Chapter Text
With a camera in his face, there isn’t much Minho can do except smile and clench one fist very carefully behind his back. Seungmin is cheerfully haunting the space behind one of his shoulders and going into one of his goofy songs.
“Lee Lee Know-hyung is getting his makeup done,” Seungmin sings, lilting, “and it’s his favorite style in the world.”
Minho makes droll eye contact with the camera in the mirror as candy-pink glitter eyeshadow is swept under his brow bones. “Uh huh,” he answers.
“Our maknae Lee Know loves to look cute,” Seungmin continues. He pats Minho’s still-unstyled hair, which is pinned back from his face with a few metal barrettes. “He can’t wait to show Stay his aegyo on stage—”
“Yah,” Minho interrupts. He glances at the camera again, which feels like it’s pinning him in place even more than the makeup chair. “Kim Seungmin, we’ll talk later at the dorm.”
Seungmin laughs delightedly. The only threats that Minho ever follows through with are the ones against Hyunjin, and that’s only because Hyunjin loves to be annoying even in the dorm when there are no cameras, and also because he’s fun to pester. When they get home tonight, Minho is much more likely to buy Seungmin food than do anything about this song, the teasing, the disrespect. And anyway Minho isn’t inclined to bring this up again; his ears are already starting to go hot at the weight of Seungmin’s attention, and giving Seungmin ammunition is a great way to embarrass himself further down the line.
You two are evenly matched, Chan had told him at one point, grinning lopsidedly. It’s funny to see how you are with each other.
So funny, Minho remembers answering sarcastically, because he didn’t want to admit that they’re not evenly matched at all.
How long has it been now that Minho has been playing a losing game?
“You’re done,” the makeup artist tells him, inflicting him with one last faceful of powder before stepping aside to start working on Jeongin a few chairs over. Minho stays put, since in the next five minutes a hair straightener will surely descend upon him.
Seungmin is still hovering, goofy smile in place even when the cameras leave to observe whatever the hell Jisung and Hyunjin are doing to Changbin. It sounds rowdy. Poor fucking guy. “Think they’ll kill him?” Seungmin wonders aloud.
“Yeah,” Minho answers.
“Dibs on his clothes.”
“Sure you can fill out those shoulders?”
Seungmin snorts. “Not to wear. To sell, obviously. My bills won’t pay themselves.”
“What bills?” Minho retorts. “You spend all your money on books and throat spray for your voice, like a nerd. I bet you even—”
He’s interrupted by the stylist walking over, tools in hand. “I’m going to get started on your hair now,” she chirps, and she looks like she means business.
Minho agrees pliantly. Behind them, Changbin has been tackled to the floor and is yelling something incomprehensible. Seungmin melts away to sit next to Jeongin, speaking in a low voice to him. It’s only when he’s gone that Minho catches his own expression in the mirror and realizes he’s still smiling.
/
Changbin finds him after the show, head down, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Hyung,” he mumbles, “are you busy tonight?”
Minho was planning to sleep early so he’s not a zombie at the gym in the morning, but Changbin looks rough, dark circles and stiff shoulders and the severe slash of his mouth pressed into a thin line. Minho can be an asshole, but he’s not so much of one that he doesn’t answer, “Not busy. You wanna order food?”
Changbin shrugs but says, “Yeah, okay.”
“All right,” responds Minho.
Changbin shifts on his feet, chews on the inside of his cheek. It looks like he wants to say something else, but it never comes. After a long moment, he just adds, “Thanks, hyung,” and then he slips away.
/
Seungmin comes to sit next to Minho on the couch that evening. “Ordering food?” he asks, hair still wet from the shower. He’s so soft like this, sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, glasses perched on his nose.
“For me and Changbin,” Minho replies flatly. “I know you’re trying to freeload.”
“You guys have been hanging out a lot lately.” For once, Seungmin doesn’t seem like he’s trying to start anything. His face is open, curious. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine.”
“Are you?”
Minho frowns. “Yah, I’m fine. What are you so nosy for?”
Seungmin’s knee bumps against Minho’s thigh when he shifts, limbs contorted as he tries to fuse his body with the couch. Don’t get too comfortable, Minho wants to say, I’m kicking you out in a second, but he’s taken aback by this Seungmin, stripped down the way he gets when he’s tired but always speaking with that same incisive clarity.
“Just wondering, hyung. I know we usually…” he furrows his brows, waving a hand between the two of them messily, “but you can talk to me. If you want. Or need.”
Minho feels himself pull a face at the earnestness, such a departure from their usual back and forth. He tries to wrangle it back under control as soon as it happens, but a flash of hurt crosses Seungmin’s expression before he can manage to, and then Changbin is wandering in with a baggy t-shirt hanging over his frame and squinting between the two of them.
“You guys good?”
“Yeah, we’re fine,” Seungmin says, before Minho can explain himself. “Enjoy your snacks, hyungs.” He peels himself up from the couch, all graceless limbs, and goes back to his room before anyone can respond. The door shuts gently behind him and leaves silence.
Changbin blinks. Looks at Minho.
Minho blinks back, guileless, and tries a smile. “I ordered food,” he says, wiggling his phone in the air. “Should be here in fifteen.”
“Thanks. Sure you’re fine?”
“You’re the one with the crisis,” Minho bites back, which is a little mean.
Changbin seems unsurprised, and the blow doesn’t land. He just shrugs and plops down next to Minho in the spot where Seungmin was. It’s probably still warm. Minho doesn’t want to think about that.
“It’s not a crisis,” Changbin eventually says. “Just. Last week, when we stayed the night together…”
“You fucked,” Minho guesses.
“No,” Changbin hisses, but the hectic red of his ears gives away that Minho wasn’t entirely off base. “We kissed,” he continues, still quiet. He almost sounds shy. “Made out, I guess, but that’s it. And things have been mostly normal since, but I don’t know what it meant for him.”
Minho nods, pursing his lips and trying to look deep in thought to hide the stab of envy that shoots through him. It’s not fair to feel like this, he knows. Hyunjin could not be less like Seungmin if he tried, and Changbin seems more distressed than smug. But when they’d left Changbin and Hyunjin behind that night, some part of Minho had known things would turn.
On the flight home, Minho sat next to Chan. Seungmin, in the row ahead, turned around just once to very politely ask Minho to stop kicking his seat—Minho admitted to doing no such thing—and spent the rest of it dozing on Jisung’s shoulder. Chan had wanted to talk music. Minho talked music with him. And when they got home they all went to sleep and got ready for the show in the morning, and that was that.
“Have you talked to him about it?” he asks.
“And said what?” Changbin retorts. He huffs a sigh, massaging his own forehead. “I don’t know what to say to him, hyung.”
Minho tries not to roll his eyes. He only does an average job by the way Changbin’s mouth tightens, but that’s good enough. “Well, what do you want from him?”
“I mean…” Changbin’s ears pinken. “You know what I want, hyung. But it’s not— I can’t ask him for that.”
“For what?”
“To, you know. Hold his hand, buy his coffee. Write cheesy shit about him and let him actually know it’s about him. To kiss him more and feel like it’s special, I— ugh,” Changbin groans, dropping his head into his hands. He continues without looking up. “It’s so fucking embarrassing. I feel like I’m fifteen.”
Minho hums. “You want romance.”
Changbin snorts. “Don’t pretend like that’s not what you want, too.”
“I regret telling you anything if you’re going to be like that about it.”
“Calm down, hyung.” Changbin finally sits back up, expression wry. “I just mean neither of us has any room to talk. There’s no higher ground here. We’re just a couple of sad sacks.”
Minho would love to shoot back an ugly retort, but Changbin is right. Minho has no legs to stand on with the kinds of things he’s texted Changbin in moments of weakness. Nothing too cutesy, but it’s embarrassing all the same: tender, hopeless feelings that he can’t stamp out or tuck away for longer than a few days at a time. It’s Seungmin diligently practicing in a vocal room long after others have gone home. It’s Seungmin at home, humming to himself while he makes coffee. Seungmin half asleep on Minho’s shoulder in the car on the way to a schedule and the little breaths he huffs against Minho’s neck like he can’t tell he’s doing it. Seungmin’s big eyes blinking at him from across a room. His brows quirking in a question Minho doesn’t know how to answer.
Seungmin is smart. Sees things most other people would miss.
Minho holds himself very, very carefully.
He’s saved from having to answer by his phone ringing, alerting them both to the fact that the food Minho ordered has arrived. It takes a few minutes to grab it, thank the delivery person, and set back up in the living room, but it’s worth it when Minho starts tearing into the jokbal. Changbin goes in on the chicken, and it’s silent for a few moments before Changbin speaks again.
“Hyung, why do you push him away so much?”
Minho almost walks out right there. It’s close. It’s a really close fucking thing. “What do you mean,” he intones, flat. It’s not really a question.
Changbin answers anyway. “I’m not attacking you. Just saying. If he makes you happy… I don’t get the way you two act sometimes.”
“It’s not about happy,” Minho all but spits back.
Changbin’s eyebrows fly up. “Whoa, fine. Forget I said anything, jeez.”
Minho briefly finds himself wanting to apologize, but he dismisses the thought. “Feels like we should be able to relate to each other more,” he says instead. Keeps his tone light.
Changbin accepts the peace offering warily. “Yeah, I guess so.”
He’s still holding a half-eaten piece of jokbal, sauce threatening to drip onto the couch, but Minho is finding, suddenly, that he has a lot to say. “Because both of us have these pathetic crushes, right?” He waits for Changbin to nod before continuing. “And they’re both hopeless. At least mine is. So we sit around and we mope for these two guys and embarrass ourselves with our feelings and then complain to each other because we’re never gonna say anything. Right? It’s kind of funny, actually, in a sad way.”
“Is it?”
“The person you want most is right next to you and wanting them is the worst fucking thing in the world.”
“Hyung—”
“Don’t, okay? I know you got to have your fun makeout fantasy and now you’re having a freak out about it, but at least— god, I don’t know. I’m being an asshole. I’m not even drunk.” He laughs a hysterical little laugh.
“Hyung—” Changbin tries to cut in again, urgent now. He’s not even looking at Minho, gaze resting instead over Minho’s left shoulder.
But Minho isn’t done. “You know how humiliating this is, but for me… Seungmin doesn’t flirt with me. He doesn’t come sit in my lap or dare me to kiss him. Maybe we’re too fucking different to relate to each other, because your crush is your crush and mine is— Seungmin would never—”
“Hyung?”
Minho freezes, cold dread locking his limbs in place, heart sinking. He feels himself blinking quickly, trying to make sense of things, because that’s— that’s not Changbin’s—
“Hyung,” Seungmin repeats, louder this time. “What do you mean?”
Minho turns to look at him and sees that Seungmin’s eyes are blown wide and red-rimmed, one hand white-knuckling the blanket he’d wrapped himself in to walk out to the living room.
Minho feels outside of his body when he asks, flat, “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough,” says Seungmin.
He could mean thirty seconds or ten minutes. Infuriating.
Minho feels like he’s outside of his body. “Okay,” he says. “All right. Cool.”
“Hyung…” Changbin says. He sounds guilty.
Minho waves a dismissive hand at him, resolutely not looking at Seungmin who’s still hovering in the doorway. “I’m not doing this,” he says. His own voice sounds too loud in his ears. “Super fun hangout, Changbinie, really enjoyed it. I’m leaving.”
“It’s after midnight,” Seungmin says quietly. There’s no sharpness in his voice, but it isn’t soft either. Vacancy, maybe. Shock.
“Good job telling time,” Minho shoots back, “did you learn to do that all by yourself?” He stands from the couch, ignoring Seungmin’s minute flinch. He’ll self-flagellate about it later, when his chest isn’t caving in on itself in this tiny fucking dorm. He shoves his phone in his pocket and heads to the door, grabbing the first pair of shoes he can reasonably identify as his own and stuffing his feet into them while his free hand grabs for a jacket.
“I can sleep on the couch,” Seungmin says. He still sounds blank even when his voice comes out thick. “You don’t have to leave, it’s fine.”
Changbin, still on the couch, is half-frozen like he doesn’t want to make a wrong move, far from his usual brash demeanor. “Where are you going?”
Minho rolls his eyes. “Company building. Don’t wait up for me.” He doesn’t wait for an answer from either of them before opening the door, slipping into the night, and shutting it definitively behind him.
/
He’s aimless in the studio, mind too clouded with the edges of panic to focus on dancing. He’s tired, too—they’re coming up on the tail end of awards season, but it’s not over yet, and there’s more rehearsal to do in the morning. He should be sleeping. He should be texting someone for PT after he goes to the gym. Instead, he’s sitting with his back against the mirror trying to float far away enough from his body that he doesn’t have to think about any of it anymore.
The thing is, he knows better. Knows to keep his voice down and his words veiled, especially in the same fucking place as Seungmin. Overhearing was always a risk. Minho was so stupid. He wasn’t even drinking.
It runs in his head over and over. What is Seungmin thinking? Will this compromise the group?
His phone buzzes in his pocket and he ignores it.
He does end up dancing eventually. Peels himself up off the floor and runs his solo for the dance break he’ll be doing, sharp and neat and determined. His face is totally blank—a constant sticking point for their dance teachers. Lee Know, smile! Lee Know, your expression. Your eyes, your cheeks. Look alive, like you want to be here. Minho wants to be here. Too much, maybe. So much. It’s always the wanting that’s the problem. The thought almost makes him laugh, considering—
A knock at the door makes him jump, yelp tearing out of his throat.
“I’m coming in,” comes a voice.
Minho doesn’t know if it’s the best or worst case scenario when Chan, cap on his head, bags under his eyes, walks into the room and surveys Minho’s sweat-damp posture.
“I’m fine,” Minho says, kneejerk.
Chan smiles at him disarmingly. “I’m sure you are. What are you practicing?”
Minho tries not to frown in response. “Dance break.”
“Show me?”
There’s a beat of silence, but Chan doesn’t say anything else or take it back. He looks totally relaxed despite the fact that it’s just past two in the morning. He must have already been here, working on something in the studio.
Warily, Minho turns on the music and runs the choreo, letting his body lead.
Chan’s eyes on him are sharp even as his expression stays sharp. “Arms,” he calls at one point, and Minho quickly adjusts where he’d gotten lazy on his angles. The music slows, eventually cutting off, and Minho leans down to take a swig from his water bottle.
“It looks great,” Chan says. For as supportive as he always is, he’s not one to give false praise, and Minho lets his shoulders drop.
“Thanks.”
Relaxing was a mistake, though, because Chan immediately capitalizes on Minho’s guard going down. “I heard you and Seungmin fought at the dorm.”
“It wasn’t a fight,” Minho says. “It’s nothing. I’ll deal with it.”
“Didn’t seem like nothing,” Chan replies lightly.
Minho glares at him. “You weren’t there.”
“No,” Chan admits, “but Seungmin called me ten minutes ago. Said he was worried when you didn’t come home, and asked me to make sure you were actually here.”
“I’m an adult.”
“I know that,” says Chan.
It’s easier to stay angry. “I don’t break promises either. I said I’d be here. No one has to check up on me like I’m— like I’m irresponsible or something, seriously.”
“You’re trustworthy,” Chan placates. “I know that. Seungmin knows it too. So it made me worried when he thought you might have lied to him. You two mess around a lot, but you don’t lie like that. To any of us, but especially to him.”
“Don’t say that,” replies Minho tightly.
Chan isn’t cowed. “Which part?”
“What else did Seungmin tell you?”
Chan sighs, gesturing for Minho to sit against the wall and doing the same himself. Minho’s shirt sticks to his back when he moves. They end up side by side, and Chan’s expression is too gentle to spell anything but trouble. “Nothing private,” Chan says. “Just that he overheard something by accident, and he thought you might be mad at him. But he sounded pretty shaken.”
“It won’t cause problems for the group,” Minho says, and even as he’s speaking it sounds like a lie. Minho can’t promise that. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen. “I’ll work hard. I’ll get over it.”
“Did he do something?” Chan asks.
Minho snorts. “Did Seungmin do something that upset me so much I stormed out of the dorm after midnight?”
Chan cracks a smile. “Fair enough. You know how to handle him.”
“Yeah.”
“So,” Chan says, and his voice is soft again, “what happened, then?”
Frankly, it’s surprising that it took them this long to get to the point. Minho still stiffens. “I’ll fix it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
God, it’s frustrating when Chan goes into dad mode, but Minho knows there’s no wiggling his way out of this unless he chooses to stop talking entirely. He considers it for a moment; shutting down is tempting. But if Minho doesn’t talk, Chan will corner Seungmin about it, and that’s not— Chan can’t hear it from Seungmin. It’s bad enough that he’s hearing it at all, but it can’t be Seungmin.
“I was talking to Changbin,” Minho says after a long pause.
Chan makes an encouraging sound.
“We got late night snacks, and we were just talking. About stuff.”
“About stuff,” Chan echoes, amused but not mocking. “Very specific.”
Minho shrugs one shoulder in a jagged movement. “His secrets are his,” Minho says, and Chan nods at that understandingly. “Anyway, I started saying some things about Seungmin that must have surprised him. He seemed upset, but I didn’t mean anything bad by it. It wasn’t bad.”
“And you cleared that up with him?”
Minho grimaces. “And I left the dorm and came here.”
“Ah,” says Chan. “Is there a reason you can’t just go home right now and talk to him?”
“He should be asleep,” Minho replies. “We’re performing tomorrow. It wouldn’t be a short conversation.”
That’s a lie. It will be a short conversation. Minho is planning to say, Forget you heard anything, and then they can never speak of it again. He’ll mope for a bit, but he’ll do so silently. Maybe in Changbin’s texts if Changbin forgives him for being shitty about his thing with Hyunjin. And then he’ll move on and they won’t have to deal with Minho’s humiliating inconvenient feelings and things can be right in the world again.
And maybe Seungmin won’t sleep on Minho’s shoulder anymore. Maybe he won’t sing his little songs or laugh at the jokes Minho makes under his breath just for Seungmin to hear.
Minho will move on. Loving Seungmin has always been on borrowed time, and now the time is up.
Chan looks at him for a long moment before relenting. “You should sleep too. Come on, I’ll come back with you.”
“You’re leaving the company now? It’s not even three.”
“Limited time offer,” Chan says, hoisting himself up and reaching a hand down to help Minho stand. Minho is so surprised he just lets it happen.
/
They’re quiet the whole way back from the dorm, Minho counting steps in his head and replaying the dance over and over so he doesn’t have to think about anything else, until right before they enter. Chan hovers his hand over the keypad, not entering it.
He turns to Minho, skin almost glowing in the moonlight. “Talk to him,” he says, firm but not unkind, and then he beeps them in and goes straight to his room.
Seungmin is sitting on the couch, drowsy-eyed but awake. His face is puffy. It always takes forever for it to go down after he’s cried.
Minho takes a deep breath. “All right, Kim Seungmin,” he says, “I guess we should talk.”
/
Hyunjin is sleeping in Felix’s bed tonight, according to Seungmin’s report. He’d gotten whiney about being left alone in the room and ran off to seek a cuddle buddy. It’s probably a cute sight. Minho doesn’t much care beyond the fact that it leaves their room empty for this conversation, which he’ll take as a win. In a perfect world they’re not dealing with this in the same place they live and potentially tarnishing it forever, but it is what it is.
“Are you okay?” Minho gets out first, forcing the words into the air between them.
Seungmin, sitting on his own bunk across from Minho, shrugs. He’s staring hard at his knees.
He looks young. It’s easy to forget sometimes that he’s the second youngest in the group when he carries so much responsibility on his shoulders. Easy for all of them to convince themselves that there’s nothing Seungmin can’t handle.
But Seungmin’s feelings have always splayed so vibrantly across his features. If he’s feeling something, it’s not a secret, which is just another way Minho and Seungmin are opposites.
“I guess,” Seungmin eventually says. “I don’t really know what happened.”
“You don’t know what happened,” Minho echoes, flat and unimpressed.
Seungmin shrugs again. It’s silent for a moment before he speaks, and this time his voice is thready with nerves. “Are you mad at me?”
Minho softens immediately. “Seungmo,” he says, and waits for Seungmin to look at him. Seungmin does after a moment, eyes wide and threatening to tear up. “Explain to me why I would be mad about anything that happened tonight.”
“I eavesdropped,” Seungmin replies. “And you sounded really upset. About, um. About me.”
“I’m not mad.”
Some of the steel comes back into Seungmin’s spine as he blinks and then narrows his eyes. “I’m the worst fucking thing in the world, you said.”
The bed creaks under Minho when he shifts. “That’s not what I said.”
“Yes it is.”
“It’s not.”
“I was literally there, that’s the whole reason we’re having this conversation.”
Minho pinches the bridge of his nose. Seungmin is infuriating. Even now, volleying a ridiculous misunderstanding back and forth to no productive end, Minho can’t help but let his gaze catch on Seungin’s wide eyes, his pouting lower lip, the way his jaw tenses with frustration. His long, pretty fingers fisted in the hem of his own shirt.
“Then you should know it’s not about you,” Minho says. “I’m frustrated with myself. You don’t have to concern yourself with it.”
Seungmin’s eyebrows fly up in disbelief. “It’s definitely about me. I’m not sure you could have been clearer that it’s about me.”
Minho’s ears burn. “It doesn’t matter. I’m dealing with it.”
“Hyung, don’t— I— hyung,” Seungmin repeats, almost pleading. “You’re deciding everything without me.”
“Because you don’t have to concern yourself with it.”
“Can you stop with the martyrdom?” Seungmin scoots forward until he’s halfway off the bunk, feet on the floor like he’s going to start running at any moment or launch himself at Minho and punch him in the face. If he wanted to, Minho wouldn’t stop him. “Will you just— what will it take for you to sit here and actually talk to me?”
Minho feels cornered, sick with it. “There’s nothing to discuss,” he tries, but it’s hard to hold his ground when Seungmin sounds so upset. “What do you want me to say?”
Seungmin growls, a small, frustrated noise. “This isn’t a game.”
“When did I say it was?”
“You’re treating me like I’m stupid. I heard what you said. I even thought— I don’t know why we’re fighting about this. It’s not bad, hyung.”
Minho hears himself laugh, ugly and mirthless. “No? It’s not bad?”
“It’s not,” Seungmin maintains. His hands have moved to the edge of the mattress, ready at any moment to press himself up.
“So what do we do, hm? Because I don’t see any version of this where talking about it stops us both from feeling even worse about everything. Do you want to hear me hash out all the details? Embarrass myself further? Or would you rather yell at me more for not having this conversation the way you want me to?”
“This isn’t a conversation!”
Minho snorts. “Right, sorry. All-knowing Kim Seungmin-ssi, please get us back on track.” He realizes distantly that his hands have started to shake, adrenaline catching up with him. It’s after three in the morning now. He genuinely feels like he might throw up.
“You said you weren’t mad,” Seungmin responds. His shoulders sag.
Minho wants to tear himself inside out. Wants to go back three hours and stop himself, take it back, do it over. Prevent Seungmin from ever hearing him in the first place.
“There’s a reason I didn’t tell you,” Minho eventually answers.
“And I’m assuming you won’t tell me that either.”
Minho shuts his eyes and exhales, long and slow. “We should sleep.”
Seungmin sounds indignant when he responds, “We should not sleep. Hyung, what the hell? You said—”
“I said a lot of things,” Minho jumps in. He can’t hear Seungmin say it out loud. Anything but that. “This isn’t an open forum. If I wanted your opinion I would have asked.”
Seungmin makes a short, sharp noise. “I hate it when you treat me like this.”
Minho lets his eyes slit open. “It’s after three,” he says, and this time he tries to put it forward like a peace offering. “We perform in the morning. We’re both tired and emotional tonight. Can we table this?”
Seungmin makes another upset little huff, looking down. “We’ll never talk about it again.”
“We can,” Minho says. No response. “Seungmin-ah, we can. Let me process. I need to think about what to say.”
“So I need to just wait?”
In a perfect world, they really do never talk about it again, but Minho knows Seungmin. If nothing else, this will eat him up horribly if they don’t revisit it, and as much as Minho hates everything about tonight thus far, he knows Seungmin can’t live with a loose end like that. It’ll affect the team, but more importantly it will just hurt him.
“Tomorrow night,” Minho promises. “After the performance. Okay?”
Seungmin drags his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around his shins, curled into a ball now. “How do I know you won’t just run away again?”
Ouch, thinks Minho. But it’s fair. Minho knows that Seungmin probably doesn’t think his word is enough. “What do you need from me? To prove it?”
Seungmin faces him, and his gaze is seeking for a moment. Searching. Like he’s looking for something Minho doesn’t know how to give. Minho has been pinned by those eyes before, and it’s always unnerving, overwhelming.
“Can I ask for anything?” Seungmin asks him.
Minho’s heart starts to race. “What?” He blinks. “I mean. Yeah, I guess, just nothing dangerous. We do have to perform tomorrow.”
“It’s not dangerous,” Seungmin says, and then he stands.
Minho watches warily as Seungmin walks towards him until he’s right in Minho’s face, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. “Seungmin,” Minho says, nearly accompanied by a nervous laugh.
“Tell me to stop,” Seungmin answers. The wild edge to his gaze is unfamiliar, but there’s nothing new about the way determination hardens the planes of his face.
Minho holds his breath and says nothing as Seungmin kneels on Minho’s bunk, straddling Minho’s lap and balancing with his hands. His nails dig briefly into Minho’s shoulders when he squeezes, and then Seungmin lets go, weight settling, in favor of holding Minho’s waist.
“Last chance,” murmurs Seungmin.
Minho doesn’t move a muscle. “It’ll take more than that to scare me off,” he somehow finds it in himself to quip.
Seungmin flashes the ghost of a smile. It’s the most like himself he’s looked since Minho was teasing him about freeloading, what feels like a lifetime ago now.
And then Seungmin’s grip tightens. And then Seungmin leans in.
The kiss grows hungry before either of them have their bearings. Minho can’t help it. He just barely stops himself from making a needy sound, tilting up into Seungmin and holding his biceps in return just for something to do with his hands. Oh my god, Minho’s mind starts playing on a loop, vague panic swirling under how fucking easy it is to get lost in this.
It’s not fair that it’s this good. When Minho makes a cut-off noise, Seungmin’s hands grip tightly at Minho, fingers pressing hard into the skin of his hips.
Minho hopes they bruise.
When they pull apart, Seungmin’s eyes stay closed. For one dangling moment, Minho almost fails to shove down the hysterical urge to press a soft kiss to the wrinkle between his brows. Seungmin thinks about everything so hard. Takes so much responsibility.
One breath and then another. Minho leans away.
“Go to sleep,” he murmurs. Seungmin is still close enough to hear just fine.
Seungmin opens his eyes, but Minho doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t want to see whatever’s trapped in his lighthouse gaze.
“Is your alarm set?” Seungmin asks as he climbs delicately off of Minho’s lap.
Minho nods curtly.
“Okay,” Seungmin answers. Rustling, as he gets onto his own bed. The click of a light turning off.
Minho gets up to go brush his teeth, wash his face, maybe take a shower if he can convince himself too. He’s kind of gross from practicing, but he didn’t dance that hard. He spent too much of his time in the studio sitting on his ass thinking about how his world was falling apart around him and not enough sweating for things to be dire.
Still, though. Almost like he’s watching himself do it, Minho turns on the shower, steps into the water, scrubs himself down. It’s therapeutic. It’s buying time.
Twenty minutes later, he’s all freshened up and ready for bed, hair mostly dry, and he steps gingerly back into his bedroom.
All of the lights are off, so Minho guides himself to his bed with his phone at lowest brightness. Seungmin’s breathing is too quiet to gauge. Is he asleep? He must be. It’s so late. They have to be up so early, just a few hours from now.
Once he gets under the covers, Minho lets out a long, slow sigh, trying to relax his shoulders. He’s not good at being stressed like this, especially about something so earth-shattering; it feels wrong that the room is so quiet, that Seungmin is sleeping, that Minho keeps having to squash down the urge to drag a hand across his own lower lip like some lovesick fool in a drama. Somewhere else in the dorm, Chan is probably still lying awake, and the only reason he hasn’t come in here is because he trusted Minho to talk to Seungmin like an adult. Funny. Really good joke.
Minho shuts his eyes in lieu of staring at the bottom of Hyunjin’s bunk above him, but it’s the same fucking blankness staring back.
Across the room, Seungmin makes a snuffling sound, shifting just a little. Yeah, definitely asleep. He’s dreaming like he should be, letting his body rest before the performance tomorrow morning. Seungmin is cute when he sleeps, puffy-faced and slack-mouthed. Once he fell asleep with his cheek pillowed on Minho’s thigh, and Minho pretended to grumble about it but shushed everyone in a ten-meter radius, holding absolutely, perfectly still so Seungmin wouldn't be disturbed. He sleeps lightly but he sleeps well, describes a dreamscape of fantastical, strange goings-on that often include the other members. It's cute, that he thinks of them even when he's dozing. Cute that even in his mind there's a place where they're happy and going on adventures. Minho shows up in the dreams sometimes, he knows. Seungmin talks about it with an awful, fond little smile on his face, like he's remembering what happened in this space he made for them.
Minho grimaces at himself and uneasily follows him there.
