Work Text:
It wasn’t like Minho wasn’t well-informed that he and Chan were fake dating. It wasn’t like Minho just allowed Chan to cite his identity inside the four-corners of his apartment, all for the sake of a show. It wasn’t like Minho didn’t know what he was getting into—because he knew, for all’s sake, he knew what kind of misery it was—but that didn’t mean he was not allowed to look at the expanse of his worn out ceiling, feel his heart break a thousands of threads, and somehow have a tear running down his sideburn.
Maybe Changbin was right all along when the younger told him that Chan was just naturally kind to everyone. That the mere glances he saw, the litter boxes that he received, and all those takeaways from different restaurants were all the gestures that Chan would do for everyone—let alone him.
Maybe Seungmin, too, was right. That no matter how hard he tried to show to everyone that he was incapable of feeling love, admiration, that he was just fine living as he already was, he still had a soft spot for that guy in his black sweater, black joggers, and black shoes. That no matter how hard he convinced himself that there wasn’t anything more, there always was.
There always was in the way his hand cripples at the sight of Chan running to the couch, clearly exhausted; in the way that his stomach aches by the time Chan groggily whispers to him how he didn’t eat for the rest of the day; in the way that his eyes well up when he saw Chan kissing somebody else that wasn’t him.
There was something more. Something that he held very close to his heart, something that he held too close to him that it only grew distant from Chan.
And maybe, he was right.
He was right to doubt himself from agreeing to fake date a man who got out of a relationship five months ago.
He peered down to see two of his cats sleeping while the other was just looking up at him, about to jump to his side, and probably spare him no glance right after.
It was funny how his life turned around in mere four months, enraging how he allowed someone enter his walls in just three, suffocating when two months was all it take for him to feel more than the giddiness of someone’s warmth, disappointing for choosing to spare no glance at the bits of himself that he left trailing their one and only connection, and acclaiming all the pain that made him for he was—all the tears, wails, scratches, alcohol, and even the slightest bit of nicotine allowed him to close his eyes with nothing but heartsease.
And though Chan’s shadows readily beautified his room, in the void and darkness that enveloped was no shadow no longer. No black sweater, no black joggers. No pair of black shoes, neither were there two black eyes, lulling him down.
If there was still a connection, to tie their loose ends, and mend each other, Minho was peering down at it―them.
He grabbed his phone at the first sound of his outdated ringtone, looked down at the second, and bit his lip at the third.
"Hey," and if he could only just stop himself from taking the call, he would've. But he couldn't. "Was wondering if you're still up."
Not even when he tried. "Apparently so."
Silence used to be his sanctuary, more so the silence he shared with Chan. But now he wasn't so sure anymore.
"It's 3 am, Minho." It was such a statement of fact like a reminder that he spent yet another hour of being in pain, of remembering, of not speaking, and of wanting so much. "Why aren't you sleeping―"
Of so much that he thought he had deserved. "What do you want Chan?"
It wasn't like Minho wasn't well-informed that he and Chan were fake dating, but where could he ever draw the line? To pull himself out of it?
Because if all the chuckles, all the giggles, the handholding, the animal parks, the americano coffees, and all the trembling he was able to hear though he didn't see were fake, then why did all feel real?
Why did Chan feel so real? Why was he so real?
"I miss the cats." It was such a short reply. A short plea. A short declaration. Tell me you miss me too. "I'll come over." It wasn't a matter of what he wanted or not because no matter how hard he tried to convince himself wrong, he was right, all along, that Chan was real. "Let me come over."
And even the anticipation that tingled his toes and fingers were real as he waited for the front door to open.
Chan didn't look at him at first―couldn't look at him at first.
Because why would he? How could he?
Laughter reigned in his throat and pulled his consciousness while all he did was to stand there, astonished by the way Chan was pretty much the same person that he was: black sweater, black joggers, pair of black shoes and two black eyes.
And somehow, Chan was different.
Different in a way that he moved from where he stood; different in a way that he finally looked at Minho's eyes.
"The cats," Chan began to speak softly, gently, and quietly. The cats that Minho was peering at earlier circled Chan, and though the cats were the spoken reason for Chan's presence, the unspoken remained buried as Minho clung to himself. "Did they miss me too?"
It wasn't like Minho wasn't well-informed that he and Chan were fake dating, but each time he gets to see Chan among all the darkness that he wore for himself, he only sees how bright Chan's eyes were, how tantalizing his dimples were, and how his smile was enough to vanish all the lines that Minho put in between them.
"They probably do." Bitterness seeped in his mouth, but it was what he would do just so he could throw the sweetness away, and stop himself from getting addicted to it. "Not probably. They do." I do.
The clock ticked and ran farther, but here he was, standing right in front of the man that made him chase the time until it could no longer run.
"Min," even the way Chan called him breaks him, "He wasn't you," more so when he couldn't even understand a thing that Chan was saying.
Chan took a step forward, attempting to re-tie all the hanging threads that Minho purposely left. He would have taken a step backward but he didn't want to. A nervous smile was playing on the edges of Chan's lips―shit, like everything was okay, like he wasn't breaking just mere seconds ago.
"He wasn't you, Min." Chan reiterated even when it didn't mean anything. It would have never meant anything. "The kiss wasn't anything for me. He wasn't you, Min."
Until it did.
It wasn't like Minho wasn't well-informed that he and Chan were fake dating. He knew it all too well to know his boundaries and never act on it, and Chan did too, for sure.
So why?
"What are you talking about?" His speech was abrupt, almost disorganized. Did Chan hear his voice shake?
Chan took another step forward, and another, and another.
"I never fake dated you. I have always dated you." It was dark to even move around. His feet were frozen to the ground as Chan approached him―leaped towards him. "It was real to me. Was it for you?"
Maybe Changbin and Seungmin were right that Chan was the kindest, and that he, Minho, was just someone who built all those walls up because he was afraid of letting someone in. Maybe he was right to doubt himself because how could the peace he sees when he closes his eyes resemble the same person that made him seek for it in the very first place?
"Chan―" He wanted to say much, but that name was enough. "Chan." He said with finality and a sigh.
"I hear you, Min." And that was what he wanted.
For Chan, for himself, and for whatever this was that they have.
He closed his eyes and allowed Chan to touch him. On his sides, on his cheeks, on his eyelids, and even flutter his eyelashes. He just closed his eyes and stopped chasing because whenever he did, Chan always knew how to appease it.
A pair of hands pressed on his cheeks as both their chests meet each other. Chan was warm, was breathing against him, and was leaning in. Chan was real, too real, for when he opened his mouth, Chan immediately captured him, mumbling silence, retaining their peace.
It wasn't like Minho wasn't well-informed that he and Chan were fake dating, but now, nothing is fake any longer.
Chan pulled away and he opened his eyes. The same eyes, dimples, and smile were brighter than ever on that black sweater, joggers, and pair of shoes.
"It always has been you, Minho."