Chapter Text
“Is that the last one?” Minho asked, seeing Chan pick up a can of beer under his chair.
Chan looked around the floor. “I think so, yeah,” he said, then offered it to Minho. “Do you want it?”
Minho shook the can in his hand. “Nah, I still have some.”
Chan and Minho were sitting on the terrace of a rented house. Their chairs were side by side, looking over the railing, an assortment of empty beer cans on the small circular table between them.
The sun was setting, big, round and blood-orange, coloring the sky in pinks and yellows with a bright streak of red here and there. It was turning into a pleasant late summer evening.
After spending the day at the pool and cooking food for eight people, Chan and Minho decided it was okay to kick back and relax, and actually unwind for their extended weekend.
“Do you think Hyunjin’s still mad at me?” Minho wondered, nursing the beer in his hand.
“Do you actually care?” Chan popped open his can. It fizzled, making Chan quickly slurp at the top as golden liquid dripped over his toned abs, down his nearly-dried swim shorts.
Minho took a swig, unperturbed. “Nope.”
The beer Chan was holding changed hands, shaking excess off the soiled one, and then wiping it on his shorts. “His phone was in his pocket, man,” Chan said.
“That teaches him not to do things he shouldn’t,” Minho said. He lifted a shoulder up. “You reap what you sow.”
Chan glanced at Minho, amused, and settled back in his chair. “He really thought he was getting an upper hand on you.”
“Not my problem,” Minho drawled. He raised his can demonstratively. “He should stick it into rice and it’ll be fine by morning,” he concluded.
He closed his lips around the rim of the can, but before he took another sip, he stopped.
“His face though,” he rasped, huffing short breaths through his nose, shoulders shaking, “as he fell.”
Whether it was from the day spent in the sun, the empty beer cans between them, or the actual vision of the regret on Hyunjin’s face when he tried pushing Minho in the pool (but was the one to fall in instead), Chan didn’t know; but Minho’s laughter was highly contagious, pulling Chan in like a snakemaster playing a flute.
The huffing turned into cackling, that turned into a full blown belly laugh, increasingly louder and more manic. Minho was doubled over, wheezing with his stomach clenched tight, while Chan had tears streaming down his face, slapping Minho’s thigh through his fit.
The laughter gradually subsided as they each took gasping gulps of air, the muscles of their face and body aching, leaving them in a post-laugh bliss. There was noise coming from the back of the house to fill in the gaps, shitty music blaring and the occasional scream and splash where the guys were still grilling and messing around the pool.
Minho shook his head with a residual smile, finally bringing the can to his lips. He looked out at the forest and hills in the distance, eyes shining with happy tears.
For a moment, Chan watched as a long drop trickled down the corner of Minho’s mouth, under an enchanting spell. He gulped, feeling parched himself. He leaned on the chair, grabbing his can from the table, only then becoming aware that his other hand was still on Minho’s naked skin. Minho’s shorts were loose and rolled up his thighs, sitting with his legs spread wide, this double awareness not doing much to quench Chan’s thirst.
Chan shook the leg lightly, becoming weirdly self-conscious about it, and gave it a few final well-this-has-been-nice pats.
“Keep it,” Minho said the moment the connection broke.
Chan blinked. Then turned his head to Minho.
Minho wasn’t looking at him, focus still aimed over the railing, at the setting colors of the sun.
Chan’s hand hovered in the air for a second, before pressing it back on Minho’s leg, on the same spot as it was before.
Minho took a sip from the can. “I saw you looking at me all day, you know.”
Chan didn’t deny it, looking down to where his hand touched Minho. There was a faint line where the skin was hidden from the sun by the shorts, a contrast of milky white and sun-kissed honey, something about it incredibly mesmerizing to Chan’s eyes.
“Why do you never take your shirt off?” Chan asked.
Minho shrugged. “I can’t swim.”
Chan’s eyes flitted up to Minho. “Dude, neither can Jisung and he still splashed around the shallow part. You barely dipped your feet!”
Minho was silent for a moment, pulling his lips to the side. “I have an ugly scar on my stomach,” he admitted.
Chan bristled, “I’ve seen it in the changing room. It’s really not that bad.”
Minho glanced at Chan, eyes narrowing. “You’re checking me out when we’re changing?”
Chan zipped his mouth shut, ears getting red. “I don’t control where my eyes go!”
“So you’re not only looking at me?” Minho said, shaking his half empty can. “Disappointing.”
Chan groaned, grabbing his own can and taking a swig, reclining back on his chair. “You’re killing me, man.”
Minho swirled the can in his hand slowly. He smacked his lips. Then he said, “Eh fuck it.”
He rolled his head towards Chan.
“Wanna see it?"
Chan balked, rolling his head in Minho’s direction, still leaning on the backrest. “...the scar?”
“No, my dick,” Minho deadpanned. When Chan’s eyes comically widened, Minho laughed, slapping Chan’s bare chest with his free hand. “Yes, Chan, the scar.”
With one hand holding the can on the armrest, Minho lifted his shirt over his sternum, showing off a pinkish-white scar on his belly, stretching in a jagged line.
Chan gingerly placed his fingers over the badly-healed skin, going over it with two digits.
“It’s really not that bad,” he said. He lifted his head up, not realizing how close to Minho’s face he got.
Minho seemed just as stunned, his Adam’s apple bobbing at Chan’s proximity.
Minho scoffed, pulling himself together, and turned his gaze back at the horizon. He let go of his shirt, the cotton fabric falling limply over Chan’s hand. Chan took it as incentive to remove it, now awkwardly lingering over Minho’s crotch, before going back down to Minho’s thigh. He was unsure if that was still an okay thing to do, but Minho wasn’t saying anything, and it didn’t seem like he was paying attention either.
Chan reclined back on his chair, squeezing the leg reassuringly. “Okay, yeah, fine, it’s not the prettiest, but. I like it on you, it has character.”
Minho scoffed again.
“No, man, I’m serious. You have a really good body. I know how much work you put in at the gym, it’s a shame you don’t flaunt it more.”
Minho shook his can absently, and seeing it was empty, placed it on the table with the others. “That’s because I do it for myself, and not my eighty-seven followers.”
“Harsh, but fair,” Chan nodded. “And for the record, there’s more than five hundred people who want to see these puppies.” He flexed his arm, showing off his defined biceps.
Minho chortled, unimpressed. “Does poor Changbin still have to take pictures of your peacocking?”
“I return the favor!”
Minho sighed, melting into the chair. “Maybe I should just start working out with you guys again,” he said. "My trainer chewed me out so bad last time,” he started venting, the conversation resetting back to neutral.
Chan would love to say his full focus was on whatever was coming out of Minho’s mouth, something about missed practices and weird punishments, but his palm was still pressed over Minho’s muscular thigh, taking up all of his mental space.
He went up Minho’s thigh, rubbing it on the inside, strong fingers stretching delicate skin. He came close to the fabric, teetering on the edge and maybe going an inch under, wondering at what point Minho would cuss him out, and how he would play it off as friendly banter.
Chan looked on at the skyline, enjoying the end of the day and accepting whatever base this fell under, even if it only counted in his head.
“Fuck,” Minho suddenly exhaled, interrupting his own venting monologue. He threw his head back over the chair. “I don’t know why this is happening.”
“Huh?” Chan said, turning, completely zoned out at this point. His eyes immediately glazed over to where his hand was, but something else caught his attention. “Oh woah.”
Minho’s loose pants weren’t so loose anymore, a firm lengthy outline stretching the fabric taut. A flash of arousal spiked through Chan’s veins, a lump forming at the back of his throat.
Without thinking, Chan moved his hand up and over Minho’s less-than-soft dick.
“Can I touch it?”
Minho straightened his head up sluggishly, and turned to Chan.
“He asked, hand on my dick.”
Chan removed his hand like it was burned.
Minho’s lips curled. “I don’t mind,” he said, head falling back on the headrest. “If I did, I would’ve thrown you over the railing already.”
Chan huffed a laugh, knowing the truth of those words. He licked his chapped lips, getting bolder by grabbing Minho’s cock by the length and giving it a firm stroke.
“Shit,” Minho cursed under his breath. He held the metal armrest for dear life, splotchy red spots creeping up his neck, spreading over his face in a pink tinge. Chan rubbed him confidently over the thin fabric, gliding his hand up and down the pants, a small pooling of precum making the fabric darker at the tip.
“You know I,” Minho breathed, head lolling to look at Chan again, “I never had a guy jerk me off before.”
Chan raised both eyebrows, meeting Minho’s glazed eyes. “No?”
“No.”
Chan swallowed, lips curving into a lopsided grin. “Well I guess you’re in luck then. Having someone with experience and all that.”
“Being a master masturbator doesn’t count, Bang Chan.”
Chan gasped, offended. “I’ll have you know these hands have held plenty of dicks that weren’t mine before!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Minho said, spreading a palm over Chan’s face and pushing him back. “I don’t care about your scoreboard.”
“But you do want me to jack you off?” Chan said, moving to bite Minho’s hand, who avoided the chomp narrowly.
“Amazing deduction skills, Channie! Now why did you stop? Chop-chop, let’s get back to it.”
“You’re such a dick,” Chan laughed, back to moving his hand again.
If you looked closely, you might notice how Minho wasn’t as confident as he pretended to be: he kept a strong grip on the armrest, his shoulders stiff, looking down at where Chan’s hand moved, breathing shallowly through a small gap in his mouth.
Chan noticed, of course. It endeared him, the sight of his flustered friend and the beers on the table competing in a steady race over which warmed his heart more. He wanted to make it good.
He hooked his fingers on the elastic band of Minho’s shorts. He stopped to look at Minho, a question hidden in the action.
Minho chewed on the inside of his cheek. He nodded.
Chan pulled down the pants, inhaling sharply through the nose as he let Minho’s cock out in all its dark pink and erect glory. He touched it carefully with the back of his hand, and Minho’s breath hitched, gripping the armrest stronger.
Chan wrapped his eager fingers around Minho’s shaft. The skin was radiating heat, making Chan aware of the tepid temperature in the air and the stiffness trapped in his own swim shorts. He wanted to do so many things with this cock now that its weight finally graced his hand.
He started stroking Minho at a slow pace, gliding the foreskin up and over the cockhead.
“You good?” Chan asked when Minho got silent, his eyes closed.
“Yeah, it’s-uh, it feels good,” Minho said, struggling to swallow. He grimaced then, like he ate something sour. “Bit dry though.”
Chan’s sweaty palms probably weren’t the best lubricant. Chan sucked in his cheeks, trying to gather saliva in his mouth. “There’s like, zero moisture in my mouth.”
Minho opened his eyes, rolling his tongue inside his mouth. “Yeah, mine too.”
Chan reached for his abandoned beer can, but Minho stopped his arm immediately, grabbing it.
“Do not pour beer over my dick, dude!”
“Why not? It would help with the glide.”
“Would it?! It would just make my dick all sticky and disgusting.”
Chan looked around himself. “I mean, there’s probably stuff in the house that we can use, I’ll go find olive oil or something.” He started getting up, but Minho held his wrist in a vice-like grip.
“Don’t leave me with my dick hanging!”
Left with no choice, Chan sat back down. Minho guided Chan’s hand back to his dick, forcing it into Chan’s open palm, motioning it up and down.
“It’s fine, look, I’m enjoying it.”
Chan looked down at his hand, then back at Minho, now with his eyes closed and eyebrows furrowed, hands placed over his sternum in a faux-casual manner.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re actually super cute?”
Minho cracked one eye open. “You have, unfortunately. Many times. This context is new though.”
“Does it make it any better?”
“No,” Minho shut him down and closed his eyes, not inviting a continuation of the conversation.
Nevertheless, Chan smiled fondly, the muscles of his cheeks aching. He rested his head on the back of the chair, leaning to the side to look at Minho as he resumed stroking him: the sharp slope of Minho’s nose, his parted mouth, showing his front bunny teeth, the little crease of concentration on his brow. Minho was breathing heavily, chest going up and down, making small noises that went straight to Chan’s crotch.
He put a thumb over the slit of Minho’s dick, smearing the bit of precum that pooled there. He traced his thumb to the frenulum, pressing on it and rubbing it with skilled purpose.
Minho groaned low in his throat, the sound making Chan almost moan back had he not bitten his tongue. Minho seemed to notice though.
He opened his eyes and rolled his head, his gaze traveling to Chan’s swim shorts.
Minho tried to swallow again; couldn’t. He chuckled. “You’re really fucking hard, man.”
Chan huffed a few laughs too. “Yeah.”
“Do you want me to, you know.”
Chan shook his head. “It’s fine, I like this. Like doing you.”
Minho opened his mouth, but ended up not saying anything, instead dragging his eyes up to meet Chan’s. They looked at each other under heavy lids, both puffing out short breaths of air, the color of their cheekbones the same pinkish hue as the sunset sky.
Chan reached out with his free hand, removing a strand of sweaty hair from Minho’s forehead, fighting the urge to cup his soft cheeks. The sun was almost completely down, the golden hour illuminating Minho like a demigod sent down from Olymp to give hope to the mortals suffering from drought.
“Your eyes are beautiful,” Chan breathed out, laggard, his brain turned to mush. “They’re, like, really brown and warm, like dark coffee. So deep. I want to jump inside, and drown in them. Or get lost. Or something. I don’t know. I don’t even drink coffee. But your eyes. Man.”
“That’s,” Minho paused, not breaking eye contact, “really fucking gay, dude. Wow.”
Chan looked down, then back up. “That’s gay?”
“Still less gay than whatever the fuck that was,” Minho said, struggling to speak, his tongue not cooperating. “Fuck,” he huffed again. “I’m, I think I’m close. Can you. Tighten. Tighten the grip? There.”
“Like this?” Chan flicked his wrist, keeping his rhythm consistent and not removing his eyes from Minho’s face as it unraveled.
Minho exhaled wantonly. “Ngh, yeah.” He pulled his shirt up. “Keep, keep doing that, Channie, keep, I’m–”
Minho came with his eyes rolled back and his teeth clenched, head tipped over the backrest, the unrestrained moan that came out of his mouth music to Chan’s ears (and balls).
The sun had set, just a light blue hue still seen on the faraway horizon, some of the brightest stars already coming into view in this out of town area.
Minho was panting when he opened his eyes, his eyelids the weight of a thousand setting suns, and rolled his head to Chan, catching him just as he licked a strip of his hand.
Minho scrunched his face. “Aw, what?”
Chan shrugged, wiping the rest of his messy hand on his beer-soiled shorts.
Minho shook his head. “Nasty.”
“It’s a taste that can be acquired,” Chan winked at the skeptical curve of Minho’s lips. “So,” he nudged his head at Minho’s wet torso and spent dick, “what was it like?”
Minho sank in the chair, his limbs hanging limply like a jellyfish washed up on a rocky shore. “Not in my top three handjobs, but it gets a passing mark.”
Chan laughed, pushing Minho’s shoulder lightly. “Dude! You are such a dick.”
Minho snickered, turning back to Chan.
He put a hand on Chan’s thigh, caressing it with a thumb. “I’m not that bad, am I?”
“Pretty bad I’d say,” Chan said, sliding his head to the edge of the chair’s backrest.
Minho followed his action, leaning closer. “We’re still friends, though.”
Chan looked at Minho’s lips, and Minho did the same, warm air ghosting his own. “Mm.”
“There you are!”
Jisung violently slid open the terrace door.
Chan and Minho jumped, getting away from each other at record speed. Chan turned around to look at Jisung, while Minho quickly pulled his shirt down and discreetly tucked himself.
“Where else would we be?” Minho spat, the edge of his voice hiding the fluster.
“Seungmin said you were probably off fucking in the woods.” Jisung paused, brow creasing. “I don’t think I was allowed to tell you that, though.”
“Tell him I’ll cut his balls off.”
Jisung made a two-finger salute. “I’ll forward the message.”
“What’s going on down there?” Chan asked, the color of his face refusing to return to a normal shade.
“Felix is dead set on playing the games he brought, but it’s turning into an all out brawl,” Jisung said. “Are you guys coming down?”
Chan and Minho exchanged looks, then returned back to Jisung.
“Nah.”
“We like the quiet here.”
Jisung shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He pulled on the door latch, closing it.
“Oh wait, Sung!” Chan quickly called out. “SungSungSungSungSung.”
“Yeah?” Jisung opened up a crack.
“Can you get us some water please?” Chan said, his hands on top of the backrest.
“And beer,” Minho added, shaking one of the many empty cans.
“And meat.”
“And napkins.”
Jisung looked aghast. “Are you guys serious? Go get it yourself!”
“Pleaseee, Sungie. Pleasepleaseplease,” Chan pleaded with downturned brows, bottom lip jutted out. “We’re so comfy here.”
“And don’t forget who fed you today!” Minho threatened.
“Ugh!” Jisung whined. “I’ll send Jeongin or someone to bring that stuff! But you better come down later, okay? I need your competitive asses in my camp to win whatever game they decide on.” And he closed the door, grumbling.
Minho turned to Chan. “Holy shit, good thinking about the food.”
“Yeah, I got hungry again,” Chan said, making a suggestive gesture pumping the air. “Arm workout.”
Minho snorted. Then he poked Chan’s dick, unprompted, which was at a comfortable half chub now.
Chan raised an eyebrow.
Minho shrugged.
“Was curious,” he said. “What does it take to get it back up?”
Chan’s dick twitched. “Not much.”
Minho bit his lip. “You know, I’ve never sucked a dick before.”
Chan’s lips stretched into a grin. “Shouldn’t it be along the lines of: I’ve never had a guy suck my dick before?”
Minho lifted one shoulder. “Both works.” He looked behind the chair. “Do you wanna lock the door?”
“Yes. But.” Chan put a hand on Minho’s thigh. “Let’s wait for the meat first.”