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"Hey, hot-stuff," Minho greets him as soon as Changbin picks up the call, "My place tonight?"
"Hey, hyung," Changbin sandwiches his phone between his cheek and shoulder as he takes out his wallet and pays the awaiting florist, who takes his bill with a grateful bow and hands him the bouquet he's just bought, "Where else?"
"Just checking. You could have a surprise fancy dinner planned out, for all I know," He says. Changbin can hear purring from the other end of the line, and assumes Minho's got a snuggly cat on top— Doongie, probably, "Or an impromptu trip to Bali."
"I'm saving that for the ten year mark," Changbin says. He brings the flowers up to his nose and gives them a sniff. They're white tulips intertwined with lavender, and they smell heavenly. He made the right choice by asking the staff for help.
"Okay," Minho sighs, disappointed, "But when it happens, please don't make it a surprise. I hate stress-packing."
"You never let me be romantic."
"That's not true," Minho argues. The purring gets louder, then subdues. Changbin can perfectly picture Minho changing the phone to the other ear as Doongie buries his snout in his neck— he's captured similar moments in photographs before, "I'm preparing a vase with water because I know you'll bring flowers tonight. You do it every year."
He'd gone for roses the first time, and Minho had let out a delighted laugh as soon as he'd opened the door to find Changbin hiding half of his face behind pink cellophane paper. They'd looked for jars and empty glass bottles to put them in and left a hint of red in every room at Minho's house. Minho had kept them on display until the last petal dropped despite Jeongin telling him decaying flowers made for unappealing decor every time he visited, and bought a big vase just days later to hold the upcoming ones together.
Lilies greeted people into Minho's apartment the second year, and carnations on the third. Changbin holds onto the fourth-year tulips a little bit tighter, though still gentle enough not to bend the stem.
"I'm not telling you about my plans for Bali, hyung."
"Whatever. I warned you. Hit me with you have two hours to pack and you'll end up with a romantic getaway for one."
"We'll see in six years," Changbin says, amused, "Tonight it's just your house, and I'm giving you a three hour heads-up to get dolled up. That okay with you?"
"Hm. I guess," Minho heaves another sigh, like talking to Changbin takes tremendous effort, and Changbin smiles like he's been part of a different conversation this whole time. It's not strange if you're as knowledgeable in Lee Minho as he is— a sigh can be translated into an I love you… sometimes. Among other things, "See you later, Bin."
"Yeah, bye. Happy anniversary, hyung."
.
It was silly, and they were seventeen. A guy who had been following Minho around all night had approached them for the third time since they'd sat at the edge of the pool to dip their feet in, and Changbin had already had a hand on Minho's thigh from when he'd tried to make him squirm by touching him with cold fingers. It was convenient— it had only made sense.
"Dude, cut it out," Minho had blurted out, "I'm literally here with my boyfriend."
Changbin had slipped into the role without a shadow of a doubt, pulling Minho's leg onto his lap and welcoming the other's weight as he leaned against his side, "We've been trying to have a moment to ourselves all night, man. Take a hint."
The guy had stuttered his way through an apology and left with an embarrassed pink hue on his face, be it because of the alcohol in his system or for having to be told off so bluntly. Minho and Changbin had watched him stumble back into Jisung's house, where the music thrummed loudly against the speakers and drowned the sound of their exploding laughter. They had been a little tipsy, too, running hot from a shared bottle of something and inexperience in drinking, and it was the funniest thing to happen in their lives.
"What the fuck was that?" Minho had asked in between bursts of giggles, propping his chin on Changbin's shoulder and teasing him for his performance, "A moment to ourselves. I didn't know you wanted to get me alone so bad, babe."
"Then maybe there's a hint you need to take, too," Changbin had said, and paired the lousy line with an uncoordinated wink that had sent them into another fit, falling on their backs on the grass as their feet splashed water all around.
The sky had been beautifully clear back then, a starry night in full splendor, and they'd stayed to watch it shimmer until belly-laughs turned into blows of air they'd breathe out once in a while. Changbin had offered to pillow Minho's head on his arm at some point, though it had quickly shifted to a spot on his chest after Minho claimed there wasn't enough muscle in his biceps for him to be comfortable.
"I'm working on it," Changbin had said, wrapping the rejected arm around Minho's shoulders, "I'll bulk up soon."
"Not too much, though," Minho had mumbled, hot breath sneaking through the thin layer of Changbin's shirt and warming his skin, "I like you squishy."
"You like me all the time," Changbin had argued with a smirk, poking a finger against Minho's cheek, "I'm your boyfriend— you said it."
"Just for tonight. Don't get too attached."
Changbin had craned his neck to plant a kiss on the crown of Minho's head, and dodged that hint like a bullet.
.
"You said three hours, Changbin-ah," Minho says in a reproaching tone, unlocking the door for him and sprinting out of sight before Changbin can say hello, "It's been 165 minutes, to be exact. Wait— 166, now."
"Thought I'd surprise you with plane tickets," Changbin teases, kicking his shoes off and pushing them to the side. He walks further into the apartment and comes to a stop at the bathroom door, where he knows Minho's endlessly retouching his make-up, "Our flight leaves in half an hour, sugar-plum."
Minho pokes his head out and casts him a murderous glare, accentuated by the dark brown shade on his eyelids, "Say it's a joke before I kill you."
"Gotcha!" Changbin grins. He was trying to get a rise out of him just for the fun of it, but he's glad his little trick has coincidentally granted him the first peek of the night at Minho's face, as well, "You really think I could do something like that to you, hyung?"
Minho turns the bathroom light off and steps out fully, walking toward the kitchen, "You made me share a milkshake with you in public last year, heart straws and all— I know you could."
"You sipped willingly. They were voluntary sips," Changbin argues. He trails after Minho and stands a careful distance away as he opens the oven slightly to check what's baking inside. The scent reaches Changbin immediately, almost causing him to melt on the spot, "Oh. That smells delicious."
"It needs a couple more minutes," Minho says, closing it back up and leaning his hip against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, "I would've surprised you with it if you had given me the full three hours."
Changbin smiles wide and fond, getting rid of the space between them until he's got Minho within arm's reach. He puts the tulips up to his nose, hiding behind them like he always does, and lifts his eyebrows up and down in a playful manner. Minho lets a chuckle slip past his lips, throws the kitchen towel clutched in his hand over his shoulder to be able to wrap his fingers around the bouquet.
"Thank you," He says, caressing the petals gently, the back of his hand running smoothly against silky white, "I'll keep them in my room this time, got the vase there already— I'll be back in a second."
Changbin watches him go with a light spring to his step, notices for the first time that Minho's wearing the baby blue shirt he'd gotten for him the year before, and remembers he'd sprinkled the cologne he'd received in return before leaving his house. It's nice— this thing they do, it's cute. It started as a joke, but their common friends have taken it as one for longer than they have. They don't ask if their anniversary is soon in the same way Changbin and Minho enthusiastically answer yes.
They've never half-assed this day of the year, or ordered in pizza and called it a night. Each gift is picked with a lot of thought, hidden in underwear drawers months beforehand, and each plan is crafted to be a good time they wouldn't typically have. It's special, and Changbin finds himself counting down to it as soon as the month starts, eager for the words to roll past his lips, and for the matching ones to reach his ears.
"Happy anniversary, Bin," Minho chirps, startling him out of his thoughts. The stars under which they'd first held each other as anything other than friends, even if fake, seem to be perpetually trapped in Minho's eyes. Changbin feels his heart pump a few beats stronger than the others.
I love you, he thinks. But he's always loved him, only maybe not like this, "Happy anniversary, hyung."
.
"I thought it was going to be a one time thing," Chan had said once, after Minho had quickly rejected an invite to go out the following weekend by squeezing Changbin's shoulder and telling their table that they had a romantic dinner scheduled.
The event on Changbin's Google Calendar had been typed in as soon as he'd gotten a yes to the reservation.
"Why do it once when you can do it annually?" Minho had asked with a shrug, "Changbinnie gets me gifts, and I have an excuse to look dazzling. I'd be a fool not to milk this thing to my advantage."
"What's in it for you?" Seungmin had raised an eyebrow in question, with a subtle move of his chin used to point at Changbin.
"He gets all red when I tell him he looks nice," Changbin had said, deeming it self-explanatory. Their friends had picked up their glasses with somewhat synchronized eye-rolls, and Minho had provided evidence to support his claim by having his blood rush to the tip of his ears at dizzying speed.
"Shut up or I'm cancelling it."
Chan had twisted his face at the taste of a little spice burning its way down his throat and vaguely waved a sauce-dipped fry in Minho's direction, "My offer still stands."
"You wouldn't," Changbin had uttered with a smile. It felt nice to be so sure of it— to find out that Minho's hand had migrated to the back of his neck and curved its warmth around his skin, a thumb caressing the shell of his ear absentmindedly.
"Only because I want to see what you get me this year," Minho had said, and Changbin had been the only one to catch the admittance that lay behind the words despite them being meant to dodge anything similar to a yes, you're right, "It's purely materialistic interest."
Changbin could've almost laughed. Minho solely buys things for others— he's the one who is a serial gift-er. Everyone at their table has received at least one package from Minho on a random day, and watched as he shrugged off their questions. What do you mean why? I don't have to answer that. Their anniversary is the only occasion in which Changbin can actually give back all the little things Minho slips in the pockets of his jacket when he's not looking (a feather, a necklace, a pin, a poorly drawn portrait of him) in the form of presents.
"Anyone else feel like vomiting?" Hyunjin had interrupted before Changbin could open his mouth to call out the blatant lie, and it would've passed as a jab if not for the sickly paleness of his skin.
Minho's hand had stilled on Changbin's nape, and he'd looked at Hyunjin with a frown, "Bathroom?"
Hyunjin had nodded, but the motion had only helped worsen the situation, "Yeah. Oh, God."
"I told you guys we shouldn't have let him drink," Minho had clicked his tongue before stepping out of his chair and collecting Hyunjin's wobbly frame, "Let's get you some water, too."
Changbin had sat and watched Minho's caring nature pour out in buckets, heard him gently reprehend Hyunjin out of worry as he held his hair up, and his heartbeat had spoken the word for him for the first time. Love. It hadn't surprised him as much as it should have, but then again, Changbin has never been one to run away from his feelings. He'd accepted the realization with a certain curiosity and let the four letters spell it out for him again.
L-O-V-E. Changbin could tell right away that they weren't lying.
.
What have writers and poets done if not spent their lives embellishing that same emotion in a hundred different ways? Butterflies in your tummy and fireworks behind eyelids as you kiss them. People keep the letters in a box and lock it up until it's time to bring them out— they're not to be wasted, said without meaning. In the way they put it, it can be so strong it sometimes turns maddening.
"Ta–da!" Minho chirps happily, setting the pie down on the kitchen counter for Changbin to see, "There's a heart in the middle."
"It looks like a circle."
"The time in the oven ruined it. I should've just made you eat it raw."
Nothing about how Changbin loves Minho has changed. There's no anxious tingling when he sees him, and he doesn't slip into a nervous stutter when Minho stares at him for too long. All Changbin feels is a special kind of warmth that first wraps around his heart and then branches out to reach the rest of him. This is not new, and it doesn't come and go like sweaty palms— it has been there since he found Minho playing with stray cats at the bus stop when he was 14. Changbin treats it kindly because he'd never want it gone.
"Should we watch something while it cools off?" Minho asks with a tilt of his head. His earrings are also Changbin's gift, a birthday one.
Changbin smiles, "Sure. Any ideas?"
Minho ends up picking out the same horror movie he chooses everytime he doesn't know what to watch— the plot is so familiar they've both come to treat it as a light-hearted film to destress to, or to pass the time. He waits for Changbin to get comfy before studying his position to determine which part of him he'll use as a pillow for the night. Changbin doesn't know why he still does this. In the end, he always chooses thighs.
"Just like Soonie," Changbin says, flying a hand to rest on Minho's head. He starts to thread his fingers through his hair, careful not to pull.
"Not true," Minho says. When Changbin allows his nails to gently scratch his scalp once, he almost purrs, "Soonie hates your guts."
"You don't?"
Minho sends him a look over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around for it, "Don't ask stupid questions."
Maybe Changbin can be the one to write about this; introduce a different side to the known explosion. He'd replace fireworks for ocean waves that hit the shore with a calm, sizzling sound, and the butterflies would be commencing the tender journey out of their chrysalis instead of recklessly batting their wings. He's inked paper with similar scattered thoughts before, but never pieced them together for a full song.
Minho's absentminded finger-tapping on his black jeans opens the gate for the melody to build in his head. Ba, ba, ba-dum… It somehow perfectly intertwines with Changbin's serene heartbeat.
.
minho hyung
remember that party at jisungies last year
when you pretended to be my boyfriend
changbini
yeah
minho hyung
it'll be a year since in like a week
let's celebrate
changbini
like… with a party?
minho hyung
just you and me
a fake dating anniversary 🔥
ill cook us something
changbini
LOL hyunggg
that sounds fun
let's!!!😊
minho hyung
[Cat Sticker]
.
Minho brings out two wine glasses and a bottle of rosé when there's only two slices of pie left. Changbin is the one to uncork it and pour it in. Minho grabs his own glass by the base of the cup and gently moves it in circles before lifting it up for a good smell.
"I used to hate the scent," He says, tilting his head back for a short sip, "And the flavor."
"You spit it out on someone's shoes the first time we tried it," Changbin recalls with a chuckle.
"Wine is an acquired taste. I've acquired it."
The TV has been off for a while now, as well as the ceiling lights. There's only the faint, orange glow of Minho's floor lamp standing tall in a corner, but it's enough. Both of them know their way around the apartment and each other with their eyes closed— the small coffee table with their plates on top is a simple stretch away; Minho's leg is gently brushing against Changbin's.
"This was delicious, hyung," Changbin says, swallowing the last bite and leaning back. He sets a hand on his stomach and places the other arm on the backrest of the couch, "Thank you."
"I texted Yongbok earlier for the recipe," Minho says, poking at the last of his slice with a fork, "We should thank him."
Changbin shakes his head, fond, "You're the one that made it for me, though."
Minho lets himself fall back, as well, head bumping on Changbin's stretched arm and then rolling to one side to look at him, "He wished us a happy anniversary, too."
"Well," Changbin tilts his head until it lies on his shoulder, bringing him closer to Minho. Their foreheads are a breath apart, "Is it a happy one?"
Minho lets his eyes roam Changbin's face and he lets out a soft laugh before turning to look at the ceiling again, "Yeah."
Changbin has Minho's features forever engraved in his memory by now, but he still indulges in tracing them like he wants to learn their curves and stops all over again. The hand on his stomach flies up to follow the slope of his nose, and his thumb travels gently along his jawline. Minho sighs, eyes closed, but Changbin can't fathom blinking now— not when Minho is there. Never when Minho's with him, like this.
"I love you," He says.
Minho smiles like he'd already known, "Me, too."
He's the one to move first, encasing Changbin's wandering fingers with his own and finding his mouth even with his eyelids still clipped shut. He knows exactly where every part of Changbin is, where to touch and where to push. Changbin bends the arm Minho's leaning against to bring him even closer, noses digging eagerly against pinkening cheekbones.
"Hey, Bin?" Minho whispers between them, when their enthusiasm shortens their breathing and forces them to pull away. Changbin cups his cheek and traces the letters on his skin as his heart spells them out for him once more. L, O, V, E, "Next year, let's make it a real one. Okay?"
"Sounds fun, hyung," Changbin says, amusement and adoration clear in his eyes. He pecks Minho's lips once, twice, "Let's."