
Something underneath all that, like a taunt, is a flame of arousal. Clear and recognizable and sickening in the way it was last night, but with no alcohol clouding his judgement.
He wonders if he’s going to have to live like this. Constantly a little turned on by Kim Kibum of all people.
And the others file out and Minho’s awkwardly sitting on Kibum’s couch, and Kibum looks nervous when he looks over from the door and he’s known Kibum to be tentative but not since-
“I wanted to apologize,” he says, finally. “About last night.”
It could be anything he’s apologizing for, Minho thinks. It could be that he thinks it was a drunken mistake, or that he wasn’t good, or anything in the locked vault of Minho’s brain. Things either one of them should have apologized for ages and ages ago.
A thought sneaks out: this is the first apology.
“We were both drinking, I would never have pressured you into-”
Minho stands quickly, shaking his head, “of course not. You didn’t. It’s fine, really. I wasn’t even really that drunk.”
“I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable or anything. For any reason.” Minho can sense the effort he’s putting into his words. “I’d never do that.”
There’s an undercurrent, one that spikes hard in his gut. The idea that Kibum thinks Minho would think the worst of him. The idea that he has to convince him otherwise.
And he feels guilty, right down to his bones, that he was feeling sick with anger when it appeared that all Kibum wanted to do was apologize.
He thinks this might be it. A turning point again. Maybe they can be friends and he can stop feeling bitter and maybe they can talk about what happened.
Maybe Kibum can talk about his emotions for once in his life and this is the start of it.
“It’s seriously fine. You really don’t have anything to apologize for.” After a moment he continues, needs to clarify. “About that.”
Kibum purses his lips. “Still.”
“Kibum, I wouldn’t have gone with you if I didn’t want to.”
He hears it come out of his mouth and it’s too late to suck it back in, and his heart pounds in his ears so loud he almost misses Kibum’s small sound of incredulity.
And Minho knows that there was more to what Kibum was going to say, but it’s all gone now.
His eyes turn black and he stalks closer like a cat and Minho can hardly swallow, his mouth is so dry.
They’re close when he speaks again, and the air in the room is humid and pressing in all around him, and his hands are sweaty, and he’s angry, he remembers. Still angry.
“So you wanted me.” It’s not a question. Frustration bubbles in Minho’s chest.
“I don’t think that’s exactly what I said.”
“Fine,” Kibum says, jaw set, hand hovering between them, and Minho pointedly doesn’t look at it. “Answer me, then. Did you want me?”
Minho sucks in a cold breath and tastes nothing but Kibum. Red wine and his sweet tongue. He doesn’t answer right away, so Kibum goes on.
“Do you want me right now?”
If Minho doesn’t answer this time he’s afraid he’ll lurch forward and kiss Kibum himself. He’s dizzy with it. He forces himself to say, “you can’t stand me.”
It comes out gruff and low and he winces at the sound but Kibum’s eyes are too dark to tell if he noticed. They’ve changed to something Minho couldn’t even attempt to decipher. But it’s true, and they both know it, and Minho still hasn’t been able to consider questioning why Kibum would drag him into some room at a party and kiss him like he’s been holding back, instead of spending the past two years making it absolutely clear that they shouldn’t be alone together.
“You can’t stand me either,” he says, quiet, resigned.
Minho doesn’t have a good answer to that.
So he doesn’t think. It’s like his world tilts off its axis, and he crashes into Kibum, like gravity demands it. Minho cups his face and bites his lip and it’s just as good as it was yesterday, it’s better.
His nerves are on fire and he’s still angry, disgusted even, takes it out on him with biting kisses and blunt nails. He’s reminded of what Jinki said earlier, about how it looked malicious, and it is.
Kibum doesn’t do apologies and he doesn’t even recognize that he might need to, and Minho thinks he might hate him for it. Playing with his heart as if it means nothing all over again.
Kibum doesn’t seem to think, so Minho doesn’t either. He lets Kibum pull him back to his bedroom, undo his buttons and bite his ear, and Minho’s half convinced the world around them has fallen away. The other half convinced he wouldn’t mind if it did.
He thinks this should probably feel worse than it does, but he just feels vindicated. He and Kibum are at a standstill for the first time in a long time. They have this, something they can hold over each other and something they can hold secret. Something they can do other than fight and be angry. And somewhere to put that anger.
Minho puts that anger on his collarbone, draws a breathy moan from him. He puts that anger into bruises on his hips, pulls them together. He hears nothing but the ocean in his ear and the satisfying stuttering of Kibum’s breath and heart.
They fall back onto Kibum’s bed, nicely made and smelling of lavender.
“I really did a number on you, huh?” Kibum asks, breathes, when he pulls Minho’s shirt off.
Annoyance runs through his veins. Hot. “Yeah, you did. Even Jinki noticed.”
Kibum stops. Minho hovers over him, legs slotted between his, hands holding himself up by Kibum’s ears. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“Of course not,” Minho says, kissing down the column of his throat. “No way in hell am I telling anyone about this. You didn’t tell Jonghyun or Taemin either, right?”
Kibum sighs, hand coming up on Minho’s arm. “You would know. I think we’re the only ones in the group who can keep a secret.”
He hums in assent, making his way down Kibum’s stomach, to the button of his jeans. When he works to pull them off, he looks up to see Kibum with his eyes closed and head tossed back just a bit. Blissed out before Minho’s even started. Something he can’t quite pin down builds in his chest, and he has to take Kibum’s cock into his mouth to distract himself.
Kibum doesn’t tell him he’s good, or how he likes it, or even that he wants him. Minho’s never known him to explain himself properly anyway.
It’s so frustrating. Needing Kibum without being able to stand him. Loving the sounds coming from a mouth he hates.
And he remembers what he looked like last night when he came apart, and he wants to see it again, so badly. It’s urgent, he can taste it on his tongue and in his throat and it looks like it pains Kibum to divulge any bit of information, any kind of feedback, because Kibum just takes and takes and then he has him up by his hair, pulling, babbling.
“Minho, Minho,” he’s breathless, a mess. “Stop.”
Their faces are close and Minho’s eyebrows draw in and he says, “what, are you okay?”
“God, I can’t stand you. Come on,” he says, drawing his ankle up the back of his leg, pressing his hips up to the button of Minho’s pants, pulling Minho’s hair back. He doesn’t say anything else.
“Jesus Christ, Kibum. Use your words for once in your goddamn life. Tell me what you want.”
Kibum lets his arms fall by his head. Minho tries very hard to listen and not stare at the way his cupid’s bow is swollen and red. “I want you to fuck me. Is that what you want? Because I’m not going to beg.”
And it is, so badly, what Minho wants.
He feels hot with rage and it only works to make him harder, and he considers the thought that if this is what he gets off to then he and Kibum have been playing a very sexually frustrating game of chicken for two solid years.
Kibum pulls off his pants and promptly lays on his back with his legs spread and if Minho weren’t too busy lying to himself he’d realize that this is somehow (somehow ) miles above what he had imagined he’d look like.
And he was lying when he said he wasn’t going to beg, because after two fingers he whines, says “come on, please, God Minho,” like he has places to be after this.
It’s not what Minho thought it would be, not that he thought it would be like anything in particular, but his stomach feels tight when he rolls a condom from Kibum’s bedside table on and brings Kibum’s knee to his chest and kisses him hard and bruising when he pushes in.
He revels in the gasp Kibum lets out, lets that fill up his ribcage.
He’s mad and he’s forgotten why. Feels nothing but the warmth and the tightness all around him and in his chest and Kibum’s nails drag across his shoulder blade and Minho has to fight all instinct not to just bite hard down on his neck and draw blood.
It’s so obvious when Kibum gets close, kissing Minho hard to keep himself from moaning unabashedly and open-mouthed and letting it ring around the building. He bears down and rolls his hips like he can’t decide to push closer or run from the feeling. And his chest stutters underneath him and it’s perfect.
Minho wraps his hand around him and pulls and thrusts and Kibum crumbles to dust right there and takes Minho with him, and it might be the best orgasm he’s ever had, and there’s no way in hell he’d ever tell Kibum that.
He has memories of looking over at Kibum and being able to parse out what he’s feeling, and those memories are all gone now. Lost to time. Kibum’s found new ways of hiding how he feels and he’s left Minho behind.
And right now his face is so open and exhausted and he wants to be able to tell what it means when Kibum winces a bit when he pulls out. Wants to know how he feels about Minho not kissing him again.
“So,” Minho starts, pulling on his pants.
Kibum interrupts him. “You talk so much.”
“Jesus,” his jaw clenches. “Are we going to make a habit of this?”
“Do you mean a habit of fucking or of bickering? Because I feel like the answer to both is that we already have.”
“You have a smart answer for everything.”
“That’s because I’m smart,” Kibum says, lazy, little smirk on his otherwise exhausted expression. “But yeah I thought we could. You clearly can’t keep your hands off me.”
Minho sighs. “You’re so beyond infuriating. You’re the one that propositioned me.”
“And then I got you off for the second time in twenty four hours. And if you think I’m so infuriating that makes this all really easy, doesn’t it?”
“How so?”
“Well are you looking for anything serious right now?”
Minho doesn’t really know the answer to that question, if he’s being honest. But he sees Kibum spread out, hand relaxing on his stomach, right under where he’d cleaned himself off. His mouth decides on an answer for him. “I’m not.”
“Well then we can do this, casually, and continue to hate each other. And get good sex out of it,” Kibum says, like it’s simple. “If you want.”
He takes a breath. Kibum is extending a genuine offer. Giving him an out. If he didn’t want it, he would drop it, no questions asked. No hurt feelings, no more than there were before. And it’s a bad idea, probably, to do this, especially because it hurts his head to think about how much he wants it.
But the way Kibum looks at him still spread out like that sends another wave of arousal up his spine.
“Okay, yeah,” he says, voice tight. He tries for teasing. “See, talking about what you want isn’t that hard.”
“You really have to ruin everything, don’t you?”
Minho picks his keys off Kibum’s dining table and shuts the front door loudly behind him.
--
It is remarkably easy and incredibly stupid to fall into a routine with this.
Kibum finds himself staring at a bathroom ceiling and Minho is sucking a hickey into his chest because he’ll be damned if he gets another dirty look from their stylists or a threat from their managers. And he’s angry because Minho looks really good today and he’s tired of it.
He’s stupid because he let himself open this door and it’s blasted wide open. And he can shoot a glare from across the room or initiate a look onstage and Minho will have them pulled into a supply closet and he can’t tell who’s wrapped around who’s finger.
And it’s so good, like Kibum’s never had it, because as it turns out, Minho’s exceptionally skilled at everything he’s ever tried, really. And blind hatred is maybe more passionate than love, and at this point Kibum’s convinced himself that even back when he thought it might have been love it must not have been.
That must be it, it must be it. Chasing a high of gratification, a deep sigh of this is all it ever was. You had no reason to be afraid.
It’s easy. To use each other.
They have rules to make it easier. They don’t talk. They don’t stay. They don't tell the others.
Well, Kibum doesn’t talk. Minho might be the last person on earth he wants to talk to and he knows the feeling is mutual.
And talking is hard for him, harder than it’s ever been for Minho. He’s spent so much of the last two years trying not to let Minho know how he was feeling, because it’s humiliating and frustrating, and he can have this but he doesn’t think he can handle anything else.
It’s the end of the night and people are filtering out of the venue and they couldn’t wait until they got back home. So Minho has Kibum’s shirt open, hand down his pants, rolling his tongue over his nipple and he wonders if he can see God.
He hates that Minho is so good. Gets him like this every time. Desperate enough to drag him into a bathroom, make them late, get them in trouble, get him off in public. It’s hot anger and something in the pit of his stomach that feels like it’s clicking something into place. He refuses to think about it.
He’s lost in thought, in letting himself not think, when time freezes.
“Minho? Kibum?” The door swings open and Minho’s quicker than him, covers his mouth with the broad hand ripped straight from his pants. It’s Jonghyun’s voice. “Are you in here?”
They make quick work of it -- or rather, Minho makes quick work of it and Kibum uses roughly none of his brain cells for thirty full seconds. His footsteps approach the stalls and Minho pulls Kibum’s legs around his waist and gives him a murderous look he’s never seen before to keep him from groaning at the feeling of their hips pressed together.
“Yeah, I’m in here,” and it sounds effortful, because he’s holding Kibum up, and he wants to say something like aren’t you supposed to be the gym rat?
Jonghyun stops in front of the stall and asks, “any idea where Kibum is?”
“Haven’t seen him since we got off stage.”
Kibum has his bottom lip between his teeth and he tries not to laugh and his chest is puffed out with the effort of holding himself up and he can’t tear his eyes away from Minho’s throat bobbing and how rough he sounded when he spoke.
He wonders what it would be like to really really tear him apart if he had the time, if it wasn’t just in between sets and shows and that one night on Kibum’s bed.
He also wonders if Minho would fuck him like this, standing up with Kibum pressed against a hard surface. If he would really have to work on his leg strength for that.
“Weird,” Jonghyun says, wistful, oblivious. “I have the other bathrooms to check too. Text me if you run into him.”
He turns heel and walks out and Kibum’s been holding his breath for the entire interaction and he lets it out, relaxing his legs and stabilizing himself against the door. And he hasn’t been this turned on in his life, probably.
Kibum knows what he must look like right now, shirt undone, pants undone, hair messed up, jaw dropped and breathing heavy. A request slips out of his mouth before he has the chance to stop it.
“Can I suck you off?”
He waits for Minho to give him his usual mystified look and little nod before he sinks to his knees, whispers “I’ll make this quick” against the button of his pants.
And he does, make it quick, because the others are apparently looking for them, which Minho doesn’t hesitate to remind him in between mentions of his mouth, dear god, and how much sense it makes that Kibum gets turned on by being a fucking exhibitionist.
This is something Kibum knew about himself on some level, but after having been walked in on already, Minho’s comment really shows its weight. It occurs to him that it probably wasn’t a coincidence that he finally snapped at that party or the fact that this entire week they’ve been dancing right behind their members’ backs.
Distantly, it’s comforting, the idea that this could be anyone, it didn’t have to be Minho. It’s the experience that gets him off, not him. It’s a matter of convenience.
It’s easy. This is easy.
It’s easy when Kibum uses the hand not bruising Minho’s waist to play with himself while Minho takes care of the rest, both hands in his hair, gentle but taking what he needs. Kibum relaxes his throat and lets him. And when he’s done he pulls Kibum up for a kiss that makes him dizzy and finishes him off while he rides that high he gets whenever Minho comes whispering his name.
They’re breathless and on the cool down Minho winces at the taste of his own come on his lips, as if he’d been too worked up to realize when he kissed Kibum filthy and open-mouthed in between their orgasms.
Kibum cleans himself up and watches Minho wash his hands and they walk out into the hallway one after the other, and Minho sends a text to Jonghyun that says: just found him.
The walk to the cars is quiet, partly because his throat is a bit sore, and partly because he never says much to Minho when it’s just the two of them, doesn’t even really know how.
Talking to Jonghyun is easy, always has been. He talks and he listens and he was the first person in this industry that Kibum allowed himself to trust. And Jinki was right behind them, a doting and gentle leader. And Taemin has become so central to his routine that he’s not sure he could forget how to talk to him.
But Minho.
Minho started off as this untouchable, unknowable, unreachable stubborn little thing, back when Kibum was far more stubborn, and worse at hiding it. And speaking to him was impossible, because he was young and only knew how to be confrontational and act like he had some sort of inferiority complex and made it everyone’s problem.
And then things got easier, because they stopped being kids. And they stopped being immature. And then they got close.
And now Kibum knows things like Minho’s favorite movie and the way he takes his coffee and these other bits of knowledge that may or may not have expired by now. He’s probably found new favorites and tried new things and Kibum doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know anything about Minho anymore that hasn’t been told to him by someone else. He pays attention to what he gets for takeout so he doesn’t have to ask every time. Jinki tells him stories about living in the same building, and Kibum files it away in the cabinet in his brain. The classified file marked Minho.
He doesn’t deserve to know new things on his own. It’s his job to keep his distance, even though they’re doing this.
Kibum tries to forget that Minho likes when Kibum hums while going down on him. How he likes pulling his hair like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. This is supposed to be very casual.
Every step they take, down this hall, and down this path they’re on feels monumental, which is why they have rules. They don’t talk. They don’t stay. They don’t tell the others.
They walk down the halls and their footsteps ring out and makes it achingly clear how quiet they need to be for this to work. How closed off they have to be. Otherwise they’ll break the rules.
The others don’t ask questions when they show up late, because it’s believable when Kibum says he got caught up talking to someone, because he always gets caught up talking to someone. And Minho says that he went around looking for him after leaving the bathroom, and it’s almost too easy to lie to them, and it curdles in his stomach like bad milk.
It goes like that for the rest of their promotion cycle. It always goes so quickly, Kibum notices how quickly it ends every time, and wishes that he basked under the stage lights more while he was up there.
He tells Jinki this while in his apartment when it ends, eating choco pies after a group dinner and listening to music. They recount the interviews and shows and talk about the reception and the others in the group. Jinki shows him some art he made and runs some lines for the musical he’s going to audition for, and Kibum always follows him like a loving kitten.
Jinki is so steady, a grounded fixture in Kibum’s life.
Part of him wishes it were him and Jinki tangled up in all of this, but it never would be. For so many reasons, it never would be.
It’s getting late and Kibum’s going to leave soon and they’re sitting on Jinki’s floor shoulder to shoulder daydreaming about the lives they’re already living and the lives they aren’t. It’s quiet for a bit because they’re tired, because Jinki gets quiet when he’s tired, and Kibum thinks about standing up.
“I feel like Minho’s been acting sort of weird for a couple of weeks,” Jinki says, gently, like Kibum would react poorly to it.
He focuses on keeping his expression neutral. It takes a considerable amount of effort. “Weird how?”
“I don’t know,” Jinki twiddles his thumbs in his lap. Kibum’s not sure if Jinki even realizes he does this as a nervous tic. “He’s been a little on edge lately, I think. A little distracted.”
“We don’t talk very much,” he says, which is true. It doesn’t break the illusion they’ve been setting up for years. They’re supposed to be friendly, but they’re not close.
Jinki knows this. He’s really smart. And he doesn’t know what happened between the two of them, not unless Jonghyun told him. But it’s not like Jonghyun knows much either.
Somehow even less than what Kibum truly understands of the situation. Stubbornness and anger repressing their half-hearted reasonings deep into his chest.
And Jinki doesn’t bring up the first hookup or any of the ones after that. He doesn’t bring up the hickeys or ruffled hair or disappearances by the both of them, even though he’s definitely noticed. And it’s easy for Kibum to say that he hasn’t mentioned anything because the two of them will truly do anything in their power not to speak to each other.
It’s not with accusation that he brings it up, it’s with concern. The back of his neck feels hot.
Jinki is warm with all of them but he’s always had something special with Minho that made Kibum feel a whole lot of something he could never put a finger on.
It’s quiet for a moment, so Kibum reaches out to touch Jinki’s forearm. “I’m sure it’s nothing. You guys love each other so much, if he was upset about anything I’m sure he’d tell you. It might just have been comeback stress.”
Jinki brightens, just like that, just a little bit. And again even more when Kibum wraps his arms around him in a tight hug. “Thank you,” he mumbles into Kibum’s shoulder.
“Of course.”
And Kibum shuts Jinki’s door behind him when he leaves and he should go home. He should walk out of the building to his car and go home. And if Minho’s been acting weird, and it’s because of him, he should leave him alone.
Kibum knocks on Minho’s door anyway, almost regretting it when Minho looks a little tired and a little annoyed to see him. And he considered previously that this was always the case with him, but after what Jinki said he thinks it might be this.
He nearly turns around to leave and Minho catches him by the arm and pulls him in. He calls him an idiot against his lips and Kibum’s sure he’s right.
--
It should stop after promotions. It should.
It doesn’t.
If anything, without a busy schedule, they’re both all too excited to get together.
They’ve never had to make excuses to hang out before, they haven’t been in the same space with each other since they moved out of the dorm. They haven’t hung out outside of their schedules in years.
It should slow down, at least.
Minho goes out to dinner with his friends, blows off drinks to go home because Kibum should be coming over soon. He stays up a little later to see if he gets a text message that’ll make him stay up all night. He finds himself going over to Kibum’s house to watch that drama they mentioned last week to Jonghyun or Taemin, if anyone asks, and they’ll have it playing in the background while Minho pulls his hair and bites his neck.
And they still don’t talk. Their messages are straight and to the point. Kibum tells him he’s horny, and Minho tells him to come over. Kibum tells him he’s bored, and Minho doesn’t even grace him with a response, just knocks on his door a half hour later. Minho sends Kibum a picture before he starts his workout and Kibum’s at the gym right in time for him to hit the showers. Locks the door behind him.
It’s nothing more than that. But Minho is on fire.
He looks forward to messages, even when it tastes bitter in the back of his tongue.
He looks forward to Kibum throwing his door open in the middle of the night, fuming red and not telling him why, kissing him hard and bruising, telling him to lay down so he can sit on his face. He’ll wait, eyes blown wide, for Minho to nod and spread out and play at the button of his jeans and lick his lips and want it. Practically beg.
Kibum whines and kicks his hips up. He digs one hand in Minho’s hair and the other over his mouth and if Minho wasn’t busy he’d tell him how badly he wants to hear him.
They know what they’re doing. Steady eye contact when Kibum grinds down harder and closes his legs around Minho’s head and mouths words Minho can’t hear or begin to understand. And he’ll come like that, choking out a moan, folded forward and coming in Minho’s hair and shaking hard.
It’s weird to be wanted by Kim Kibum. He’s never known it. Even if Kibum liked him before, years ago, before Minho could have considered liking him back, he wouldn’t have known what it was. And it certainly wasn’t anything like this.
Minho’s not sure anyone has wanted him like this. All the time. Angrily. Demanding and needy and always on his mind.
He sees Kibum’s hands on the television and he wants them on him. He closes his eyes at night and feels him so vividly he can’t fall asleep without getting off to it. Sometimes he sends a video or makes a call, even if it’s too late to go over, he can still have him there.
It’s weird to want Kim Kibum and it’s weirder to need him.
He knows it’s a bad idea for both of them, but he also knows the way Kibum looks when he’s really close, when he wants more and is forced to ask for it. When he’s gripping Minho’s biceps and tossing his head to the side. When his jaw is open and he opens his eyes right before he comes, and they make a steady eye contact they’ve refused to for years.
Kibum leaves by himself, doesn’t ask to stay, not once. That’s one of the rules.
When they’re not in Kibum’s bed, or in public, they collapse on top of each other and sit in the silence of having just fucked the shit out of each other, ignoring the weight of it. It’s hot and sweaty and they both know they’re counting the times they’ve done this exact same thing.
Taemin messages Minho to ask if he’s over at Kibum’s and he has to lie. And he doesn’t know what’s more humiliating: the fact that he had to lie about being over at Kibum’s or the fact that Taemin of all people knew he would be.
They’re not as careful as they probably should be. The makeup artists on Kibum’s show definitely put more work into making him look like he’s not absolutely covered in hickeys at any given moment, each week just as fresh. The others in the group start to take notice.
Jinki invites himself over to Minho’s not long after Kibum’s left and even though he doesn’t say anything, Minho knows that he’s itching to. He’s waiting for Minho to bring it up.
He won’t.
Not when Kibum moans into his mouth in storage closets and restaurant bathrooms that anyone could see them in here, knowing that it would be the end of it all.
He’s never really known anything about Kibum, but he knows neither of them want it to end.
--
Kibum’s legs are still shaking when he rolls off Minho’s lap and onto his back. He leaves a hand buried in Minho’s hair just to have something to hold onto. Something in the back of his mind he’s been trying to repress reminds him that Minho likes having his hair pulled. That, even after he’s finished, Kibum yanking on his hair will make another low moan rumble through him.
“Holy shit,” he can’t help but to say. “That was really good.”
Minho laughs beside him. Kibum’s eyes are closed but he can see the look on his face behind his eyelids. Eyes bright even though he’s tired.
They never really say anything after. It always starts with both of them angry, taking out their frustrations on each other. Clashing teeth and biting remarks and ignoring the fact that they get each other off like nothing else. Focusing on the bad until it gets good.
And when it’s over they just leave, having used each other selfishly and both knowing it. It’s always good enough to come back but never good enough to let themselves say anything about it. They’re both too stubborn for that.
It’s quiet usually, picking their clothes off the ground, a passing remark about how much they hate each other before the door shuts between them and they’re both alone, unscathed.
He’s never even had the urge to say anything before.
Even when it’s so good that he’ll think about how Minho feels inside him and looks at him and holds him open for the days they’re apart. Even when he peeks over at Minho staring up at the ceiling and letting himself smile, he never says anything either.
“Best you’ve ever had?”
He can tell Minho’s teasing him. There’s a lilt in his voice, a bit of provocation. Waiting for Kibum to admit it or tell him off, or tease him right back. And if Kibum could feel his toes he’d probably do just that. The wiring must be crossed, jumbled up, though.
“Best I’ve had in a long time,” he says, out of breath and quiet.
“Since your ex?” There’s something hidden in Minho’s voice that he can’t quite read. Kibum wonders if Minho remembers his name. If who Kibum was dating was ever a blip in Minho’s radar.
He lies, “yeah.” It was the best he’s had since before his ex. Then he tells the truth, “I haven’t really been with anyone since him, though.”
He turns his head, looks over at Minho for the first time tonight without an agenda. Without preparing to lunge or be lunged at. Minho’s biting his lip. It takes a second for him to say anything, and Kibum waits. Listens to the white noise of the apartment.
“That’s a little over a year ago, now, yeah?” Kibum nods. “You do understand how many people are genuinely tripping over themselves to be with you, right? If you wanted, you could have any of them.”
Kibum doesn’t look down the line of his body, at the hickeys on his hips or the come on his belly. He doesn’t look at Minho, either. He doesn’t think about how bitter he feels, how long he felt like he didn’t want anyone else after he got his heart broken. How he convinced himself he didn’t deserve anyone else. How he’s been building himself back up after that, slowly and surely.
He should say something about how he has Minho tripping over himself for him, but it doesn’t come out.
“I haven’t wanted to be with anyone in a while,” even coming out of his mouth he doesn’t know if it's the truth.
He thinks about what he and Minho have been doing, how easy it is, how surprising it is that they hardly have to try for each other. How he wishes he could have this with someone who didn’t hate him this much. Someone with less history. With less pure, white hot fear.
Kibum honestly can’t remember the last time someone’s made him come the way Minho has. Maybe it’s the anger and tension and maybe it’s just Minho, but it wouldn’t be a stretch to say Minho was the best he’s ever had. Just the thought makes his stomach toss uncomfortably.
“Even if you’re not looking for anything serious,” Minho speaks softly, fitting to the darkness of the room. “I just mean I’m surprised you haven’t hooked up with many people, I guess.”
Kibum scoffs. “I’m that good?”
“You’re insufferable,” Minho says, breathing it out like a laugh. It’s not how he’d usually say it. “You just seemed really eager back at that party. Like it’s something you do a lot.”
A spark of cold runs down his spine. He’s been too obvious. It wasn’t something he’s done a lot, but it was something that he’s rehearsed in his mind too many times to count.
He’s chewing on the inside of his lip. “I was eager, obviously. I just told you I haven’t been with anyone in a while.”
This feels dangerous. Being on the precipice of opening up. He gazes off and tries to focus on slowing his heartbeat. Tries not to speak. He should leave. He should have already left.
“Me either,” Minho says, voice low. He has one hand on his stomach, thumb running back and forth along his sternum.
“That’s surprising.”
“Is it?” He seems genuinely curious.
“You have just as many people tripping over themselves to be with you as I do. Maybe more.”
Minho rolls his eyes. “I guess I’m not interested in sleeping with people I don’t really know.”
The back of Kibum’s neck gets hot.
“You don’t really know me.”
“Sure I do.” Minho turns over onto his side, hand supporting his head. “I’ve known you for years . There was a time when I thought of you as one of my best friends.”
It tastes like smoke and bile in the back of his throat, the guilt that comes up. The way Minho looks at him unabashedly. The way he always has.
“Not anymore, though,” Kibum manages to squeak out.
“No.”
That’s something Kibum hates. Minho won’t lie to save face. He won’t lie to spare feelings. He’s too honest for him. Too good.
Kibum must be silent for too long. Minho picks the conversation back up. “I still know you, though.”
“Of course you do.”
“Really. I know how you take your coffee. I know the songs you can’t stop listening to. I know you can't go more than approximately 24 hours without seeing Jinki. I know because you’re always in my apartment building and he’s always talking about you.” Minho has a smirk set on his face.
“You’re insane.”
“I know that you wish you could cook something other than Italian food but you’re no good at it.”
He gawks. “I’m perfectly capable of cooking Korean food. Sue me if I like pasta.”
“I know you’re defensive over shit that doesn’t matter. All the time,” Minho says, raising an eyebrow.
Kibum slips off the bed, frustrated. “This is getting annoying. I didn’t come over here so you could psychoanalyze me.”
“I know you’re kind, and selfless, and loyal to a fault. I know you’re secretive and protective and stubborn,” and he almost doesn’t say something else, but it comes out anyway. “I know why you and your ex broke up.”
“Sure you do,” Kibum presses his lips together and pulls his underwear over his hips. Minho’s pushed himself up so he’s on his elbows.
“He was a huge asshole. He was cheating on you, right?” Kibum swallows. “All your exes are assholes, though.”
“Because you’re some kind of expert in dating, Minho,” he says, looking around for his pants. He didn’t tell anyone that he was cheated on. He made their breakup seem mutual on purpose. “And you’re such an expert in my relationships.”
“You know you can do so much better. I do too,” Minho looks almost sorry. Almost pitying. And it’s sick, the way he says it like that.
Kibum can feel his blood pressure spike. He takes a breath before slipping into his jeans, before saying something he doesn’t want to. There’s so much he could. “Yeah, when's the last time you had a successful relationship, Minho?”
“I make it a point not to date jerks, at least.”
“Yeah,” Kibum breathes. He picks his shirt up off the ground and plays with the hem. “You’ve made that abundantly clear. You’re such a great judge of character.”
“Come on.” Minho stands. Kibum scrunches his nose, ignores that he looks almost attractive like this. That Kibum’s managed to train himself to find Minho sexy whenever he’s pissed off. “You’re impossible to talk to. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you know he cheated on me?” Kibum watches Minho’s eyes while he tries to formulate his response.
“I caught him with someone else, and then the next week you guys stopped talking. I figured he told you about it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about it?” He knows it’s a stupid question before he finishes asking it.
“We weren’t exactly talking,” Minho says, out of breath. “And you know you wouldn’t have believed me. You would have just told me to fuck off and stay out of your business.”
Kibum doesn’t know why he’s angry. He knows he’s being irrational. He knows it’s stupid and he’s just flying high full of adrenaline and his legs are still shaking so he’s pacing across Minho’s bedroom floor. And it feels like everything’s sort of coming back to him and there’s no one to be angry at except for himself unless he gets angry at Minho.
It’s childish. He wonders if he can leave the apartment by sinking through the floor.
And Minho’s right. Kibum is stubborn and he’s been stubborn all his life and he’s especially been stubborn these past few years. Especially when it comes to Minho.
He doesn’t like that Minho can see that. He doesn’t like that Minho gets him to behave like this.
“So you told him to dump me?”
“I told him to tell you the truth.”
He hadn’t. Kibum caught him too. He doesn’t know if this is just an old wound being opened up or something entirely new but it stings something fierce.
“Why are you telling me this?” Kibum focuses on putting his shirt on. “Why now?”
He hears Minho huff when he shrugs. “I thought you should know. I thought it might help.”
“With what?”
Minho hesitates. Kibum breathes slow.
The floor of Minho’s room is wooden plank, pristine and warm. His ceiling is tall and Kibum’s memorized it in the dim lighting post orgasm. Kibum’s basically memorized this whole place. The space Minho’s built for himself.
“You weren’t always so closed off. Not with me.”
It’s another opportunity. Outstretched hand.
Bitter, bitter. Sick, sick.
His eyes sting and he reaches blindly for the doorknob and his hand knows just where it is.
“You know that’s not why, Minho. You just told me why.” The handle turns and he steps through, and Minho looks tired and frustrated and Kibum could see it through his eyelids if he wanted. “We’re not friends.”