Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Dude,” says Changbin as soon as Chan enters spitting distance. “Are you okay? You’re, like – trudging, man.”

Chan quote unquote trudges to a stop.

“I’m fine,” he says after a moment, albeit in a manner that decidedly doesn’t sound fine at all. Before Changbin can press him further, he adds, “Can we just leave it? Please? I really don’t want to talk about it right now.”

Changbin lifts his hands in a peace offering, though it’s somewhat mangled by the pastry and coffee he’s holding onto. “Fine by me. But if you do want to talk later...” He lets the sentence trail off with a meaningful arch of his eyebrows. The end of it dangles in the space between them, ready for Chan to reach over and seize the bait.

Sighing, he does as he always does and acquiesces, wrapping a proverbial fist around the squirming creature in acknowledgment. “I’ll come and find you, yeah. Thanks, Bin.”

“No problem, man. I’m here for you.”

On a normal day – a non-trudging day – Chan’s reply to that would be obnoxiously sweet, relying on a joke to plaster over the way his heart (sentimental fool that it is) twinges and then swells at the remark. Today, however, his mum’s words are still fresh in his ears. Sour, unrelenting. He nods, his jaw screwed tightly shut and then leads the rest of the way to the company. If his pace is a little faster than usual, Changbin makes no comment. Nor does he say anything once they beep their way past the turnstiles and Chan makes an immediate beeline for his studio without offering much more than a half-hearted farewell.

Guilt doesn’t even dream to prick him. It already knows and accepts that the only thing guaranteed to drown out this morning’s argument is music. Luckily, Chan deals with it in spades.

He’s passionate about his projects on a good day, a workaholic with a dwindling lifespan on his worst. Hyunjin likes to say that he’d be every capitalist’s dream if he decided to switch career paths and opt for office work over the studio. (Then again, Hyunjin was fired from his last job because he insisted on taking two hour lunch breaks and never clocked in on time, so even the mere act of punctuality counts as falling prey to the corporate machine in his roommate’s eyes. That being said, he probably has the right of this one, though Chan will never admit it out loud.) Today is no different. As soon as he slides his headphones on, he’s lost to the rest of the world.

It isn’t until Changbin lets himself into the studio, Jisung slouching in on his heels, that Chan resurfaces. As soon as he does, he realises that he’s starving.

“You’re alive then?” Changbin says. He shoves a sealed pot of instant ramen forward with the air of someone who’s played this role on innumerable occasions. “Maybe remember to eat something so it stays that way.”

Chan rubs at the grit in his eyes. “Sorry. I lost track of time.”

“I figured as much,” he says. “You completely missed our meeting with Yeeun-noona.”

If Changbin’s instant ramen wasn’t enough to yank him back to reality, then his words easily solve the problem. Chan freezes like wildlife caught in the headlights of a car moments before it meets a gristly afterlife as roadkill. He musters a tentative glance at the corner of his monitor. The time glares back at him in a stony accusation.

“I did?” he asks fearfully, even as he looks the evidence dead in the eye.

“You did,” Jisung corroborates. He falls into the sofa pushed against the near wall, looking as though he owns the damn thing – which he might as well do, given how much time he spends glued to it when he’s not commandeered by whatever schedule Third Eye have poached him for. He stretches his arms toward the ceiling, grinning impishly. “She was livid. I thought steam was about to come out of her ears at one point. Scary stuff.”

Chan closes his eyes as if that’ll shield him from the world. If he can’t see it, surely it can’t see him in turn, right?

“No.”

“Yes,” Jisung says, digging the knife in a little further. Then he laughs. “Only kidding. She was annoyed, but Changbin-hyung made up an excuse for you to save the day. Said something unexpected came up that you couldn’t avoid.”

Chan turns to Changbin, half-wondrous, half-worshipful. The man – the myth, the legend – shrugs as though he hasn’t saved Chan from a gristly end. Kang Yeeun, the formidable director of all things Third Eye, is notorious within their industry for taking no shit and making sure that everyone is aware of it. That, and her four inch stilettos. To piss her off is no small feat. To calm her down before she can curse someone’s ancestral line into oblivion is an even smaller one.

“I figured that whatever had you all twisted up this morning made you forget about the meeting,” he says. “No biggie.” The mere mention of the morning’s events is enough to sour Chan’s mouth. Noticing this, Changbin asks, “Ready to talk about whatever it was? Or are you still in the middle of agonising over it?”

He’d glare had it not been an accurate assessment.

“It’s nothing.”

And really, if he thinks about it, it honestly was nothing. He’s no stranger to his mother’s disappointment in his life’s choices, nor to her insistence on comparing him to just about everyone he grew up with. Never mind the fact that he isn’t the starving artist she so desperately hopes he was. In fact, Chan is very comfortable with the royalties he’s amassed ever since he signed onto TMT Entertainment as an in-house producer. He’s worked on every single album that Third Eye have released since debut, a partnership that grows more and more lucrative as the group increasingly garners attention on the international stage. He’s fucking thriving.

The only thing she has a leg to stand on is his love life. Or lack thereof. But it’s not as though he’s going to admit that out loud to Changbin – especially not in front of Jisung, who might poke fun and act more comfortable with Chan than he probably should, but who also looks up to him in a way. Chan doesn’t want to seem like a loser to someone who looks up to him. Especially not a loveless one.

“I might’ve missed the meeting with Yeeun-noona,” he says, switching topics in a way that doesn’t pretend to be tactful, “but on the bright side, I think I’ve worked out what was wrong with Creed. We were hoping to push it on the next album, right? I think we might be able to now.”

Both men take the bait.

“No shit?” Jisung says, sitting up in surprise.

“Language,” Changbin says primly. He turns back to Chan and says in exactly the same intonation of surprised, “No shit?”

“Yeah, man. Look, I’ll play it for you-“

“No, not yet,” he cuts in. “Have your ramen first. Then we can talk about music.” Before Chan can object, he insists, “I mean it. The second you start to play a track, you know we won’t be doing anything else for the next hour. Make your ramen and eat up. We’ll fill you in on the charity event we signed you up to while you do.”

Suppressing a sigh, Chan reaches over for the ramen. Fingers pinched around the plastic tab of the lid, he pauses. “Charity event?”

A guilty smile spreads across Jisung’s face like watercolour on canvas. “Yeah. Funny thing about that…”

If it weren’t for the fact that Chan’s mum is (a) firmly embedded within her life in Sydney and (b) a passionate disparager of all things music and entertainment, he genuinely would think this is the latest attempt at an elaborate scheme to find him a partner. Because seriously: what are the odds that Jisung would sign Chan up for a speed-dating event on the same day that she rowed with him over the moral failing of being single at twenty seven years old? The jokes truly write themselves.

Out of sheer spite, for this reason alone, he says no to Jisung regarding the event despite his desperate pleas to take part. His mum might not have been the one to sign him up, but after the foul mood she put him in, he’ll be damned if he goes on a date for the next three freakin’ years. He quite simply refuses.

Then the fucker brings out his puppy dog eyes and Chan crumbles like he’s been struck by an earthquake. He can’t say no to that face. He just can’t.

Which is why he can be found sliding out of a taxi later that week, scowling up at the brightly lit hall ahead as though it’s personally wronged him. He tugs at his shirt collar, grimacing. Formalwear has never mixed well with him. He’s an Aussie by nature and a producer on top of that to boot. Shorts and sliders are his MO, not slimly fitted shirts and slacks. Shit, his shoes are even shining. He hates everything about this already.

“Hyung,” Jisung calls before Chan can change his mind and run away. He darts down the steps, recognisable even behind the face mask. That endearing mop of a perm can’t be mistaken for anybody else’s. “You came! I seriously thought you wouldn’t for a hot minute there.”

“I considered it,” Chan says truthfully.

Jisung laughs as though he’s cracked a joke. “Cheer up! Who knows, you might actually find someone you’re into now that you’re finally out of your cave.”

“I don’t lurk in a cave,” he grumbles.

Maybe he’s not as social as he once was, but that doesn’t mean anything. He knows plenty of people in the industry! He just… hasn’t seen them in a while. Potentially in months. Not since the last award season anyway...

Damn it, maybe he should be at this event after all – if not in the name of romance or charity, then in the name of friendship. It sounds like exactly the sort of corny anime arc he’s always been a sucker for.

“I almost didn’t recognise you in the daylight,” Jisung says, a sentence that makes little to no sense since the evening is already well on its way to blurring into the night sky. He pretends to be blinded by the sight of him, laughs again and links their arms together to drag him up the stairs. “You came just in time for the pre-drinks and canapés. They have people going around serving sparkling wine and finger food. Fancy stuff! I feel rich.”

“You are rich,” Chan says. “Third Eye paid off its debt ages ago and you’re their resident money-maker.”

“Nah, that’s Jeongin,” he says breezily. “Him and his bajillion CFs and model contracts.”

He wonders if Jeongin is here tonight or if he’s escaped Jisung’s altruism by being at yet another one of those photoshoots. Then he has little time to wonder about anything because as soon as they step inside of the hall, they’re pounced upon by the cloakroom staff and whisked into the frenzy of it all.

Perhaps ‘frenzy’ is a tad dramatic. Although the hall is lively, it isn’t exactly out of control. The atmosphere is light and friendly. Pop music pumps out of the speakers manned by a DJ in the far end of the room, setting the scene for what it is at its core: a networking session with some spangles and glitter thrown on top. People mill around the room, hugging those they’re familiar with, bowing to those whom they are not. Chan snags a glass of wine and some canapés from a passing waiter, then hunkers in a corner with Jisung to scoff them down.

“Thanks for coming, hyung,” Jisung says, smiling with such sweet delicacy that the remnants of Chan’s grumpiness collapses into suds. With his face mask now tucked away in his pocket, Jisung’s shyness is painted onto canvas for all to see, rose-pink brushstrokes high on his cheeks. “After Seungmin had to drop out, I really thought I’d be here on my own. I’m so glad I have you with me, even if we’re not going to be together for the whole night.”

Damn it. Jisung could be hunched over in his retirement bed and a part of him will still be the sixteen-year-old twig who marched up to Chan and demanded, in a tremulous voice, if he’s really the guy who arranged Jihyo-sunbaenim’s pre-debut single and if so, would he be so kind as to have a look at Jisung’s self-written song too? That is to say, he’s Chan’s baby and he might very well burn down the world for him. Or attend a speed-dating charity event. Same difference really.

“It’s fine,” he says, shrugging like he didn’t have to drag his body every step of the way here. “But you owe me a proper dinner after this. With meat.”

“Deal!”

“I’m going to order the most expensive thing on the menu,” he warns, even as he knows he won’t. “Don’t think I’ll hold back just because you’re my dongsaeng.”

Jisung puffs his chest like a peacock. “That’s fine with me. I’m the money-maker of Third Eye, remember?”

Suppressing a laugh, Chan rolls his eyes and returns to his canapés.

For all of his pessimism, the event isn’t terrible. It’s definitely a networking session that’s jammed on a hat and coat in a half-hearted disguise, but the organisers still do their due diligence and set up fundraising activities in the spirit of giving towards charity. Because mental health, as they impress upon the room in a passionate speech, matters. Since he’s not an asshole and agrees with the sentiment, Chan buys two raffle tickets, a tote bag and pays for a strip of pictures in the mobile photobooth where he and Jisung take great pleasure in trying out the goofiest props.

Then it’s time for the speed-dating portion of the night. For the first time since he emerged from the taxi, he’s peeled away from Jisung’s side. They exchange heart-torn looks as they’re escorted in opposite directions, embodying the tragedy-struck lovers on the Titanic as it splits into two. Just like that, Chan is left to face his fate all alone. He can almost hear his mum crow with victory in the distance.

“Group C is here, Bang Chan-nim,” says the event worker, leading him to a loose gaggle of people he vaguely recognises but has never spoken to. “Group C will be paired with Group D for the speed-dating event. We will hand you your speed-dating cards shortly. If you like your date, then please mark a cross beside their name. Each card also comes up with a small bingo on the back to make it more fun and to give you some ideas for conversation starters – just in case you’re ever stuck.”

“Sounds complicated,” one of the women in Group C comments, catching his eye with a wry grin.

“I am positive you will get the hang of it soon,” the worker says pleasantly, professional to the last syllable.

The cards are handed out and the pencils to go with them. Chan scribbles his name and group where requested and then settles down in the nearest seat available, waiting for the first person from Group D to reach him.

“Hello,” a high, somewhat musical voice says. A sleek, polished woman settles in the chair opposite him with a smile that positively gleams. Chan recognises her from various music videos that have gone viral over the past several years, always beaming from the centre of the group. “It’s Bang Chan-ssi, right? From TMT Entertainment?”

“That’s right.” He inclines his head in a respectful bow. “You’re Jamie’s groupmate, aren’t you? Shin Bitna?”

“That’s me!” She frames her face like a flower, fancall-ready. Adding a playful flair to her tone, she recites, “Shoot for the stars, we are: Nebula!”

Another sparkly smile. Her eyes literally twinkle from the glitter of her eyeshadow. She seems like exactly the sort of woman that his mum wants him to shack up with, which would’ve soured the experience if it weren’t for the fact that Bitna’s a nice conversation partner. Perhaps a little too nice for his tastes – he’s always loved a verbal spar to keep him on his toes – but it isn’t as if this is an actual speed-dating event. He isn’t planning to meet the love of his life tonight.

Date #2 is a man who ticks off two of Chan’s bingo squares (‘born outside of Seoul’ and ‘isn’t a musician or a performer’). They spend most of their time discussing what movies they like to watch and whether it’s better to wait for something to hit streaming services or go to the cinema, even if it’s alone. Chan cannot fathom being brave enough to go on a solo trip to the cinema, even if the dim lights means that no one can spot him, but his date insists that it’s fun. Date #3 ticks off no bingo squares, not do they launch into a debate, but they do fire corny pick-up lines throughout their allotted five minutes that make him crack up. By the time they part ways, he’s still laughing.

Conversation is more subdued with his fourth date, a man who looks as though he’s being held at gunpoint to be in Chan’s presence. As much as he sympathises, they’re also the five longest minutes of Chan’s life. He’s ready to claw out his decaying childhood memories of church to muster up a prayer when the timer finally rings and brings him salvation.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” he says anyways, standing up to offer his date a parting bow.

Man-at-Gunpoint sketches out a timid bow of his own and makes a vague noise in the back of his throat, all trodden dog toy. Without a look back, he then scurries off to his next table.

Sighing, Chan heads to his next stop as well. Hopefully this date will actually speak to him.

“Hello,” he greets politely as soon as #5 drops into the empty seat. “I’m Bang Chan, ’97 liner. Nice to meet you.”

Another stranger. This one is very pretty. He isn’t the first date to be so – Shin Bitna is famously beautiful, as was the shameless flirt from round three – but he’s the first person that Chan does a double-take at. Ash grey hair framed artfully around his face, sharp eyes and cheekbones and a full mouth; he looks like an idol if Chan ever saw one. Or a fuckin’ angel sent from up high.

Then he says in a clementine-sweet lilt, “Lee Minho, ’98. If I was your sleep paralysis demon and attacked you in the middle of the night, how would you react?”

Chan blinks. “What.”

“Like if I was the ghost who gave you sleep paralysis,” Lee Minho, born in 1998, clarifies as if that’s what Chan is confused about. “How would you react?”

“Um.”

“It’d be the middle of the night,” he adds, painting the scene for him. Perhaps he was Picasso in a previous life, considering the absurdity of his art. “You’d be lying in bed, dreaming away. Maybe snoring. And then all of a sudden, bam! There I am on top of you. Locking your limbs in place. Scary stuff, right? How would you react in that situation?”

The dormant dater in Chan murmurs that if Lee Minho, born in 1998 and looking like he’s walked out of a fantasy manhwa, decided to lie on top of him at night, his subsequent reaction would fail to qualify for a PG rating. He isn’t in the habit of blurting out such shamelessness to someone he’s known for all of three seconds however, so he swallows that reply and opts for something somewhat saner.

“Uh. I don’t really get sleep paralysis to be honest. So I’d probably just hug you instead, I guess?”

“Even though I’m a ghost?”

Chan considers this. “You’d be a solid ghost, wouldn’t you? If you were able to lock me in place, I mean. Or try to anyway.”

“Maybe I’m too powerful to need all of that,” he says. “Who says I’m freezing you in place with my weight? What if I just have magical powers?”

“I’d probably still hug you,” he says. “I’m kind of a cuddler.”

Lee Minho makes a noise of faint disgust. “Gross. I punch people in my sleep apparently.”

Chan can’t help it: he laughs. Although Minho fights to stay deadpan, one corner of his mouth betrays him, twitching upwards until it wins the fight. He breaks out into a smile, lopsided and boyish. Despite the sharpness of his face, his teeth are decidedly less so: round, blunt, like a bunny rabbit’s.

He’s cute, Chan realises with faint wonder. Even though he’s clearly deranged. In fact, his deranged mindset might make him even cuter.

“Did they deserve it?” he asks.

Minho shrugs. “Fuck knows. If they made the mistake of coming that close, then maybe.”

“I’ll invest in some protective gear then,” he says, “so I’m not injured when you decide to stop by and try to paralyse me.”

“What if I’m already under your bed every night?” Minho counters.

“Sounds dusty as fuck. Are you sure your lungs can handle that?”

“It is dusty as fuck,” he says. “Would it kill you to stick a vacuum cleaner pipe under there sometime? So inconsiderate.”

Chan laughs again. It splatters out of him without permission, a sharp staccato of sound. Minho’s smile grows wider. The tips of his ears start to bloom a cherry red.

“My bad,” he says, playing along like a chastened and embarrassed host. “I should’ve known better. I’ll make sure to clean it up for you ahead of tonight. Better yet, I might even join you down there to keep you company.”

“It’s a tight fit,” Minho warns.

“Sounds nice and cosy.”

Minho places his arms on the table between them and leans forward, raising an imperious eyebrow. “And you won’t be able to escape my punches either. They might even be lethal at that distance.”

Grinning so widely that even he can tell he looks like a loon, Chan mimics his position: arms folded on the table, chest forward, tipping to meet Minho’s challenge. The better to see him with, he thinks. Although he doesn’t know if he’s Little Red Riding Hood or the Big Bad Wolf in this allegory, not when Lee Minho, born in 1998, is a sleep paralysis ghost who punches his victims in his sleep. Something like that anyway. He’s losing track of their metaphors. Minho’s eyes are even more sparkly than Shin Bitna’s smile.

“I’m stronger than I look.”

Minho blinks, cat-like, and then leans back to survey him.

A whisper of air brushes across Chan’s face with the movement. He tips his head to the side and does his best to appear endearing, hoping to pass whatever test he’s been submitted into.

“Bang Chan-ssi, born in 1997,” Minho says after a moment. “Have you ever been to Europe?”

The question is so random that Chan almost gets whiplash. Blinking, he straightens up, wondering if he’s imagined whatever the hell their conversation consisted of for the past several minutes. “Um. Not that I can recall, no. Why?”

Minho hisses in disappointment. “Damn it. I was hoping to get bingo.”

Bingo. Right. Because they’re at a speed-dating charity event. For a moment, Chan almost forgot.

“I’m born outside of Seoul if that helps?” he offers. “From Sydney, born and raised.”

“Really?” Minho perks up. “Have you ever seen a quokka in the wild? They’re the cutest animal in the world, you know. Second only to cats.”

“I have not unfortunately. I did see a wallaby once though.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

Chan gasps, horrified. “You don’t know what a wallaby is? No way!”

“Yes way. Do they look like quokkas?”

“Not really,” he says. “More like a kangaroo, I guess?”

“Oh right. How disappointing.”

“Hey!”

They don’t have long left on the clock. Before Chan knows it, the buzzer blares out once more, cutting their conversation short. For the first time since the speed-dating began, he feels genuine regret that he has to move on. He’s slow to rise to his feet, reluctance caking his teeth.

“It was nice to meet you, Minho-ssi. I guess I’ll see you under my bed tonight?”

A laugh breaks through Minho’s impassive expression. He bites it back as he reaches across to shake Chan’s hand. “It’s a date,” he agrees.

He doesn’t see Minho again for the rest of the event. Speed-dating passes the baton on to a quick pop quiz before a three course dinner is wheeled out for their enjoyment. Between the steak, the tiramisu and further wine, Chan is occupied for the rest of the night. By the time he recalls their bizarre conversation, he’s already switching on his LED lights as he clambers into bed. As he does, he spares a fond thought for the strange man who promised to hide under it.

He really was so bizarre. But cute. And funny. And his eyes were very sparkly.

“This is why you look like a vampire,” Changbin says. “All pasty and allergic to the sun. You’re haunting the company with your whiteness, hyung.”

“You know you could just ask me to grab dinner like a normal person, right?” Chan says, his attention glued to his monitor. “Like. What happened to ‘hi, hello’? ‘How are you?’ Normal things like that.”

“Hi, hello, how are you,” he says dutifully. Then he whines, gusty and nasal in a pitch that Chan is sadly all too familiar with. “Channie-hyung, don’t make me beg. Come and grab dinner with us, you can finish the song tomorrow.”

“I’m almost at the end- “

“So am I,” he interrupts. “The end of my patience, that is. Breathe some fresh air, hyung! Come out with us! Let’s grill some meat and talk about our feelings.”

“You are so annoying, ohmygod.”

“I prefer persistent,” Changbin says. “Meet me in the practice rooms in ten. Otherwise, you’re the one who’ll be getting grilled.” Before Chan can protest, he hangs up.

Sighing, he grimaces at his phone, now displaying his One Piece lockscreen, and then back at the monitor. Cubase, his nearest and dearest friend, looks back at him, open to his latest project. He’s so close to the finish line he can almost taste it.

He’s also been working on this thing all day so he can probably afford take a break like Changbin says. He just needs to finish one tiny thing and then he’ll be done...

Fifteen minutes later, Chan slouches into the basement level where the practice rooms were carved out for TMT Entertainment’s artists during its inception. In another lifetime, they’d be a familiar set of walls. In reality, Chan rarely comes down this way unless he’s after a member of Third Eye. Or, like on this occasion, for Changbin, who was summoned downstairs to assume the role of the rap mentor for the company’s new survival show.

To gloss over his tardiness, Chan opts for a dramatic entrance. He flings the door open with a tremendous crash and bursts into the practice room, his arms spread wide as if to say ta-da!

“Changbin-ah! The love of your life has just arrived!”

Silence greets him, awkward and lingering with deliberate weight. Chan refuses to move from his position: fingers reaching as far as they’ll go on either side of him, his head tipped toward the ceiling. A classic star jump stance, one that would’ve garnered him applauds of approval back in primary school when he was, like, six years old. His mouth stretches just as wide, etched in a painful grin.

Then:

“Seo Changbin, you didn’t tell me you were off the market.”

The voice doesn’t belong to the usual work crowd they run with. When Changbin mentioned they’d be getting dinner with someone else from the company, he was expecting the usual suspects: Jisung or Jaebum, maybe even Jihyo if her schedule was free enough for it. People he’s made a fool of himself in front of on numerous occasions. Yet when he snaps his head down, so fast he all but hears it click, he’s met with the sight of –

“Lee Minho, born in 1998?” he asks, mystified.

Minho blinks, as equally surprised. Then he straightens up from his slouch on the couch beside Changbin and parrots, “Bang Chan, born in 1997?”

Changbin straightens up too, looking between them. “Wait, what? Do you two know each other?”

“He’s my sleep paralysis demon,” Chan says.

Minho’s mouth, just as pretty as he remembered, slopes upward in wicked approval.

Changbin blinks. “What.”

“I sleep under his bed every night,” Minho explains.

“Again: what?”

“Although I’m disappointed in you, Bang Chan-ssi,” he says, turning back to him and ignoring Changbin’s bewilderment. “You told me that you’d lie under your bed with me, but it’s been weeks and you’ve been nowhere to be seen. Was it all a lie? Empty, meaningless promises?”

The same reflexive amusement from the speed-dating event surges to existence like an old friend. Chan grins, the gesture somewhat less painful now that he’s not trying to clown around although no less wide for it. He just can’t help it. Minho is funny.

“Ahh, I did promise that, didn’t I? Hyung is sorry, Minho-yah. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

“No seriously.” Changbin jumps in again. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Bang Chan is about to pledge his firstborn child to me,” Minho says, still not sparing him a glance. “Duh.”

He nods solemnly. “Do plants count? I’m the proud father to four different cacti.”

“That depends. Do they have names?”

They do, in fact, have names, courtesy of none other than Hyunjin. Frida, Leo, Claude and Georgia occupy grand thrones upon the mantelpiece of their electric fireplace, directly below their mounted tv. Their reign is going strong despite the fact that both owners occasionally forget to water them. He shares as much for Minho’s inspection.

“Sydney names for a Sydney boy,” he says. “I’ll have to sacrifice the lot.”

“Should I take offence to that?”

To that, he earns a neutral hum and a shrug. Changbin looks between them once more, truly flabbergasted. Then he inflates with the beginnings of what Chan recognises to be a bellow, of a decibel that only someone like Seo Changbin can accomplish. After a day full of music fed through his headphones, where he spent minute after minute painstakingly agonising over every last beat, Chan doesn’t think he can handle something so explosive. He rushes to nip it in the bud before it can gain momentum.

“We met at the charity event that Jisung signed me up to,” he explains. “Minho was one of my speed dates. It was a very.... entertaining conversation.”

Changbin shuffles a suspicious look between them. “Yeah, I bet it was.”

Ignoring him, Chan turns back to Minho, now reeling back some of his playfulness. “Anyways Minho, I didn’t realise you worked at TMT Entertainment? You never mentioned!”

Now that he isn’t taunting him, Minho looks abruptly shy. He shrugs again, his eyes twitching away to just over Chan’s shoulder as though he’s lost the confidence to hold onto his gaze. “I’m pretty new. I only joined a couple of weeks ago.”

“Hyung was poached by Yeeun-noona to mentor Third Eye,” Changbin says. “Especially since their choreos keep getting more and more intense.”

Ah. Chan nods in understanding. He’d heard rumours that Yeeun was on the hunt to bolster their dance instructor ranks, especially now that the head for their division, Daehyun, has started to scale back his work commitments as he bends closer to retirement. He didn’t realise that she’d managed to find someone so quickly.

“I suppose we’ll be seeing each other more often then,” he says. “I’m Third Eye’s main producer so I have to touch base with the dance team every now and again.”

“Sounds like one big happy family,” Changbin says before Minho can reply. He springs to his feet and claps his hands together, calling for their attention. “Now can we please go and get some food? I’m fucking starving.”

Dinner is pleasant.

So used to taking the lead whenever Changbin is involved in a meal (lest the man burn himself, an accident that’s occurred on more than one occasion), Chan automatically reaches for the tongs, only to be beaten to the punch by Minho. He handles the meat with effortless precision, sleeves rolled up, cooking each piece to the perfect consistency before he doles it out. In return, Chan takes care of the side dishes, distributing a healthy amount between their plates before he leaves the rest in the middle for everyone to pick at.

Conversation flows easily all the while. Over time, Minho sheds the sudden shyness he acquired in the practice room. His real personality appears to be a happy medium between the bizarre interrogation from their speed date and a manner of speaking that’s somewhat more polite. He straddles the demarcation between teasing and sincerity, never shying from sparring with Changbin if the opportunity arises – much to Chan’s constant amusement and Changbin’s equally omnipresent whines – yet careful to stray away from turning mean. Which is to say that he’s a good third counterpart to their meal and there’s never an awkward moment once they tuck in.

With Chan, he’s a shade more deferential. That’s to be expected. Chan’s older and a senior in the company to boot. Even hypothetical sleep paralysis demons know how to respect that.

Luckily, it doesn’t attach an uncomfortable weight to their night. It’d be an awful shame if Chan were to be kept at arms-length simply because of his standing within the company and their newly professional relationship – especially considering that Minho is already so comfortable with Changbin. But no, it’s easy-going for them too. Although maybe that’s because Minho keeps cracking wise guy remarks and Chan keeps laughing at them, no matter how silly they get.

Around them, the restaurant buzzes to life as more and more people filter in through the doors, ready to reward themselves for another day of hard work. Tugging at their ties, shrugging off their high heels, calling boisterously for more and more soju. Despite his earlier conviction to return to the studio as soon as possible, Chan allows the warm atmosphere to infect him, turning his limbs loose and pliant. Work becomes more and more distant. A problem for tomorrow like Changbin claimed. And so the food keeps coming and the grill keeps sizzling, filling his stomach to the brim.

At some point during the evening, their plate of perilla leaves congeals, the pile sticking fast to each other. Chan hardly notices, too focused on his lamb to care. Then Minho struggles to unpeel the topmost layer for several painful moments and so he leans over to help, the gesture as reflexive as taking his next breath.

As soon as their chopsticks collide, Minho falls quiet. Chan scarcely notices that too, too busy trying to shimmy his grip around the edge of the top leaf. He painstakingly lifts it free, bit by bit, before he deposits it onto Minho’s plate.

“Wow,” Changbin exclaims, chewing noisily on a lettuce wrap. “I think my heart fluttered just seeing that. How romantic of you, hyung!”

Chan laughs, his neck warming. He didn’t think anyone else was paying attention. “Don’t be ridiculous, I was only helping.”

“Of course,” he says sagely. “You always do.”

Minho remains quiet, looking between Chan and the perilla leaf. Maybe he wants another? Yet when he finds his voice, all he says is, “He does?”

Changbin snorts. “Does he ever! Channie-hyung fucking loves helping people. I think he might keel over and die if he doesn’t.”

His neck warms further. “It’s not that bad!” he protests. “I just like being useful, that’s all.”

There’s something so gratifying about helping other people. A favour here, a mindless task there; what is human connection, what is community, if it weren’t for exchanges like this? Small actions that don’t require much thought but can help to make someone else’s day just that little bit easier. Like with Minho’s leaf: he wanted to have one yet was unable to peel it free – but now, thanks to less than a minute of Chan’s time, he’s able to eat what he wants to. Isn’t that lovely?

Minho hums in that musical, neutral tone of his that Chan is fast becoming familiar with.

“Interesting,” he murmurs before he leaves the topic at that.

Calls for a new Third Eye release start to ring Chan’s way once more. Yeeun posits that the group is overdue for a full-length album as it’s been a couple of years since the last – a pop-rock ode to youth that skyrocketed the group to fame through an unprecedented conquering of the charts – and so life gets busy once more. He has a backlog of tracks that would work well for them, along with Jisung’s own pet projects that are still yet to see the life of day, but first, the musical direction must be determined by the Voices of Power Above. That is, Yeeun and her team of creative directors.

They decide that Third Eye are in the prime position to show off their creativity by working on subunit songs to bolster the tracklist. Naturally, this will involve a modicum of filming for behind the scenes content. Which means that Chan can’t just work on the songs like a madman in the middle of the night; he has to wait for a time and place to be assigned to him first.

“Hyung.” Minho shoves a bottle of juice into his face, frowning prettily. “Unscrew this for me.”

Today’s time and place is the breakroom on the third floor. Further down the hallway, the camera and lighting crew are busy setting the scene for the introductory episode to Third Eye’s Song Camp. Elsewhere, the makeup and coordi-noonas prep the quintet into the idols the public know and love. Chan, on the other hand, is hard at work wolfing down a sandwich after he skipped breakfast and had no time to regret it until now.

He pauses in the middle of a bite: mouth full of bacon, lettuce and tomato, mayo quivering at the corner. Unblinking, Minho waits for him to accept the bottle, as straight-faced as he often is in the moments between one sentence and the next.

Chan chews some more.

Minho gives the bottle a slight shake, as if to entice him into action, and stares harder.

Whatever he’s doing must work because, still chewing, Chan drops his sandwich back into its packet and reaches over to twist the lid. It hisses open at the gentlest pressure from his hand.

Pleased, Minho retrieves his spoils. “Thanks. So are you all excited for your performance today then? Your big debut?” When he takes a swig, his eyes glimmer mischievous above his drink.

Chan meets them lifelessly. “Over the moon,” he deadpans. “This is what I’ve been training my entire life for.”

Minho’s smile widens. “Cheer up, hyung, it won’t be that bad.”

Chan disagrees. He isn’t built to be on camera. He left that pipe dream behind a long, long time ago and abandoned his regret for it somewhere along the way too. Nowadays, he’s content to be the gremlin in the studio who’s silently supplying Third Eye’s music from behind the scenes, nothing but a name slapped onto the credits. To suddenly face the spotlight like this is jarring. At least he hasn’t had to dress up and get his makeup done too.

“I hate the thought of being filmed. Especially without my mask on.”

“You’ll be fine,” Minho says. A smirk flirts with the corner of his lips. “Maybe the fans will mistake you for an idol.”

Another deadpan look. “Don’t be ridiculous. If anyone here could be mistaken for an idol, you know it’s you.”

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

Minho tilts his head to the side, playing the fool. It’s as if he doesn’t see his own reflection every time he looks in the mirror. Even with his dark roots growing in, he looks polished and unreal in the way that celebrities often do.

Chan squints at him. “Are you fishing for compliments?”

The shells of Minho’s ears ripen to pink. “No,” he says defensively. “Are you about to send them my way anyway?”

A laugh stirs Chan’s shoulders. He reaches for his sandwich again, fondness lining the grooves of his teeth. “Sure thing. You’re very pretty, Minho-yah.” Honey oozes over his words, mixing with his lunch. “Definitely the prettiest person in this room.”

Despite the manner of his delivery, it isn’t an exaggeration. Minho scowls all the same. “I hope you choke and die on a stupid tomato.” When Chan laughs some more, he shoves his drink back towards him, still blush-pink at the ears. “I’m done now.”

Chan rolls his eyes but obediently screws it shut once more.

It takes him longer than it should to realise that Minho took Changbin’s comment to heart. When his requests for assistance begin, they’re so benign that Chan doesn’t think twice about them – although he must confess, he rarely does whenever one is fired his way. It isn’t until they become more shameless that he finally catches on.

“Hyung,” Minho says, the faintest hint of a whine lurking behind his words. “My charger’s too far away – get it for me?”

Chan looks over from the filtered water tap in the breakroom. Minho lounges across one of the sofas, fused to his phone as he so often is. The charger in question is on the coffee table beside him – perfectly within arms’ reach if he simply chooses to lean over and stretch. Under Chan’s attention, he makes a half-hearted attempt to do exactly that. His fingers skim the glass edge of the table.

A baseline level of amusement has slowly but surely established a home within Chan’s chest whenever he’s in Minho’s presence. Now it spikes a little higher at his antics. Trying his best to suppress it, he retrieves the charger.

“Here.”

Minho doesn’t accept the offering. Blinking up at him with faux innocence, he asks, “Plug it in for me? You have a better angle than I do.”

“You are so lazy,” Chan groans – yet proceeds to do it anyway.

Minho grins, triumphant. When Chan looks over at him, ready to feed the lightning cable back to his grabby hands, he can’t help but return it. As always, Minho’s eyes are as sparkly as the winter sun.

And then there’s –

Another day in the breakroom. Ever since Minho joined the company, Chan has stepped past its doorway more and more often, drawn there by the demands to prove that he hasn’t suffocated to petrification in his lonely studio. It’s a development that should’ve come about sooner. Only now that he’s started to spend time around other people in the company does Chan remember how much fun he used to have in his job before he got dragged under the waves by his workload. There are quite a few new faces as well – or, at least, new to him – that he would never have had the opportunity to put names to if it weren’t for Minho’s insistence to show himself. Long since accustomed to begging him for as much, Changbin, too, is over the moon by the change.

Today he’s summoned for lunch. Not to order anything in or to brave the rush in Gangnam for a restaurant with free seating but simply to bring his store-bought goods over to enjoy his break in good company. Chan doesn’t disappoint. Having been too lazy to cook the previous evening, he opts for the grand, elevated cuisine of instant ramen and supermarket tuna kimbap.

He sits down with his spoils by Changbin – another instant ramen aficionado – and Minho, feasting on homemade kimchi fried rice and grilled chicken. Gym freak that he is, Minho also brought boiled eggs in as a side. He pushes one in Chan’s direction.

“Hyung,” he says plaintively.

Already knowing the score, Chan starts to unpeel it. The action is somewhat soothing. After suffering through yet another cameo in Third Eye’s Song Camp, this time with the responsibility of wrapping up the series, he relishes in the chance to occupy his attention with a task that doesn’t require any thought. Shit, filming really took it out of him.

Aghast, Changbin watches him pick the shell off, fragment by fragment, and then hand it back. “What the fuck was that.”

Minho grins wickedly, bunny teeth spearing through the freshly exposed, soft white shell.

Chan says, “He needed his egg peeled.”

He returns to his lunch while Changbin continues to swivel his gaze between them like a pendulum on a grandfather clock.

“I am disturbed,” he states. “Whatever the hell you two have going on here is disturbing.”

“He needed his egg peeled,” Chan repeats, now confused.

“Yeah, I’m sure he did, you sick fucks,” he grumbles. Bending over his ramen, he mutters furiously under his breath. “You’d think he doesn’t bench 75kg with the way he’s pretending to be a damsel in distress, this is so gross –”

And then there’s –

“Hyung. I need to grab iced coffees for the brats and don’t have enough hands to carry them. Do you want to come with? Lend me one of yours?”

Minho looms over Chan’s desk, lit into a ghostly apparition by the glow of the monitor. Chan looks between the two, chewing on his bottom lip.

Technically, he has a song he desperately needs to make headway with. Not for Third Eye this time as their album is well on its way to charming the public for the nth time but for a rookie girl group who possess a fresher sound than he’s accustomed to. He isn’t in the position to get distracted, not when there’s so much left to nail down. He turns back to Minho to say as much before he catches his expectant look. The words scramble like eggs in his fry-pan mouth.

“Sure. I could use a break.”

“Thought so,” Minho says brightly. “C’mon old man, let’s stretch out those creaking bones.”

“Hey!”

Outside, the good weather adds to his burgeoning certainty that he made the right call. The sun is out, although not too unforgivable, and the sky is so blue he’d be tempted to lick it like a lollipop if it were possible. He can almost taste it already.

With every stride he takes, his limbs loosen up. Until now, he didn’t even realise they were bound so tightly together, as if wrapped into a fixed position by wire. To help them unwind, he rotates his shoulders a little and shakes his arms out.

Beside him, Minho is similarly limber, kicking a stone along their path like it’s a football and he’s a teenage delinquent. When Chan peers sideways at him, he can almost see it too: adolescent Minho, scruffy and silver-haired from a patchy bathroom dye job, slouching around with a skateboard under his arm and a habitual scowl. Then it’s superimposed by the Minho he knows: the tip of his tongue pink between his lips as he struggles to navigate the stone beneath his foot. Still toeing the line of good behaviour and mischief, but unexpectedly sweet when it’s least expected.

A poor twist of his foot sends the stone ricocheting into the road. Minho looks after it woodenly. “Damn it.”

Chan cracks a laugh and teases, “Are you sure you’re not six instead of twenty six?”

In a fitting display of his maturity, Minho blows him a raspberry. “We’re not all ready to collect our pension like you. Some of us here weren’t alive to see the moon landing.”

“I am one year older than you. One.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he scoffs. Nudging Chan, with an elbow, he tips his head to the left. “C’mon ahjussi. We’ve reached our stop.”

He leads the way way into an independent coffeeshop favoured by much of the staff at TMT Entertainment, owing to the minor miracle that its coffee tastes neither like tar nor pure sugar. As soon as he reaches the counter, Minho rattles off an order for all five members of Third Eye and their manager. Without needing to ask, Chan already knows which drink belongs to whom; no one but Seungmin, for example, would detail such a specific coffee order, full of terminology straight out of a meme about Americans. The iced americano must be Jisung’s.

Before Minho can reach for his wallet once prompted to pay, Chan beats him to the chase. Minho frowns as the transaction goes through.

“Now why in the world did you go and do that? I was the one who offered to buy the little hellions their drinks.”

“It’s fine,” he says and then jokes, “Isn’t this all part of your grand masterplan? The main reason why you brought me out here?”

His frown deepens. “I needed your manpower, not your money. Do you really think I’d guilt you into paying for my order? I’m not that kind of guy.”

“Of course not.” Before it can spiral out of control, Chan rushes to stem the misunderstanding. “I just figured I’d pick up this one since I’m the hyung here, that’s all. Honestly, it was more of a reflex than anything else. I’m so used to picking up the tab after the others.”

X-ray vision in his retinas, Minho narrows his eyes.

Chan smiles under his inspection. A peace sign springs up to hover near his face to embellish it further. The picture-perfect illustration of an angel who can do no wrong – or as close as he’ll ever get to emulating one anyway.

“I don’t like this.”

A laugh falls from him, just as reflexive as the tap of his card against the reader. It figures that Minho would find no harm in dragging him away from his desk by claiming he’s unable to carry back a mere bag of drinks alone yet would consider payment of said drinks to be a step too far in their game. Endearment curling in his gut, Chan wraps an arm around his shoulder and squeezes.

“Ahh, Minho-yah, don’t be upset. I’ll let you pay me back another time, yeah? Buy me a drink sometime and we can consider the score even. Not coffee though, I’ve never been a huge fan.”

Minho’s hard gaze splinters. Clearing his throat, he ducks his head under the guise of inspecting the cookies on display. “Whatever, man, I don’t really care. Now please get away from me, stinky. I don’t want to get infected by your stench.”

Chan takes the bait, backing away and pretending to sniff his clothes to make an assessment of his own.

The conversation moves on. They collect the drinks – which Minho immediately palms off to Chan to carry back, claiming he has hand cramps – and head back to the company, embroiled in a discussion about Slam Dunk. Usually, that’d be the end of it. Usually, he’d forget he ever paid for the coffee in the first place by the time his head next met his pillow. It’s not in Chan’s nature to count pennies against his friends.

Yet when he clocks into work the next day, it’s to an iced sugar brown tea waiting patiently for him on his desk. No note accompanies it – but then again, it doesn’t need to.

“Don’t even think about sneaking those mangos into our trolley.”

Hyunjin freezes in the middle of the very act that Chan accused him of, his eyes dinner-plate wide. He blinks, then inches the packet a little lower.

“Hyunjin,” Chan warns.

His poor attempt at an ice sculpture of a roommate cracks to smithereens. “Oh come on,” he whines, all but stomping his feet. “They’re not even that expensive!”

Supermarket runs on the weekend are always a battle whenever it involves Hyunjin. Since Chan’s work schedule is prone to rob them of each other’s company for days on end – or as Hyunjin puts it, because Chan’s a slave to capitalism and can’t define a “work-life balance” even if his life depends on it – they’ve made it a habit to undertake their grocery shop together on the weekends. They might not interact at normal hours during the week, but come hell or high water, they will see each other in the daylight every Saturday.

More than once, Chan has questioned the logic of their decision to do this.

Coincidentally, most of those revelations occur in the fruit and vegetable aisle where he has to fend off Hyunjin’s attempt to clean out the shop floor every week.

It shouldn’t be possible for someone to consume that much fruit, but Hyunjin must be on a one-man mission to set a new Guinness World Record with the rate he goes through them. It simply isn’t natural.

“Hyunjinnie,” he says, trying his hardest not to force the words through gritted teeth. He attempts a smile. The set of his teeth feel like steel bars, keeping his frustration locked away in the interests of public safety. “You’ve already gotten blueberries, blackberries, strawberries, apples, bananas and a melon. You can’t add mangos on top of that. We’re going to run out of space to store the rest of our food.”

Their countertop is already fighting the rice cooker and toaster for space as it is. They can’t afford to pile anything else on there. One day in the not-so-distant future, he fears it may actually fall apart on them.

Faced by Chan’s insistence, Hyunjin defers to his second favourite tactic: to stare at him without blinking and hope it’ll change his mind. Its success rate today has been 100% so far – it’s why they have blueberries and a melon in their cart – but he refuses to let the trend continue for any longer. He won’t.

“Why do you hate me,” Hyunjin says plainly.

“If I hated you, I would’ve kicked your ass out a long time ago. Now please put the mangos back where they belong.”

“Ugh, fine! Suck the fun out of everything why don’t you!” He stomps back down the aisle and pushes the packet into a random crate of produce – radishes by the looks of it – before he stomps back and plants his hands on the metal edge of the trolley. There, he announces, “You’re the cruellest of men, Bang Chan-ssi. This is why we’d never work out.”

Somewhere in the distance, his mum must weep at the thought.

“I can live with that,” he says. “Now let’s head over to the meat section. I want lamb chops.”

“Oh, sweet?” Hyunjin enthuses, abandoning tactics #3 and #4 (‘Ye Olde Guilt Trip’ and ‘Cause A Scene To Trigger Chan’s Second-hand Embarrassment’) in favour of something new and shiny. “Why didn’t you say so sooner? Lead the way, maestro!”

He circles around to the front of the trolley, climbs onto the support beam at the bottom and waits expectantly for Chan to set off.

As infuriating as it can veer, his weekly shop with Hyunjin is also fun. He’s far too tall and about twenty years past the acceptable age to be steered around on a shopping trolley, but he insists upon it anyway. For some reason, it’s a point of endearment instead of frustration. Like with most of his dongsaengs, Chan rarely denies Hyunjin something he wants (unless it’s related to fruit). He kind of likes being able to see him face-to-face like this as they navigate the aisles. It makes their catch up feel all the more intimate. Plus, it’s a hell of a workout for his arms.

“And then – get this – some rando called Choi Beomgyu cold-emails me out of nowhere, saying that he’s heard I’m on the Hanssem paid social account and would I like to get lunch sometime so he can run me through a proposal. And all I can think is who are you? Where did you find me? What are you, some sort of corporate stalker?”

“Maybe he saw you on LinkedIn?” Chan suggests.

Hyunjin retches. “Never suggest I’d be anywhere near that platform, hyung. I’d rather be unemployed.”

“That would hit harder if you weren’t unemployed half of each calendar year.”

“Rude!” Hyunjin chides before he throws his head back and laughs so hard that he collides with the person behind him in the dairy aisle. “Ow!”

Chan rushes to steer Hyunjin away, spilling a litany of apologies all the while. Silver hair captures the light in the corner of his eye. He skids to a stop in the middle of his rambling, the trolley – and Hyunjin along with it – skewing wide. “Minho?”

Minho pauses in the middle of rubbing his head in the spot that Hyunjin smashed into. “Channie-hyung?”

“Oh, so it is you. I didn’t know you shopped here!”

“I don’t usually,” he says, distinctly grumpier than usual. “My normal place didn’t have the crème fraiche I wanted so I decided to get my groceries elsewhere. Starting to regret that decision now though.” He punctuates this with another pointed rub of his head.

Chan grimaces. “Ah, right. Sorry about that. Hyunjin is a very… enthusiastic laugher.”

“It’s true,” Hyunjin calls from his perch on the trolley, happily blocking any traffic that may wish to pass through. “My eomma says I was born with spades of passion but no spatial awareness. It’s a lifelong curse.”

It’s an apt description. Hyunjin is probably the clumsiest person he’s met, bar to none.

Minho cocks his head to the side in a study of his new acquaintance. “Let me guess: you’re the roommate?”

“Yup. That’s moi. No offence or anything, but I’m not going to be able to return your energy and magically know who you are so an introduction would be great, thanks. Unless Choi Beomgyu sent you?”

“Beomgyu? Who the hell is Beomgyu?”

“That’s what I’d like to know!”

Minho stares some more. When he turns back to Chan, it’s with a rare plea written on his forehead: the request for some sincere assistance – although that may just be the bump that Hyunjin induced in him. It’s starting to look a little red.

At his obvious bewilderment, Chan’s internal baseline takes an upward trajectory once more. There it goes again, springing up like a trampoline. His amusement flies skyward with it, leaping past his lips in a barely suppressed laugh.

He explains, “Someone called Beomgyu, who works in Hyunjin’s industry, managed to get a hold of his email and reached out to start a professional” – He emphasises the word, sending Hyunjin a significant look; he receives it with bafflement – “relationship. For some reason, this has severely distressed Hyunjin. He’s convinced the man is out to get him.

“Hyunjinnie, this is Minho, one of the lead dance instructors at the company. We work together in the same division.”

Minho inclines his head in a respectful bow. “Nice to meet you.”

Hyunjin returns it and then says, “Ohh. So you’re Minho. Nice to meet you too.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean.

“Yes,” Chan says. His teeth become a cage again; he bares them in what he hopes is a pleasant grin. It doesn’t feel all too pleasant in the stiff bracket of his dimples. “This is him.”

What he really wants to say is: please act normal.

He tries to transmit it as a mental signal. Unfortunately, Hyunjin must have impenetrable firewalls installed because he leans over the trolley, his eyes as round as coins, and makes no attempt to hide his slow once-over.

“This makes so much sense now. You’re very pretty.”

Minho looks back at him impassively. “Sure.”

Chan looks between the pair, unsure as to what conversation is taking place. Despite the compliment, this doesn’t feel like Hyunjin’s usual flirting. He would never admit to finding Minho pretty so early on if he was interested, especially not to the man himself. Nor is the interaction particularly hostile. It’s just… weird.

Whatever it is, they must gain something from it because eventually Hyunjin leans back, satisfaction as clear as glass on his face. For his part, Minho maintains his default blank slate: his full mouth downturned ever so slightly, his jaw so sharp it could split skin.

Needing to break the tension, Chan says, “Is this supermarket far from your place then? That looks like a lot of stuff to take back. Did you say it was your weekly shop?”

“Something like that,” Minho says. He returns his gaze to Chan and something in it softens, almost imperceptible. “I’ll probably call a taxi to take me back.”

The suggestion is hardly out before Chan shoots it down. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll just give you a ride since we took the car here. You don’t mind, do you, Hyunjin?”

“I’ll be fine – “

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Hyunjin agrees. “Maybe drop me off first though so I can put all of our stuff in the fridge? I don’t want to risk my fruit going off. And we need to remember to get the lamb chops you were talking about as well.”

Lamb chops, a few toiletries and then back to the car. Sounds like a solid plan.

“How about it then, Minho?” Chan says, turning to him hopefully.

Minho looks back, almost helpless, before he concedes. “Sure, hyung. Why not.”

Whatever strange, silent conversation Hyunjin and Minho had in the supermarket proves to be little more than a hiccup. As they wheel their way through the aisles to conclude their trip, they strike up a conversation that reminds Chan of the way Minho and Changbin interact: that is, Minho drops none-too-subtle threats while Hyunjin swings between exclaiming his outrage and lapping it all up. By the time Chan drops him off at their apartment, he’s bonded with Minho in the manner of a baby animal might imprint upon a human that’s come across it in the wild.

“Don’t be a stranger, Minho-ssi,” he enthuses as he effortlessly swings their carrier bags in both hands. A first glance might suggest otherwise, but Hyunjin packs some serious strength in those arms. “If you ever want to rant about Channie-hyung, just know that I’m your guy.”

“Goodbye Hyunjinnie,” Chan says pointedly, pushing the gearstick into reverse.

The distance to Minho’s apartment isn’t particularly egregious, it’s just the traffic that makes it feel that way. To pass the time, Chan sticks on the radio. The top hits on Melon burst out of the speakers, bright and poppy with the occasional hip-hop anthem or gut-wrenching ballad sprinkled in the mix. Minho taps his foot to the beat in the passenger seat, his head lolling backwards as the drudgery of the traffic jam bears down upon them.

“So...” Chan searches for something to say. “What do you need the creme fraiche for?”

“Figured I’d use it to spice up my upcoming boudoir shoot.”

He chokes on thin air. “I’m sorry, what?!”

A dangerous image flashes across his brain in time with the mental shutter of a camera. It’s dispelled by Minho’s laugh, high and mischievous.

“Only kidding. I’m making mashed potato for my brother.”

“You have a brother?” he asks, surprised. He scours his memories to determine whether this is something he should already know yet comes up short.

“Yup. He’s coming back to town after being away for a while – he travels around the world volunteering with a non-profit for work – so I figured I’d treat him to a warm meal once he lands.”

“Aww. That’s sweet of you.”

“Ugh, I know,” he says. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to protect.”

After a tense meeting situation between a van, a bus and a BMW (that requires Chan to reverse down a long stretch of road until he reaches a junction to give way in), they finally pull into the car park for Minho’s apartment block. From there, it’s only natural that he steps out to retrieve the bags from his boot – and then helps Minho carry them up and then helps him make a dent in the buchimgae that he sizzles up and places on the table.

Minho settles down on the other side with his own set of chopsticks, their legs knocking into each other. A tabby cat weaves between them, meowing gently.

“No, Dori,” Minho says, so sweet and pretty that Chan turns fever hot as if he’s the one being addressed in such a tone. “This isn’t for you. Appa will feed you later.” Dori gives another pitiful meow. “Less of that, you little brat. You know you’re not going to guilt me into changing my mind, I know all of your tricks.”

Chan squints past his lap at the lantern hazel eyes that lurk in the shadows beneath them. Appearing to accept his defeat, Dori decides to curl up on Minho’s feet regardless. Chan cracks at a smile at his nonchalance. Like father, like son.

“Aw, he seems sweet. Have you had him long?”

“A few years now.” Minho nods. “I adopted him from a shelter when I moved here after uni. Soonie over there is the oldest of the lot. I found him as a stray when I was in middle school and hid him in my room for three days before my grandad found out. And then Doongie was part of a litter that my friend’s cat had so I’ve been with him since he was a kitten.”

Affection caramelises his tone like toffee as he shares further details about his cats. It does something strange to Chan’s guts, turning them into spring coils. Or maybe he’s just hungry. He takes another bite of buchimgae to be safe.

“Do you have any pets of your own?” Minho asks.

All thoughts of spring coils slip away. Chan sighs. “I wish. I used to have a dog when I was growing up, but she’s still with my parents. My apartment block doesn’t allow pets either way.” He pauses to consider. “I have a Hyunjin if that counts. I suppose he’s a bit like a pet in his own way.”

His sentimental, art-loving pet weasel who wandered into his apartment one day and never left.

“Is that, like, a kink thing?”

He could throw up. He really could. “Ew, no, what the fuck. That’d be, like, incest or something. Super gross.”

Minho cocks his head to the side. “Oh, but the two of you seemed so comfortable today though? Like a long-term couple running errands?” The corners of his lips betray his question for a taunt. His eyes match their energy, gleaming like obsidian.

“If you came across us five minutes earlier, you would’ve seen us on the brink of war over a bunch of fruit.” Chan snorts. “Trust me, there’s nothing going on there. It gives my mum daily heartburn to know that’s never going to change.”

“You too, huh?” Minho’s amusement morphs into commiseration. He snaps his chopsticks around a pancake and decapitates it with the guillotine-slide of his teeth. “My parents keep laying down heavy hints about how great it would be if I settled down now that I’m in my late twenties. They’re desperate to have grandchildren.”

“Wait, what? I thought you were gay?”

“I am,” he says. “They’re talking about adoption. I don’t know what economy they think we’re living in, but the most they’re getting are my cats. Three grandbabies should be more than enough, don’t you think?”

Dori meows in agreement.

Chan groans, feeling every inch of Minho’s frustration and then some. Ever since his sister was proposed to a few months ago, his mum has ramped up her mithering more than ever. Never mind the fact that Hannah is on the younger sides of brides-to-be – and doesn’t plan to be married for years yet regardless. Chan bears the brunt of her expectations anyway.

“It’s so frustrating, isn’t it? I don’t see why they’re so eager to rush us when it doesn’t affect them. It’ll happen whenever it happens, why can’t they understand that?”

“Exactly. These things always happen at their own pace, we just have to have faith that the right person will come around eventually. Besides, who knows? I might’ve met the guy already.”

“Right!”

Minho pauses around the second half of his buchimgae. Then he laughs, louder than warranted, and shakes his head as though Chan has said something outlandish instead of simply agreeing with what he said.

Not sure whether to be offended, Chan frowns. Then he figures it’s not worth the fight so he shrugs it off.

Sure, he doesn’t know what could be so amusing about his response, but it’s unlikely to be a big deal. He’s always laughing around Minho, even when the situation doesn’t call for it. Maybe Minho has a baseline of his own too.

He jolts awake. Asleep one second, aware that he shouldn’t be the next. When he startles upright, something heavy falls from his shoulders with a swoosh. A black puffer coat rests on his feet, so incongruous to his studio that he does nothing but stare at it, sleep-grit blurring his vision. It can’t belong to him as he didn’t bother to bring a jacket to work that day – a decision he regretted when it started to pour down a street away from the company – but somehow it’s here, staring him back in the face as if he’s supposed to understand its presence.

After several moments, he reaches down for it, groaning as the angle pulls at the stiff muscles in his back. Fuck, he needs a bath. Or the sauna. Or the bath and the sauna. And maybe an energy drink to rejuvenate him.

Stretching with another groan, he deposits the coat onto his chair and turns, only to freeze as soon as he catches sight of Minho. Limbs akimbo, barring the arm he uses to lift his phone to his face; sprawled across Chan’s studio couch like he intends to be there for a while. The coat is his, Chan realises belatedly. He recognises it from Minho’s collection.

“What time is it?” It comes out as a croak. “When did you get here?”

“Like twenty minutes ago,” Minho says, not looking away from his phone. “You were already passed out and snoring when I let myself in.”

Embarrassment sizzles around his neck. “I don’t snore.”

He hopes.

“Must’ve been the thunder from outside then. Speaking of which, if you’re going to go out, take my coat with you. It hasn’t stopped raining all day. Don’t want you to catch a cold and die on me now.”

“It’d be very inconvenient if I did.”

“Exactly.” He directs a short laugh at his phone.

Mirroring his smile, Chan slips out of the room. No rain pours on his head during his short trip. The vending machine is up a floor and around a couple of corridors, no need to brave the storm in the great outdoors. Wanting to revive his legs, he takes the stairs. By the time he circles back around, he feels better already.

“Here.”

He passes a can of sikhye to Minho, now curled on his side so he’s facing Chan’s set-up. Wincing, he sits up to retrieve it.

“How awake are you feeling right now?”

Chan takes a moment to reflect. “Enough to carry a conversation. Not enough to do anything strenuous.”

“Is using my massage gun on me too strenuous? My back kills. I switched to a new PT at my gym and I swear he wants to send me back to the military. Does he not realise I’ve already done my time?”

Using a massage gun is the sort of mindless task that Chan would relish in right now. No thoughts, just press a button and go.

He retrieves the tech from Minho’s bag and settles beside him, angled to access his back. As soon as he presses it down, Minho lets out a long groan, though there’s nothing sexy about it. He sounds like a grandpa, all throat like he’s smoked ten packs a day for the past five decades. Chan giggles and presses down a little harder.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Minho yelps.

Right away, he backs off. “Was that too much? Does it hurt?”

“I mean yeah, it does, but don’t stop. I need my body to be wrung out like a towel.”

Chan can’t quite deliver on that front, but he does his best to comply otherwise. He trails the massage gun along Minho’s spine before concentrating on his traps, digging into the most tender spots as requested. All the while, Minho keeps up his old man grunts, then directs him to his shoulders and arms. For this, Chan needs to face him. They reposition, their knees overlapping as he concentrates on massaging his deltoids and biceps before travelling over to Minho’s pecs. Minho inflates his chest for easier access here, suppressing an embarrassed murmur. His ears give the game away regardless, as red as rubies.

To assuage the awkwardness, Chan hums a tune, filling the space between them with a sneak peek of the track he’s working on. He also avoids Minho’s eyes, focusing only on the massage gun – although he doubts that Minho is meeting his gaze either. This falls right under the type of interaction that is sure to have him look away and mutter under his breath.

Over to the hands now.

Chan takes his left one first. The muzzle has barely kissed his palm when Minho giggles and snatches it away.

“That tickles,” he exclaims.

“But your neck didn’t? How does that work?”

“Don’t judge me for not fitting into your boxes, Bang Chan-ssi,” he says, feigning at offence. “I thought this was the twenty first century. Even old men like you should get with the times.”

“Who was the one who sounded like a pensioner all this time?” Chan challenges. He flicks the switch to ‘OFF’ and puts the gun down. “Well, I guess that’s the end of the massage now. Did it help?”

Minho flexes his muscles as if to test them out. Head tipping from side to side, shoulders rotating back and then arms pulled back to clasp each other at the base of his spine as he tugs. He groans again, pensioner-style. Then shakes it all off and confirms:

“All good. Except for my hands, they still kill from holding my weights.”

“You pulled away before I could massage them,” Chan points out.

“Yeah, because it tickles. You’ll just have to do it manually.”

He reaches out, palm-up, expectant. Chan looks down at it in disbelief, then back at the steady confidence in Minho’s expression, so certain that his request will be fulfilled.

The confidence isn’t without basis. Chan is going to do exactly that. It’s just kind of wild that Minho knows him well enough to not doubt it even for a single second.

He makes a show of heaving a sigh, if not to save his pride then to at least attempt to paint the illusion that he’s doing this as a reluctant favour. “Alright. Give it here then.”

Thumb to palm. Chan pushes back and forth, treading a path in Minho’s flesh. It’s cooler than he expected. A little tough from years of workouts too. It occurs to him that he’s never held Minho’s hand before, nor studied it from quite so close. Tactility between them exists in other ways. An arm thrown around Minho’s shoulder, elbows linked like schoolgirls, legs sprawled across his lap or scruffs to Chan’s hair whenever it’s at its most unruly – but never something like this.

In addition to being cool, his hands are also smaller than Chan realised. And weirdly cute.

Minho makes no grandpa noises this time. Nor does Chan fill in the gaps with his music.

As soon as he recognises its existence, the silence takes on a near oppressive effect, as if it’s muffling everything that exists outside of them. He looks up – the better to see Minho with, he thinks, with a distinct sensation of déjà vu – and meets Minho’s gaze. Where he expected him to be looking over Chan’s shoulder, pink from awkwardness, he’s studying Chan’s face intently. It must take him a second to realise that Chan has noticed because his eyes only widen seconds later – before they return to their usual size, now edged in resolve.

“Hyung,” he says. The honorific is hushed, as though he, too, feels the weight of the air around them.

Chan swallows inexplicably. “Yeah?”

“I’ve just realised. You missed a spot earlier.”

“I did?” He frowns. “Where – “

Free hand curled around the back of Chan’s neck, Minho leans forward to cut him off. Their lips collide, soft and a little slick – and then Minho gasps, ever so quietly, before he moves in with further pressure. The gap between them seals shut. And Chan kisses back.

Finally, his body seems to sigh. Took you long enough.

Time ceases to exist, abandons all meaning. He doesn’t know how long they embrace for and he doesn’t care to find out. Their lips part and then reunite, learning the new terrain, experimenting. Over and over again like they have the rest of eternity to find out. The pressure on his nape keeps him grounded, tethered to the present, to this moment: to the sensation of Lee Minho with his silver-sickle hair and his cute hands, to the way he kisses Chan so steadily, so well, that he can feel the breadth of it trickle all the way down to his soles.

Is it a minute or a year later when they finally pull apart? He still doesn’t care. Not when Minho reaches for him again, coaxing Chan forward to meet him as he falls back against the couch.

“Hyung,” he says. “Channie-hyung, you missed the rest of it too. Come, let’s try again.”

He laughs, shaking his head at the shameless, yet obeys anyway. Of course he does. Why would he do anything but?

Once down, he tries to balance on his forearms to give Minho a modicum of space, but Minho doesn’t seem to care much for it. Insistent, he reels Chan closer, fists around his t-shirt until he’s pressing the weight of their bodies together. They’re almost the same height. In the past, it wasn’t something he noticed, but now it turns his head funny to know that there’s very little of them that isn’t connected right now.

A silver halo of hair spills around Minho’s angel face. The image of him like this belongs in Chan’s bed. The fact that he’s in Chan’s studio is a close second. To have him like this in the place where Chan makes music, where he first breathed life into his lifelong dream, makes his head spin. Minho looks like something out of a dream himself, cat-eyed and satisfied, glimmering up at him.

“Again,” he insists.

Again, Chan agrees.

Again and again and again and again until his lips feel sore. When they finally call it quits, they shift to try and share the couch as best as they are able to, Chan wedged against the back while Minho balances half on top of him. His heart feels like it’s out of breath.

“Have you been flirting with me this entire time then?” he asks once he remembers how to do anything but kiss someone.

Minho stiffens. “No.” Then, “Maybe. Did it work?”

“Well, I mean, duh. Of course it did. I don’t just make out with any old person.”

“Good,” he huffs. “Keep it that way.”

A grin so wide it must rival the Pacific Ocean stretches his face. Even Chan knows he looks smug. “Is this your way of asking me out, Lee Minho-ssi?”

“No.” He huffs again. “This is my way of telling you that I like to eat sushi on Thursday nights. If you happened to escort me there, then I might be willing to give you a maki roll as a thank you for the ride.”

“Aw,” he coos. “You want to date me.”

“It’s called community service.”

“It’s called a crush. That you have on me specifically.”

“I’ll crush your lungs in a minute if you don’t stop,” Minho warns.

He follows it up by shifting closer and sneaking a kiss onto Chan’s collarbone. Somehow, he thinks he’ll survive the night.

The sushi is alright. The soju is an added bonus. Minho, adorned in a rare example of semi-casual clothing, is even better, glimmering on the other side of the table as his earring stack – another rare show – captures the light. He alternates between taunting Chan and flirting with him like there’s no tomorrow. Much to Chan’s delight, he often combines both tactics to hit him with a two-in-one.

“I should’ve brought mints with me,” he says afterwards when they step into the moonlit street. “I forgot how much I like to eat my sushi with ginger.”

They go to a convenience store where he buys them a packet each. Fighting back a laugh, Chan pops three in one go, minty freshness bursting across his tongue. Minho is much less conservative, tossing back half the pack in one go and chewing vigorously while he maintains intense eye contact with him. By the time he’s finished, Chan is in stitches and can hardly stay still. Minho kisses him anyway, smearing their mutual amusement into one big mess.

“What’s your favourite kind of cuisine?” he asks later, thumbing the chain necklace along Chan’s throat. “American? Italian?”

“Korean barbeque actually.”

“Great. I’ll take you to one on Sunday then.”

Chan wraps one arm around Minho’s waist and experiments with the solidness of it. “Sounds like a plan.”

Barbeque is great. Minho continues to be greater. By Sunday’s arrival, he switches his hair to a honey blonde, a colour that is less striking than the silver than Chan was accustomed to, but no less flattering. Chan can hardly keep his eyes off him the entire evening. It must be part of Minho’s masterplan because every so often, whenever he catches him staring, he suppresses a knowing smirk.

“We should probably wash away the smell of the restaurant,” he says as they exist the establishment to enter another balmy night, their bellies satiated. “Your place or mine?”

Chan considers. “Is Yongbok still at yours?”

“Yeah,” he admits, grimacing somewhat. “What about Hyunjin?”

“He’s home too. But he’ll leave if I tell him to.”

He implied as much when he found out that Chan’s plans for the evening consisted of a date – and a date with Minho no less. He might’ve said quite a bit more than that while he was at it, but Minho doesn’t need to know all of that.

“Okay,” Minho says. “Give him a ring and tell him to disappear.”

They make a paltry attempt at pretending like they’re only stopping off to shower off the stink of the barbequed meat. The farce lasts for as long as it takes Minho to haul his shirt over his head, drop it to the bathroom floor and look at Chan expectantly. Tonight’s request needs no words.

When Chan mimics his actions, he emerges to the sight of a wicked smile.

“Impressive,” Minho notes, nodding to his torso.

Once upon a time, he had a six pac that was so defined, it could be used as an ironing board. Twenty seven years old and married to a job that keeps him glued to a seat for most hours of the day, Chan’s abdomen isn’t quite so defined anymore, but Minho’s admiration is no less sincere. Any would-be insecurities fall away.

“Thanks.” Chan grins. “I could say the same about you.”

“And you should,” he replies. He reaches over to snag Chan’s fingers, reeling him closer. “Come. I need you to shampoo my hair.”

Two orgasms and one memory of Minho on his knees richer, they dry off in Chan’s room. He tosses over a t-shirt and sweatpants for Minho to borrow for the night, then pulls out a set of his own. Most of his wardrobe is black which means that by sheer happenstance, they’re now wearing couple clothes. Fuck, he’s turning into mush already.

“So this is the infamous bed,” Minho states. He makes a show of crouching to inspect the shadowy sliver beneath the base and the floor. “Just as I suspected. Still full of dust.”

“Does it really matter?” Chan asks. “You have permission to bunk on top with me now.”

“Instead of just attacking you in your sleep you mean?”

“I don’t think I’ll be doing much sleeping with you around,” he admits.

Minho lets out a startled bark. “Pervert.”

“Can’t help it.” He shrugs. “Not when you’re so pretty.”

The compliment turns Minho sunset red. Looking away, he bites back a smile and mutters something about how Chan is a huge sap.

He embraces the accusation wholeheartedly. He is a sap in his relationships. Always has been.

“Come warm up the bed,” Minho says, sliding under the sheets. He makes a show of trembling. “It’s colder than a polar bear’s balls in here.”

“Is this your way of asking for cuddles?”

“Just shut up and hug me, hyung. I’ve already sucked your dick, you don’t need any more of an ego boost.”

Laughing, Chan switches off the main lights and crawls in after him. As soon as he’s settled, Minho slides across the gap between them and melts into the edges of his body. This time, his shiver is too realistic to be anything other than sincere. Taking pity on him, Chan pulls him in properly, rubbing up and down the path of his arms. Above them, his LED wall lamp casts them both in a rose pink glow.

Four months later, he texts his mum a picture of Minho. Reading glasses slipping down his nose, an oversized sweater matching its tenuous grasp by falling off one shoulder. He isn’t looking at the camera, too preoccupied with Dori and Doongie on his lap. Soonie watches from the side, one unimpressed half of his face captured in the very corner of the image.

No need to worry about me anymore, he tells her. Life sorted itself out.