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Minho’s favorite part of his shift used to be the very end, relief itching under his skin as the clock ticked closer and closer to 4:30pm and his hard-earned freedom.
Now it all seems so quaint.
At least, compared to the walking embodiment of sunbeam and seabreeze strolling up to the snow cone stand at any given hour of the day, beaming through the small window as though Minho has the relief that’s worth seeking out.
“Hi,” the boy chirps. “What’s the special flavor this week?”
There never has been one. Not officially, at least. Not for as long as Minho’s had this job.
“Piña Colada,” is what rolls off his tongue without missing a beat. “Coconut and pineapple mixed together with coconut flakes on top.”
“Ooo.” The boy folds his arms comfortably on top of the small counter outside the window, pushing a pair of stylish sunglasses up into his hair. “That sounds good.”
It’s all spun gold and soft sand, kissing the tops of his shoulders in the breeze. Minho doesn’t even bother stopping himself from appreciating the sight of it anymore, or the stretch of honey skin peeking out from a baggy white graphic tee, or those eyes, which are just as bright as the rest of him when they catch Minho’s own.
“You want to try it?”
“Sure,” the boy nods in easy acquiescence, body leaning further in. He smells like the ocean, like salt and sweat and sun. “You haven’t steered me wrong yet.”
“With great power comes great responsibility,” Minho nods.
The blonde laughs, eyes scrunched up. Minho’s memorized the sound of it by now, the unrestrained chime of when he’s entertained, relaxed. It effortlessly drowns out the thrum of crowds on the LA beach—as if Minho needed any more reason to zero in on the pretty stranger.
“It’s admirable that you take your job so seriously, Minho.” There’s a playful lilt to the polite words.
Ah. Sometimes he forgets that he has to keep a nametag on. The boy breezes through the syllables naturally, unlike a lot of other beachgoes. Familiar in a way that makes him wonder, want to ask.
Maybe his name just sounds nice because it’s coming from those lips.
“What can I say, reasonably priced summer treats are my calling,” Minho quips instead, rewarded with another giggle.
He prepares the snow cone in record time, barely having left before he’s returning with a styrofoam cup packed full of the bright yellow treat. The accompanying coconut flakes are arranged in a perfectly even layer below the cherry garnish, if he does say so himself.
“Here,” Minho says, sticking in a spoon before carefully placing the cup on the counter. “Let me know what you think.”
The other straightens to his full height, reaching out with a hand that’s flecked with what Minho thinks is paint. Not even a second later his body surrenders to a satisfied little wiggle, a pleased noise caught in the boy’s throat.
Minho’s memorized this reaction, too. It’s a good sign. Very good. He’s very cute. Yes.
“Amazing,” the blonde compliments after inhaling five more bites. “It might even be tied with the berry blast one, like, last month? Remember?”
Of course he does. Minho made it up on the spot, too, once he noticed that the boy almost always gravitated toward the fruity flavors, despite the obscene amount of syrups lining the back wall of the stand. The boy doesn’t suit the weirder, more adventurous stuff, like black licorice or buttered popcorn or, inexplicably, jalapeño.
He’s all sweet sweet sweet, layers upon layers of it.
And Minho—well, he’s never actually had a huge sweet tooth himself, but he likes to indulge all the same.
“Yeah,” he says, smiling a little. “Speaking of which, we’re bringing that favor back next week.”
The other perks up with even more enthusiasm than the eight-year old who got a free birthday cone that morning. And that kid was fucking jazzed.
Minho only realizes after making the offer that he’s going to have to order more raspberry syrup, they’re almost out—and he’ll probably have to buy more fresh blueberries as a topping so he can recreate what he spontaneously did last time, when he pulled the fruit from his own lunch—which is a little troublesome, but—
It’s not that big of a deal, Minho thinks, as the boy waves goodbye with a promise to come back.
Yeah, no big deal.
He comes back three times that week. Minho has to make a second run for blueberries.
Something that slipped by before—a tattoo. Some kind of flower Minho doesn’t immediately recognize, petals softly cascading down the blonde’s left shoulder.
The graceful movement reminds him of dancing.
The boy follows his gaze. “Oh—daffodils. My birth month flower,” he explains as he nibbles at the remaining ice in his cup, eyes averted, almost shy.
Minho didn’t know that that was a thing, but says “pretty” anyway, because it is.
Later at home, he’ll read that daffodils symbolize new beginnings.
The boy always comes alone, so it’s a bit of a surprise when he suddenly shows up with a petite, fluffy, disgruntled-looking dog in tow.
“Kkami, meet Minho,” he coos to the—chihuahua?—squirming a bit restlessly in his arms. “He’s really nice and will get you something to drink.”
Really nice isn’t an adjective his other customers would probably use to describe him. Maybe just a singular, neutral nice. Or nice enough.
Minho stares at the latest addition, and Kkami gives a bug-eyed stare back, rumbling softly as if deciding whether to bark or not.
“I will?” Minho teases, fighting back a laugh as the boy attempts to shush his pet, giving him scolding little head pats that Kkami ducks out of.
It dies in his throat anyway as the boy fixes him with his own puppy dog eyes, looking up at Minho through dark lashes. He pulls Kkami up so their cheeks are squished together, pouty, adorable, unfair. With a look like that he could ask for far, far more.
In the end, Minho pours water into a cup with some ice to keep it cool and hands it over. The boy’s snow cone—watermelon lemonade, dealer’s choice as always—is already waiting for him.
“Better?” the boy murmurs as he holds the cup close for Kkami to drink out of. “It was too hot to take you out for a long walk today, hm?”
The doting tone is one Minho knows all too well, reserved for his own fur babies currently curled up in lazy puddles at home.
The boy glances up, must sense something in Minho’s softened look as he watches them. “Do you have a dog, too?”
Minho shakes his head and pulls out his phone. There, in a folder that may or may not have crossed the 1,000 mark recently, he lets the other scroll through photographs of his cats.
Minho’s pleased to hear the blonde fondly cooing again, only this time over baby pictures of Dori, of Doongie in a miniature straw hat, of Soonie sleeping on a pile of Minho’s shoes, all liquid and stretched out. He gives commentary as needed, puffed up like the proud parent he is.
“They’re all so cute,” the boy smiles softly, still flicking through at an unhurried pace.
By that point he’s put Kkami on the ground to finish drinking, or to rest, maybe. Minho doesn’t really know what he’s up to, and he’s too focused on the boy’s expression to look away regardless.
“They take after their dad,” Minho says shamelessly, half-way expecting the other to joke or roll his eyes. But he just—without hesitation—
“They do.”
Warmth floods Minho’s chest. It is hot today.
“And Kkami’s dad?” he prompts after the boy’s had his fill and he can pocket his phone away. “Wonder who he is?”
The boy blinks at him owlishly. He has a tiny mole underneath his left eye.
Minho may like it a lot.
“It’s me?”
“That was my attempt at asking for your name. Guess it didn’t land,” Minho grins, amusement only growing as the blonde visibly startles in realization.
“Oh! Right. Duh, I guess I never…” He stumbles, trails off with an embarrassed huff of a laugh. Long fingers tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “It’s Hyunjin,” he starts over.
The Korean name confirms Minho’s suspicions. It settles deeper, that warmth, spreading out at an alarming rate now that he has something to call this sun-kissed creature who only seems to be orbiting closer and closer to him each week.
When Hyunjin eventually moves to pay, Minho waves a dismissive hand.
“You get a cute pet discount. One time only. Don’t go taking advantage, Hyunjin.”
The smile he receives is blinding. Kkami, on the other hand, takes that moment to start barking for real, and in earnest, impatiently scrambling around his owner’s legs.
“Ah, that’s him thanking you,” Hyunjin reassures as he bends down to scoop up his fussy pup again, voice pitched a little louder to be heard over the noise.
“He barks when he likes people—really! Don’t laugh!”
Now that they’re on a first name basis, and now that they’ve technically met members of each other’s family, he figures it’s not so weird to ask anymore.
“Do you paint? Draw?” Minho tilts his head to the color streaked across Hyunjin’s forearms, mostly shades of blues and yellows today.
“Both. It’s what I’m studying in college,” Hyunjin says around the straw between his teeth. Cherry red lips, cherry red treat. “I’ll be a senior this fall.”
Not much younger than him, then. It makes sense he would be an artistic type. Minho nods as he wipes down one of the ice machines to show that he’s still listening. “And you come to the beach to paint?”
“It’s really fun, but it’s also kinda annoying,” Hyunjin admits with a small chuckle. “I feel like I make more of a mess than when I do at home, and I have to carry everything around…but. I just like being outside. I get more inspired. And I like people watching.”
It’s not hard to picture it, the wind guiding his fingers, the sun shining on each creation he loses himself in. Beauty everywhere.
“Mm, that does sound nice.”
It’s a slower day, sure, but Minho is also just genuinely curious. He asks more questions, and Hyunjin seems more than happy to answer them, chatting away as Minho methodically cleans the rest of the kitchen. He always likes listening to Hyunjin talk, but hearing him dive into an obvious passion is different, better. The minutes soar by.
“—and I was sort of thinking I could add more to it? Maybe more flowers, like tulips or something? I don’t know, it still feels unfinished. My original sketch was more—”
“Wait.”
Minho whips back to face Hyunjin, who’s on his second snow cone. Who’s idly braiding a small section of his hair. Who’s continuing to just…sort of… hang out.
“You designed your tattoo? Like you actually drew all that?”
“I—yeah?” Hyunjin tilts his head. “I probably rushed it though...”
That won’t do.
Because as someone whose artistic touch begins and ends with odd stick figure drawings from his elementary days he can annoy his friends with, Minho is beyond impressed. Hyunjin’s talented, really talented. He’s absolutely the reason why his tattoo turned out so pretty. He should know that.
So Minho tells Hyunjin as much, watches as it finally starts to sink in.
Cherry red everywhere.
The AC unit draws its last breath at 11:39am on a blistering Sunday.
There had been signs of its eventual demise, but Minho had really believed that the two of them would stick it out until the end of the summer, stumbling over the finish line together.
His boss texts that someone will come out tomorrow, which is just perfect for today. It takes all of ten minutes of standing in the heat and feeling the sweat gather underneath the thick material of his uniform for Minho to decide fuck it and change into his workout clothes.
He’s never been more relieved about having a post-work gym schedule.
His muscle tee feels like heaven, loose on the sides and letting his arms breathe. He rakes a hand through his dark hair, throwing on a backwards snapback just to keep it all off his forehead.
It’s professional enough. It’s cool enough. He’ll be fine.
“I’m dying,” he cheerfully greets an unsuspecting Hyunjin an hour later.
Hyunjin’s eyes go wide, first with alarm—which is quickly settled by a proper explanation—and then with something else. He sweeps over the new look, lingering on his biceps with an appreciative stare that makes Minho’s ears flush, skin spark.
Huh. Well.
A smirk tugs at his lips. Before he can pounce, Hyunjin breathes out a small ah! and abruptly starts rummaging through his bag, set in a flurry of motion.
He reemerges with a portable fan, looking less stunned and more triumphant now.
“Use this.” Hyunjin doesn’t wait for a yes before pushing it into Minho’s hands. “Also, never lead with I’m dying again.”
“It wasn’t a lie,” Minho whines, which quickly melts into a content hum when he turns on the fan at full blast, aimed straight at his face. The proximity distorts the sound into a warbly purr.
“Mmm.” His eyes close. “You’ve revived me. Thank you.”
Hyunjin laughs freely, and Minho knows it’s the kind that makes him glow. All lit up and devastating.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s everything. I was about to dump ice on myself.”
“You still could.”
Minho cracks a single eye open at the cheeky response.
“How could I make a hundred snow cones for you if I used up all the ice, hm?” Minho angles the fan toward his neck, stretching it out. “You’d have to find a new benefactor for your sugar fix.”
“Maybe I should,” Hyunjin calls his bluff with a delicate little shrug and a glint in his eyes. “There is an ice cream spot on the other end of the beach.”
“Freezie’s? Please,” Minho huffs. “If you’re gonna cheat on me, choose something better. Lickity Split is only four blocks away, and they actually know what they’re doing with their frozen custard. Good pudding, too.”
“This really is your calling, huh?”
Hyunjin leans his elbow on the counter, chin propped in his hand. There’s something about the way he’s quietly assessing Minho with that amused, secretive smile, like he might just decide to pounce himself.
“All food is,” Minho mutters, arching a brow at the sly look Hyunjin slides his way.
“Why would I cheat on someone who makes up specials for me?” he questions then.
And yeah. Yeah.
Minho should have probably seen that coming.
“I like what I have here,” the boy continues airily, his tone at odds with the determined set of his gaze.
Minho doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that a family comes up at that exact moment and gives him something else to do with his hands, forcing his thoughts not to skitter too badly at the revelation that Hyunjin has apparently seen through the past. Three. Months.
He neither confirms nor denies the accusation. Minho contains multitudes, after all. He can be an idiot and romantic and needlessly stubborn.
Hyunjin only laughs more when Minho makes a green apple concoction for that smart mouth.
Still sweet—with a tart bite. Admittedly, Minho likes the jolt to the system.
Because he likes what he has, too.
“Remember when I mentioned my friend’s café opening Labor Day weekend? I have to start preparing too, so…this is my last week here.”
Hyunjin looks up from where he's doodling on a stray napkin, including a tasteful bikini to Minho’s earlier Jureumi sketch. Something dims, only for a second, before a genuine smile lifts his cheeks.
“It’s really cool you’ll get to be the head cook. And work with your friends.”
“You should come to the soft opening,” Minho offers, having already made up his mind long ago. “You know, try some of my actual food. Maybe a vegetable, if you’re feeling up to it.”
Hyunjin snorts, adding a neat row of polka dots to the swimwear. His nails are painted a pretty white, matching the band in his ponytail. Minho absently wonders if he’ll ever get fully accustomed to all his charms.
“Or we can skip that and you can just come over to my place for dinner.”
There’s a pause, filled only by the scratch of Hyunjin’s pencil. Then he’s peeking back up, and Minho’s suddenly faced with the full force of his warmth. Not a single cloud in sight.
“What if I want both?”
“Then we do both,” Minho answers with an easy smile, moving to help him finish the drawing.
At the end of Minho’s last day, Hyunjin asks for the special to end all specials: all thirty-six fruity flavors packed into one snow cone. It’s ridiculous, yes, but also a sentimental sort of farewell—and an excuse to eat a final time.
Which is perfectly Hyunjin.
Which means, on principle, Minho can’t refuse.
The two can’t stop giggling as Minho goes down the line of syrups and adds them in one by one, the color becoming increasingly muddled, fragrance totally indecipherable. It’s a small miracle he even gets everything to fit in a single cup.
Hyunjin bursts into tiny applause when Minho smugly adds a spoon to the finished product, smiley and cute underneath his stolen snapback.
Neither of them care that they're starting their dinner date with dessert first.
Minho watches on as Hyunjin takes the spoon with dramatic purpose, slowly bringing it to his lips. It sort of feels like he’s watching a commercial. As if on cue, Hyunjin’s eyes go round after the initial bite, hand frozen in midair.
“Oh my god. This is…oh my god.”
Hyunjin stares down at the snow cone in awe, then back up at Minho, practically bursting with the fun of it all. In fact, he looks the same way Minho has felt all season long, chasing after every small, guaranteed moment of happiness with the other.
Minho takes it all in, wants to memorize this too so it has a home to stay in. If he’s lucky, it’ll be there for a while.
But he supposes he already is, right?
“You have to taste,” Hyunjin demands with bright eyes, pressed up against the window and pushing the cup forward.
“Okay,” Minho agrees, ignoring it.
Instead he reaches out for Hyunjin, cradling his jaw, brushing a thumb over his beauty mark. It’s not a long wait. The shaky noise that escapes the blonde, soft and wanting, is all the answer he needs.
Minho tastes everything, the entire world and then some on Hyunjin’s tongue. There’s nothing else like it. Absolutely no comparison. Now that he’s had it he’s going to want it again, today, tomorrow, summer after summer after summer.
And Hyunjin.
He melts into the kiss so easily, so damn sweet—so gorgeous with his blown, wonderstruck stare and flushed cheeks after they part. When really the wonder is him, has always been him. The only difference now is that he’s right here in the palm of Minho’s hand, burning impossibly close.
Minho gives a thoughtful hum between their shared breaths, as though it needs any consideration at all.
“I love it.”