Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chan comes here so often, the staff already know his order. They have his drinks prepared, two cups of iced Americano, and his usual table is free of customers. The Chipped Mug Cafe is, frankly, overpriced and far from his studio, but the location is convenient for its intended purpose, and the workers are the sweetest, so Chan prefers it over a regular Starbucks or Dunkin’.

He’s early — he always is because he loves seeing Minho walk in, and that split second where his eyes search the cafe until they land on Chan. They’ve only done this a couple times, but Chan is patient and Minho is worth it.

Slow and steady wins the race, and Chan is a firm lover of the tortoise’s methods. He thinks Minho is more like the hare; he rushes into things without thinking about the consequences and gets tired easily, but it’s fine because Chan will be there when he gets reckless and needs to rest for a little while.

The bell above the cafe door jingles and Chan glances over to see Minho walking in. He pauses, looking around just as Chan had predicted. He’s wearing heeled boots, black jeans that cling to his legs, and a peach sweater with sleeves that reach past his hands, and he’s so beautiful that Chan trips over his own feet in a hurry to stand and wave.

Minho’s face breaks into this small smile that he reserves only for Chan and makes his way past all the other tables to theirs in the back. Chan hurries to pull out a chair for him, feeling nervous even though this is their third date and they’ve been friends for almost three years.

“Hi,” Minho says first, sitting down and letting Chan push his chair in. Up close, Chan can see this delicate champagne shimmer over his eyelids that takes his breath away. He knows nothing about makeup but he’s always impressed by Minho’s skills and how pretty it looks.

“Hi,” Chan says back, unable to keep his smile off his face. He sits down opposite Minho and takes him in more — there’s earrings dangling from his earlobes, silver chains with stars on the ends, and he’s got a matching necklace draped over his collarbones. “Is it weird to say I missed you?”

“Yes,” Minho says, “but I missed you too, so it’s okay.” Neither he nor Chan had time to meet up since last Wednesday, both of them suffering from busy schedules that keep them apart. They text here and there, but Chan is bad at looking at his phone and Minho is worse at responding. “How was your week?“

Chan lights up. “It was good! Me and Bin finished that track last night so we’re pretty much wrapped up for the week.”

“Oh, congratulations,” Minho says, and his fingers curl lightly around Chan’s hand, resting on the table. “You were worried about finishing it on time, right? But you ended up getting it done with a few days to spare.”

“Yeah, thank God. Pretty sure I saw Changbin’s eye twitching on Monday, I’m surprised he didn’t kill me,” Chan says with a laugh. “How about you? What were you up to this week? I didn’t hear much from you.”

“Sorry,” Minho says, voice soft, but Chan just shakes his head and tells him there’s no need for an apology. Perhaps it might bother other people, but he could never be annoyed because he’s just as bad. To him, texting is just another means of communication, and he doesn’t expect Minho to be more or less accessible outside of when he wants to be.

Minho tells him about the choreography he’s working on for a female singer. He isn’t allowed to tell Chan too many details, but he appreciates everything Minho has to say, leaning his cheek in his palm and hanging onto every word. There’s nothing he likes more than listening to Minho talk about dance except Minho himself.

Chan doesn’t have a lot of regrets when it comes to Minho, but the one he’s never been able to let go of is allowing them to grow distant for a year. They’d met in their first year of college and had maintained their friendship until graduation, but Chan’s first job had been in a different state. It was easy to forget to stay in touch, but Chan wishes he had tried harder. It took a full year for Chan to be relocated back to New York and the first thing he did was message Minho on Instagram and ask if they could reconnect.

I was too scared to reach out again, Chan had said. By the time things slowed down, I was three months in and realized how much I fucked up, and I thought you didn’t deserve to have a friend like me. But I can’t get you out of my mind and I miss you so much it hurts. I’m so sorry.

Minho’s reply came three days later. I’m sorry for taking so long to reply, I wasn’t logged into my account. Chan, friendship is a two way street. I should have reached out too, but I was caught up in other things. I miss you too. Let’s meet soon.

Chan thinks that’s when he fell. When Minho called him Chan and not Chris, the name he used at work. He hadn’t heard Chan in a long time. Now he works with Changbin and Jisung, and they both call him Chan too, but before…

Before, he only had Minho.

In the year they were apart, Minho had changed. Not completely — not in a way that was perceptible by anyone else, but Chan noticed right away. He retreats into himself more; he’s shy and hesitant, and he apologizes often. Chan won’t make him talk about it, but he has to admit he wants to know what happened and how to help. He’ll never push it though, not when Minho is so skittish. A flower takes time and care to grow, and Minho is the prettiest Chan will ever have the pleasure of witnessing. He doesn’t mind how long it’ll take for his petals to bloom, as he’s privileged enough just to see it.

It hadn’t taken him long after their reunion to realize he had a crush. Perhaps he’d had one all along — it was Minho, after all. He didn’t hesitate to express his interest, though he assured Minho there was no pressure to return his feelings. Minho had tentatively agreed to a series of dates as a sort of trial run, with the promise that, if they didn’t work out, they’d still remain friends.

So now they’re here, together. Chan’s heart is firmly grasped in Minho’s hand, and he’s unafraid. For all his prickliness, Minho is the most tender person Chan knows. He’ll take good care of it.

Under the table, Minho’s ankle presses against his, too firm to be anything but intentional as he drinks his coffee, pink lips wrapped around the tip of his straw. Chan is struck by the sudden urge to kiss him, but he buries the feeling six feet under, each clod of dirt from his shovel forcing the butterflies in his stomach to stop fluttering.

Patience is a virtue, his mom had always said to him when he was young. Good things come to those who wait. This is him being the tortoise.

Minho complains about the other choreographer he’s working with. “He’s good, really good, but he’s so annoying. He always wants to go to lunch or dinner and I have to pay every time!”

Chan laughs — he can’t help it. Minho is just too cute when he’s mad, his mouth pouting and his soft face contorting into a truly impressive scowl that makes Chan want to reach over and pinch his cheeks.

“You could always tell him no,” Chan points out.

Minho sighs, shaking his head. “I suppose it’s a good thing. He’s dumb and would probably skip meals if I didn’t take him to eat.”

Chan nods empathically. Jisung is the same way, and Chan is just too fond of him to decline whenever he wants to eat barbecue or go on a convenience store run for snacks. He always ends up handing his card over just to see Jisung eat well, lighting up the way he always does whenever he’s eaten something tasty. They bond over their annoying but lovely juniors, and Chan cracks up every time Minho makes a joke about putting his fellow choreographer in the airfryer or feeding him tissues.

It’s easy to lose track of time when he’s with Minho. The minutes slip away, turning into hours when he’s not looking. The sun is starting to set, casting its pink-orange glow over the street, and Chan is still getting lost in the shape of Minho’s mouth forming around each letter, the way he ducks his head whenever Chan compliments him, and the sound of his voice as he teases Chan about anything and everything.

It’s comfortable. It’s all Chan’s ever wanted. Minho makes him laugh until his stomach hurts and he thinks he’ll never be happier than this.

“Minho,” he says when there’s twenty minutes until the cafe closes, “would you like to go to dinner with me?”

This is the first time since they were reunited that Chan has asked. Until now, they’ve only met in this cafe — outings casual enough that they didn’t have to be construed as romantic. Always with an escape route should Minho ever need it. Dinner has different connotations, which is why Chan wouldn’t mind if Minho says no, even if he’s hoping for a yes.

He can see hesitation on Minho’s face and almost tells him to forget about it, but he’s promised himself to be patient, so he waits for Minho’s answer and tries not to bounce his leg under the table.

“Sure,” Minho says finally, and Chan can’t help the smile that overtakes his face. They clean up their table and throw their empty cups into the recycling before heading out, the evening breeze rushing to greet them as all the streetlights flicker on.

Luckily for them, there’s a great restaurant right across the street. Chan ushers Minho through the door where the hostess immediately gets them a table, and Minho is comfortable enough to order them a bottle of wine. Chan pours them each a glass as they peruse the menu.

Minho is almost… strange during dinner. Chan tries not to read too much into his behavior, but as he orders, his eyes keep flicking over to Chan as if he’s checking if it’s okay. When they eat, he seems nervous, eating in slow and careful bites. Chan admits the restaurant is on the nicer side, but it’s not as if he’s exemplary at table manners himself, even if he’s not as much of a slob as Jisung.

“Minho,” Chan begins quietly, putting down his cutlery. Minho’s back is ramrod straight in his chair. “Are you uncomfortable right now?”

“What?” Minho relaxes immediately, as if he only now realizes how tense he’s gotten. “No, I… I’m fine. Sorry, my mind was somewhere else.”

“Please, don’t apologize,” Chan says. “I’m just worried. I don’t want you to feel as if I’m forcing you to be here.”

“Chan, I’m happy to be here,” Minho replies, open and honest. “The food is good, the company is even better. What more can I ask for?”

Anything, Chan wants to say. “I just… you know… I want you to be happy,” he finishes lamely. For some reason, this is what makes Minho’s face crumple. He chokes out an ‘excuse me’ and before Chan can even blink, Minho is pushing his chair back and standing from the table. He heads to the bathroom, and Chan sits there staring at Minho’s half empty glass, wondering if he should go and follow.

He wants to give Minho space but the distance between them feels raw and gaping. Ten minutes, he tells himself, and I’ll go and check on him.

Minho comes back in seven, and though he looks fine, his makeup is missing like he wiped it off. Chan wants to ask, every molecule in his body straining to know, to make sure Minho is okay, but he doesn’t. The relief on Minho’s face is palpable when he sits down, and Chan doesn’t know what to do.

He acts like nothing happened because Minho acts like nothing happened, but when they’ve left the restaurant, Minho presses his face to Chan’s shoulder from behind and breathes the softest thank you against the fabric of his shirt.

“What for?” Chan asks, spinning around to face Minho properly. It’s just the two of them alone on the sidewalk — the sun has fully set and no one is around, so Chan puts his hand on Minho’s shoulder as a comforting gesture. Minho blinks at him like he’s seeing him for the first time.

“Just… for everything,” Minho says. “I had a good time tonight.”

“Are you sure?” Chan can’t help but blurt, thinking of Minho’s crestfallen expression.

“Walk me to my car?” Is what Minho answers with. Minho parks at the studio when he’s meeting Chan after work. It’s why Chan picked their cafe in the first place — so Minho wouldn’t have to walk far to meet him.

“Of course,” Chan says, and to his surprise Minho takes his hand, intertwining their fingers. His touch feels slightly clammy, but Chan doesn’t comment on it, just slides an inch closer and leads them down the sidewalk.

“When we were apart,” Minho begins, then falters. Chan gives his hand an encouraging squeeze, and after a few more steps, he starts again. “When we were apart, I dated someone. It wasn’t serious—“ he breaks off into a laugh, bitter and stilted, “—well, I thought it was.”

For a brief moment, Chan sees red. Reminiscent of his temper back in high school; he was angry at the world and his fuse was short. That anger went away in college, and he thought he’d never feel like that again. He prided himself on it. But now his rage is so palpable it’s blinding, and it takes him longer than he’d like to admit to ground himself. Anger isn’t something that will help Minho.

“He wasn’t very nice,” Minho says finally. His voice sounds wet, but when Chan looks at him, his eyes are dry. His face is stiff and frozen in that expression he makes when he’s trying not to cry, and Chan wants nothing more to wrap him in a hug. But Minho’s not Hannie or Felix, so he shoves his free hand deep in his pocket and lets his nails bite stinging marks into his palm. “But it took me a while to realize it. We weren’t together long.”

Chan waits for him to continue, but he seems like he’s done. “Thank you for telling me.” He gives Minho’s hand another squeeze. They’re at the studio parking lot now and he can see Minho’s car; the same one he used in college. He wonders if Minho still has that beat up CD case in his glove compartment or if he’s finally switched to digital.

“Chan,” Minho says, stopping in front of the driver’s side. He lets go of Chan’s hand and he immediately misses his warmth. “I want this with you. I trust you. But I don’t know… I might need some time before I can give you what you want.”

“Minho,” Chan says, his heart breaking. “I want anything you can give me even if you think it’s too little. I’d wait forever for you. It’s worth it to me because it can’t be anyone else. It has to be you.”

“Why me?” Minho whispers, then looks startled as if he hadn’t meant to say it. Chan has to close his eyes at the expression on Minho’s face — some kind of mix between lost and scared. He knows better than anyone that people have the power to make or break you like no other but he can’t fathom this. He wishes he never left, and even if Minho said both of them were to blame, his stomach churns with guilt.

He opens his eyes and considers his answer very, very carefully. “You know the old adage, ‘no two snowflakes are identical’? Even though they’re all made of water molecules, not all of those water molecules have the same makeup. Not to mention snowflakes, or snow crystals really, are affected by unstable atmospheric conditions. So to have two snow crystals with the same history of development is pretty much impossible.

People are like snow crystals. It’s impossible for anyone to be exactly alike. When I say you’re it for me, Minho, I really mean it. There’s no one else like you. So I would wait—“

“Channie, you’re crying,” Minho says, eyes wide with worry. Chan touches his fingers to his cheek and they come away wet. He barely has time to register it before Minho is pulling him into a hug so tight it surprises him, but he sinks easily into Minho’s embrace and blinks away the tears. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Chan doesn’t know what to say to that. They stand there, holding each other in the parking lot of Minho’s studio, in silence but the sound of their own breaths and the occasional car driving past on the street.

“It has to be you,” Chan says fiercely. “Do you believe me?”

Silence. Then, “I believe you.”

It’s enough. It’s more than enough because when Minho finally pulls away, he brushes a kiss to Chan’s cheek and gets into his car with the promise that they’ll meet again for coffee next Wednesday.

“Looking forward to it,” Chan says, and he waits until Minho has driven away before he starts heading to the bus stop. He should go home, but he knows he’ll end up in the studio. The best place for him to vent is in a song, and he’s got enough lyrics in him to last a lifetime.

It’s only been a few minutes, but he misses Minho already.

🌸

“Does it bother you when I wear heels?“

Chan blinks. “No, why would it?”

Minho doesn’t answer. They’re walking to Minho’s car again after meeting at their usual cafe. His heeled boots make a satisfying clicking noise with every step he takes and they have cute moon shaped buckles. Chan loves when Minho wears heels. He’s always been a bit jealous of Minho’s fashion sense, but finds that he’s too lazy himself to put any effort into the outfits he wears. Sometimes, he adds an accessory or two to shake things up, but for the most part, Chan sticks to what’s comfortable. He likes the contrast they make sometimes, his simple clothes next to Minho’s pretty, detailed outfits.

“Okay.” Minho doesn’t offer an explanation and Chan doesn’t ask for one. Instead he talks about how it’s getting colder and how he hopes he can make the time to fly home for Christmas. December is far out of reach, but things always get busy in the fourth quarter and he has to make plans in advance. He can tell Minho is tired, so he fills the silence with meaningless conversation and smiles to himself when Minho squeezes his hand as thanks.

When they arrive at Minho’s car, Chan tries to let go of Minho’s hand only to receive a head shake in return. Minho’s fingers wrap tighter around his, and Chan stops in his tracks, waiting patiently for whatever he has to say.

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” Minho isn’t looking at him when he asks, but Chan can see the tips of his ears turning red. It’s an unusually warm day for autumn, so he can’t even blame it on the chill.

“I would love to,” Chan says, unable to keep himself from laughing when Minho’s flush deepens. Minho grumbles something unintelligible and tells Chan to hurry up and get in the car.

“My roommate will be home,” Minho says, tapping away at his phone. “I’m letting him know you’ll be there, but he won’t care.”

“No problem.” Chan puts on his seatbelt and Minho flips open the glove compartment, pulling out a familiar CD case and placing it on Chan’s lap.

“You can pick the music,” Minho says in a way that makes it sound like he’s being incredibly generous. He buckles himself in and pulls out of his parking spot as Chan flips through the CDs before settling on DEAN’s first mini album. He pops it into the CD player and hits shuffle, grinning to himself when Minho sings along to the opening lines of “Bonnie & Clyde”.

“Your roommate,” Chan says after a moment, “how old is he again?”

Minho looks amused as he checks his mirrors before switching lanes. “Jeongin’s twenty. He’s a university student. Good kid, kinda clumsy.”

Clumsy is apparently an understatement. When they walk in, Minho’s roommate is sitting at the table bandaging his fingers. He waves with one Band-Aid covered hand in greeting and Minho immediately marches over with a scowl.

“What did you do to yourself?” Minho asks, tugging Jeongin’s hands into his own and examining the bandages. “Did you disinfect them?”

“I was using the box cutter to open my packages,” Jeongin says sheepishly. “And I did! See?” He holds up the empty packets of alcohol pads. Minho clicks his tongue before letting him go, rolling his eyes at Chan as if to say see what I have to deal with?

“This is Chan by the way. Say hi,” Minho introduces, abandoning them to stride into the kitchen. There’s an immediate banging of pots and pans, then the sounds of ingredients thunking on the counter.

“Hi,” Jeongin repeats dutifully. “I’m Jeongin. I’m gonna go put together my PC now.”

“Dinner will be ready in an hour!” Minho shouts from the kitchen. “Don’t be late or I swear on your life I will dump yours on the floor.”

“Okay, mom!” Jeongin yells back before grinning at Chan and scrambling to his feet. He leaves to his room and Chan ends up cleaning up the mess of wrappers from the coffee table, walking into the kitchen to find the trash can. Minho already has a pot of water boiling on the stove and three Ziploc bags of noodles from the freezer.

For all he's changed, the Minho from now is still so similar to the Minho in college who made hand pulled udon noodles and portioned them for easy meals. Chan wants to offer to help, but Minho hates having other people in the kitchen with him, so he stands in the corner out of the way while Minho chatters about his new soup recipe.

He seems much more at ease in his apartment, and Chan thinks about having Minho decorate his place, which isn’t homely at all compared to Minho’s kitchen. His cabinets are green and he has plants everywhere. There’s a cat shaped napkin holder on the table and pink aprons hanging on hooks next to the oven. Everything Minho owns is so cute.

“I love your kitchen,” Chan sighs as he looks around. “It’s so, like, comforting. My place is really bland but I feel like I never really have the time to decorate.”

“I spend a lot of time in the kitchen so I wanted it to look nice,” Minho explains over the running water as he rinses Chinese broccoli for the noodles. “You should see my bedroom.”

He turns around but Chan catches the tail end of his smirk, and it takes him a moment to realize Minho is flirting. It’s not new, but it always leaves him reeling because confidence looks good on anyone but it looks incredible on Minho.

Chan’s heart is a wildfire. Untameable, sending a smoke signal into the air declaring how fucking gone he is, his heartbeat pounding so loud it’s a wonder Minho can’t hear it.

“Come taste this,” Minho says, holding up a spoon. Chan obediently makes his way over, watching as Minho blows gently on the broth before bringing it to his lips. “Need anything?”

Chan shakes his head, savoring the mouthwatering taste. “It’s perfect.”

Minho rolls his eyes but turns down the burner until the flame is low and moves to the fridge once more. Chan dutifully returns to his corner as Minho pulls out more ingredients.

“I was thinking of making a couple side dishes,” Minho says thoughtfully. “If we have leftovers then Jeonginnie can pack them for lunch. Anything you want in particular?”

“You know I always cherish your cooking, whatever it is,” Chan says easily, earning himself a glare in return. Minho ends up choosing stir fried broccoli and spicy enoki mushrooms, though he promises Chan doesn’t have to eat the latter.

Dinner is a pleasant affair. Jeongin does end up coming out on time, sliding into the chair across from Chan’s and commandeering the conversation. Minho and Chan are both content to listen as he rambles about his TA, his mean professor, the dance team, and a million little other things that Chan struggles to keep up with.

He runs away before Minho can rope him into cleaning up, so Chan ends up being the one to wash the dishes while Minho dries with a soft cloth.

“Sorry about him,” Minho says. “I haven’t been home much lately so he had a lot to catch me up on.“

“No, it was cute,” Chan insists. “You must really care about him.”

The look on Minho’s face is fond. “Innie is… he fills up the empty space. He’s more of a friend than a roommate. I really like having him here, more than I did having the whole apartment to myself.”

“I’m glad you have him,” Chan says, and before Minho can revert to his prickly hedgehog state at the first hint of sentimentality, he flicks soapy water in his direction. Minho blinks at him for a moment as if he can’t believe his audacity before he splashes him back, soaking Chan’s entire front, his hoodie rapidly darkening. “Oh, it’s on.”

Minho’s eyes go wide just as Chan grabs the detachable sprayer from the sink and yanks on the tap, squeezing the trigger to spray him directly in the face. He shrieks so loudly Chan thinks he’ll get noise complaints from the neighbor before wrestling the spray from Chan’s hands and spraying him back. Chan squeals and brings his arms up to block his face, begging for mercy. The moment Minho lets go of the trigger, he scoops a handful of suds and smacks it into Minho’s head.

“You’re dead!” Minho growls, tackling Chan to the floor, though he’s laughing too hard to feel the pain. The back of his hoodie becomes equally soaked from the water collected on the tiles, and he bangs his elbow on the cabinets when Minho yanks him into a chokehold.

“Fuck!” Chan shouts through tears of laughter, and Minho grins evilly, reaching up to grab the sponge he’d been using to scrub the dishes and threatening to wash out Chan’s potty mouth with it. Soapy water gets all over Chan’s clothes as he squirms to get away, recoiling with disgust. “Okay, okay, I surrender!”

Minho finally relents, and Chan collapses on the floor, staring up at the ceiling as his chest heaves for air. His abdomen hurts from laughing too hard and he’s sticky with dish soap. He doesn’t get up until Minho squats down to poke him in the chest, and he immediately slips on the wet tiles. If it wasn’t for Minho catching him by the elbows, he definitely would have banged his head on the counter.

“Be careful,” Minho admonishes, and though Chan’s regained his balance, he doesn’t let go as if he’s still scared Chan will fall. “If you crack your head like an egg, I’ll have too much blood to clean. If you’re gonna die, do it somewhere else.”

“Sure thing,” Chan says agreeably, his cheeks aching from the force of his smile. “But, uh, can I grab a shower? And maybe some clothes?” He gestures to himself, doing the little pout and whine combo that makes Minho roll his eyes, but he’s granted his wish. Minho shows him their bathroom and disappears into his room to get Chan some clothes and a towel.

“We’ll have to put your things in the wash,” Minho says, handing over a t-shirt, basketball shorts, and a pair of boxers. “I don’t have any pants that’ll fit your thighs.” Chan is about to protest, not wanting to overstay his welcome, but then he remembers how chilly it is outside now that the sun’s gone down and how he definitely doesn’t want to walk in that, so he agrees.

When he comes out of the shower, dressed in Minho’s clothes that smell like his favorite laundry detergent from college, Minho is waiting for him. He takes Chan’s clothes and the towel, carrying them through to the laundry room. Chan ends up on the couch, and Minho comes over with two throw blankets, one which he throws at Chan and the other he drapes over himself.

“Wanna watch something?” Minho asks once Chan is all wrapped up, leaning over to grab the TV remote from the coffee table.

Chan considers. “Spy x Family?”

Minho grins. “It’s like you read my mind.”

🌸

The first time Minho initiates a date, Chan is at the studio. He’s laughing with Changbin and Jisung and his phone goes off in his pocket. He pulls it out without thinking, and a text from Minho is waiting for him. They’re not due to meet until tomorrow for their usual coffee, but it seems Minho has other plans.

You free tonight? the text reads. Chan’s technically not, but he can be.

“Hey,” he says, accidentally interrupting Jisung’s anecdote from the weekend. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jisung breezes. He nods towards the phone in Chan’s hand. “What’s up? Minho text you?”

Chan frowns. “Yeah, how did you know?”

Jisung and Changbin exchange glances before they burst into laughter. “What, you really don’t know?”

He just shrugs at them. They often joke about how the three of them are always on the same wavelength, but more often than not, it’s usually Changbin and Jisung who’ve developed some kind of telepathic communication. Chan is pretty sure they’re together in some sense, but neither of them have said anything, so he hasn’t pried.

“You always get this stupidly big grin on your face whenever he texts you,” Changbin explains. “And you stop paying attention to everything but your phone. It’s cute.”

Changbin’s reassurance is the only thing that stops him from getting flustered. He prides himself on being able to stay focused, but Minho is always fucking him up without even trying. In a way, though, he’s also making Chan better. He checks his phone more often which helps him reply to other people in a timely fashion, and he doesn’t overwork anymore because he makes time to spend with Minho.

“He just wants to know if I’m free tonight,” Chan explains. “You mind if I cancel tonight?”

“Nah, of course not,” Jisung says. “Me and Changbin wanted to check out this new taco place anyway, and Tuesday’s when they’re least busy. We can raincheck for another time.”

Chan thanks him and texts Minho back with an affirmative. He doesn’t even get a chance to put down his phone before the typing bubble pops up, and he watches it disappear and reappear for a solid minute. He’s about to give up watching and put his phone away when it buzzes with Minho’s reply.

Date tonight? Only if you want to.

It makes something that feels a lot like love swell up inside his chest — like one of those foil party balloons, shiny and pretty, being filled with helium and taking up so much space inside of his heart. Minho hasn’t ever asked him on a date before. It had always been Chan doing the asking, though he’s never really minded since Minho always agrees.

I would love to! Chan says, then adds a heart emoji before he can second guess himself. He tries not to be too over the top, lest he overwhelms Minho, but at the same time his feelings are golden, overflowing, and he needs to direct them somewhere before he explodes. He waits a moment, but there’s no reply from Minho. It makes sense, Minho’s probably at work right now, but it still leaves Chan deflating. He shoves his phone back into his pocket and gets back to work himself. Songwriting comes easily to him these days. Div 1 Music Group always has him writing sweet love songs, and it’s a simple task of letting those overflowing feelings in his heart spill onto a page. He wants to write some for himself one day, to show Minho later if he gets the chance, but for now, he settles for writing songs for the label’s newest soloist.

His alarm goes off at four thirty, and though he has his headphones on, he feels his phone buzzing against his thigh. He saves his track and bids goodbye to Changbin and Jisung before exiting the studio and stretching out in the hallway until his spine pops. If he hurries, he can bus home for a quick shower and outfit change before meeting Minho for whatever he’s got planned.

It takes him a frustratingly long time to fix his hair after drying it, but eventually he’s wearing a nice blazer and gray slacks that Jisung claims make his ass look great. Minho doesn’t care much about what he wears, but Chan’s hoping to impress him anyway. His phone buzzes with a text from Minho saying he’s outside, and Chan hurries to take the elevator down and meet him.

Minho is leaning against his car, parked in front of the building, though he’s looking down at his phone so he doesn’t spot Chan right away. He’s dressed in a cream, knee length jacket belted at the waist, a gray beret the same color as Chan’s slacks perched on his head. He looks incredible, and Chan is sure to tell him so when he reaches him. Minho’s wearing heeled boots again, and these ones put him a couple inches taller than Chan.

He swallows hard when Minho greets him with that smile, the one that’s small but lights up his whole face. He’s gorgeous, and Chan’s palms are sweaty just thinking about spending the night with him. Whether or not this thing with him leads anywhere, Chan will have been privileged just to experience this — all of Minho’s attention on him, waiting to take him on a date.

“You look good too,” Minho says, breaking Chan from his thoughts. “Ready to go?”

“Yes,” Chan says empathetically. To his surprise, Minho holds his door open for him like a gentleman. When he slides into the passenger seat, Minho leans in and brushes the lightest kiss to his cheekbone, like a butterfly landing on his face for a brief moment before taking off again.

“Sorry,” Minho murmurs, voice pitched so low it sends shivers down Chan’s spine. “I just had to.” He pulls away and closes the door, but Chan catches him smirking as he rounds the car to the driver’s side.

Minho is an evil, evil man. A devilish bunny, or a cat maybe. He certainly looks like the cat who got the cream as he starts the car and switches on the radio before pulling out into the street. Chan doesn’t bother asking where they’re going; he knows Minho won’t tell him, and he kind of likes the idea of it being a surprise.

“Today’s our one hundred days,” Minho says offhandedly, “since we were reunited.”

Chan freezes. He isn’t really the type to keep track of that kind of stuff. He’s good at birthdays and anniversaries so long as his schedule isn’t so packed he’s unsure of what day of the week it is, but he’s not the type to count the little things. He didn’t think Minho was the type, and he says so.

Minho laughs. “I’m not. Or, I wasn’t. Until you. Until this.” He motions between them, and Chan’s eyes track every move of his hand. The balloon is getting bigger, and any minute now he fears it will pop, leaving shimmery shreds of foil confetti to fill up his lungs. “Then it’s like I count every hour with you.”

“Well,” Chan says carefully, “happy one hundred days, Minho. Let’s do a hundred more.”

Minho doesn’t answer, but when Chan glances over, the corners of his mouth are turned up in a half-hidden smile. They sing along to the CD Minho has playing as he drives them through town, and he still has no clue where they’re going, but the journey is far more important than the destination. It dawns on him once they turn off of Elmiram that Minho is bringing him to the state park.

“Are we hiking?” Chan asks. He doesn’t doubt Minho’s ability to hike in heels, but he certainly can't walk a trail in anything other than sneakers. Luckily, Minho shakes his head and tells him they’re going on a picnic. He settles back in his seat happily until they get to the parking lot, feeling touched.

Minho unloads a picnic basket and a cooler from the back of the car, refusing to let Chan help as they walk to the designated area for picnics. It’s evening and there’s not many people around due to the cooler weather, but Minho sets a blanket down on the grass instead of using one of the tables. He makes Chan sit down after he’s taken off his shoes, and leaves to grab more from the car.

He returns with a portable camping heater and two lanterns which he sets up a foot away from their blanket, and Chan can’t believe how prepared he is. The air is still around them, and they have two hours until the park closes.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Chan says, but he’s delighted. Minho ignores him and pulls out two metal lunch boxes and a set of thermal food jars, passing one of each to Chan. “So romantic!~” He coos just to piss Minho off.

“You’re annoying,” Minho grumbles, exasperated but fond. Chan unscrews the top of the food jar to steaming miso soup, and when Minho passes him a spoon he dives right in. The simple, salty broth warms him from the inside out, and he cheers when Minho pops open the lunch boxes to reveal a dinner of steamed rice and ginger tofu. “Good?”

“The best,” Chan confirms after a taste. Minho’s chopped the cherry tomatoes in fours the way he likes it, though his own are sliced in halves. It’s Minho remembering the little details that makes it easy for Chan to be patient. Though this is the slowest he’s ever gone in a relationship, it’s also the most cherished he’s ever felt.

“Changbin says you’ve been working really hard,” Minho says, leaning over to feed Chan a piece of tofu. “I thought you needed a break.”

Chan huffs a laugh. “I can’t believe he told on me. But yeah, I guess I’ve been a little wrapped up with work. I’m glad you’re taking a break, too.” Minho’s as much of a workaholic as he is, though he won’t call out the hypocrisy. He thinks Minho deals with a different kind of pressure that he could never hope to understand, but if Minho has been good at getting him to take breaks, then Chan has been doing the same since they’re both here now. The cold can’t touch him right now, not with Minho’s warmth at his side and the heater at their feet, eating a meal that Minho had prepared for him.

He’ll have to return the favor soon. As much as he complains, Minho secretly enjoys grand gestures so long as they’re shared between them. Even back in college, when Chan’s intentions were nothing but platonic (or so he thought, but now he’s beginning to think it was always love), he’d surprise Minho for his birthday or just for fun, and earn a punch to the shoulder and a grateful hug in return.

The moment he remembers with the most clarity happened during their second year of college, when neither Chan nor Minho were going home for the holidays. Chan hadn’t been able to afford a flight home and Minho never talked about his parents, but they were both stuck on campus for Christmas. Chan had roommates at the time who were also staying, but Minho was staying alone in a dorm, so on Christmas Eve, he’d gathered a bunch of presents and cookies from the bakery down the road and knocked at Minho’s door until he finally opened up.

“Merry almost Christmas!” Chan had cheered, and Minho had grumbled and groaned but let Chan inside and made them both cups of hot chocolate to go with the cookies. They watched all four Spy Kids movies until they passed out crammed in Minho’s twin bed, and when they woke up Chan made Minho unwrap all the presents he’d bought him. Minho’s gift was a handmade scarf that was so soft Chan wanted to wear it all day, and a Rode NT1 microphone that would have set him back at least three hundred dollars.

Chan still has both the microphone in his home studio and the scarf, which hangs in his closet, waiting for winter to come. He thinks about the smile Minho wore when he gifted it to him every single time he wears it, and though it has long lost the smell of Minho’s perfume, he buries his face in the fabric anyway.

“What are you thinking about?” Minho’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts, his tone bordering on whiny. It makes Chan smile helplessly as he tears his gaze away from the trees he’d been staring at.

“Just our college days,” Chan says truthfully. “That Christmas we spent together in your dorm.”

“Oh.” Minho looks surprised, but his expression turns pleased, his smile stretching across his face. “That was a good day. One of our best. I still have all the things you’ve given me. Well, except for the snacks.”

Chan grins. He barely remembers the things he gave Minho; they were all just things that reminded Chan of him, like cat paraphernalia and Sanrio because Minho had been obsessed at the time. He’d ordered some kind of snack crate from Japan that they’d gone through together, sharing the ones they hated and hoarding the best for later.

“We should get another one of those crates,” Chan says, trying to remember the website he used.

“Shipping’s too expensive,” Minho says, waving his hand. “Just go to the international supermarket. They have good fish too. We should go on a cruise one day.”

The last part throws Chan off, but he can still follow Minho’s train of thought pretty easily in a way no one else can. Knowing Minho, his brain went from fish to ocean to ships in the ocean to cruise, and it made complete sense to him.

“Sure,” Chan says agreeably. “We can go on a cruise one day. When we both can get a few weeks off of work.” He knows that in about three months from now, when Minho remembers this conversation, he will have learned that cruises are actually “incredibly bad for the environment, Chan, did you know that? I’ve changed my mind, let’s join a beach clean-up group”, so for now he indulges Minho’s whims.

“Time for dessert,” Minho sings, gathering up their empty dishes and packing them back into the basket. He opens the cooler and hands Chan a bottle of watermelon Ramune, then unloads a container of chocolate covered strawberries. “They might not be that good because strawberries are out of season.”

“I’m sure it’s great,” Chan assures him, and they are. A little bit on the sour side, but the sweet rich chocolate keeps it balanced. Minho certainly looks pleased as he chews, and Chan wishes he could be cheesy and feed them to Minho by hand. One day, maybe, if Minho is into it. For now, he’s content just sharing this moment as the night gets colder and the wind picks up.

“We’ll have to go soon,” Minho says when they’re done and the containers are all packed away. He takes out a wet wipe and cleans Chan’s hands for him, mouth pouted in concentration. He puts all their trash in a plastic bag and ties it up, then shuffles closer until Chan takes the hint and wraps his arm around Minho’s shoulders.

“Five more minutes?” Chan asks hopefully, unwilling to part just yet.

Minho lets out a long suffering sigh, but he easily sinks against Chan’s side, tipping their heads together. “Five more minutes.”

They end up staying for ten, unwilling to part, but when Minho complains that his butt is getting sore from sitting on the ground, Chan laughs and helps him gather all his things to load into the car. Minho drives him home, and walks him to his door like a gentleman. Chan says goodbye and pulls Minho in a hug so tight he can feel his heart pounding, giving him away, a lighthouse signaling virtue in the fog that Minho hides in.

“I thought you were going to kiss me,” Minho says like a confession, soft and nervous. His hands are trembling, and Chan folds them carefully in his own, rubbing warmth back into his skin. He’ll have to get Minho some gloves.

“When you’re ready, I will,” Chan replies.

“How do you know I’m not ready?” Minho challenges anyway, because he’s Minho. Chan reaches up and pushes his hair out of his eyes as tenderly as possible. His ears are red at the tips from not wearing a hat. He’s beautiful, and Chan loves him.

“I know you,” Chan says gently and hopes it doesn’t sound like the other four letter word, the one he will refrain from using until he’s sure it won’t scare Minho away.

Minho sighs, but it doesn’t sound unhappy. “You do. Then, goodnight Chan. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He steps back and Chan feels unreasonably cold, unable to attribute it to the weather.

“See you tomorrow,” Chan echoes, and watches as Minho gets back into his car. He wraps his arms around himself to ward off the chill while Minho starts the engine. Suddenly, the window rolls down and Minho pokes his head with a smile that spells trouble.

“Go inside before you freeze!” Minho hollers, scowling. “I won’t like you anymore if you get frostbite on your nose.”

Chan goes inside, and when Minho finally drives away with a satisfied grin on his lips, he’s still laughing as he rides the elevator to his apartment.

🌸

Minho is coming over for the first time and Chan is nervous about it. It’s been a full week since their picnic date and both of them are busy, so Tuesday evening is the only time they’re both free.

He’s been slowly decorating his place since he saw Minho’s, but it’s still arguably pretty empty beyond some cute couch cushions and photos of him and his friends printed and framed on the walls. He’s stuck on what else to put in — his apartment has always been just a place for him to sleep. His previous job had kept him so busy that he hadn’t had the time to decorate, and ever since he’s moved, he’s been lost on what to do.

He’s been to Changbin and Jisung’s place before, and their apartment is a perfect reflection of them. They have bookcases full Jisung’s favorite movies and Changbin’s albums. There’s a Howl’s Moving Castle poster on the wall and Ghibli and anime memorabilia everywhere. They clearly had Changbin’s color scheme in mind because it’s full of dark oak furniture and black leather couches. It looks like a home for the two of them, but Chan’s apartments looks almost the exact same as it did when he moved in.

Chan has a pot of hong shao rou braising on the stove and rice cooking in the steamer by the time Minho texts that he’s on his way home from work. He has about half an hour before Minho shows up at his door, and he’s nervous. His knuckles are suffering from it, having been cracked several times as he tries to distract himself. He’s made seaweed salad and bok choy stir fry to go with the main dish, and he had his apartment professionally cleaned over the weekend.

It’s fine, he tells himself, but he really, really wants to impress Minho. He still remembers being sixteen, dating his first girlfriend in high school, and sitting on the porch with his grandmother who gave him advice that he would remember for the rest of his life.

To keep a lover, Chan, never stop trying to impress them, she had told him, her face uncharacteristically serious. He had paused, then, at how much older she looked, her skin sagging without her smile, her eyes dark as she stared at Chan but didn’t see him. Like she was looking straight through him to the orange sky above, as if she could see his grandfather in the clouds. Always act like you’re still trying to win them over, even ten, twenty, fifty years down the line. That’s how your grandfather did it. And someone who loves you just as much will do the same.

Minho does. Chan can see it when he dresses up for their dates even if he doesn’t have to, carefully selected outfits and accessories that show off his efforts. He can see it when Minho starts replying more frequently to his texts, in the date he planned last week, and how he always remembers Chan’s preferences when it comes to any little thing. So even after three years of friendship and three and a half months of dating, Chan will do his best to impress Minho.

He fluffs the rice after it’s done, then leaves the kitchen to change into a nicer outfit. He picks comfortable but semi-formal clothes, hoping he’s not too overdressed, and finishes fixing his hair just as there’s a knock on the door.

“Your passcode really is my birthday,” Minho says when he opens the door. It takes Chan a moment to understand what he’s talking about. To buzz himself in, the apartment building requires a four digit code from its residents that are changed yearly. Two months ago, his landlord sent him a text to remind him to reset his code, and Chan had set it as 1025, Minho’s birthday.

“It is,” Chan says. Before that, it was Jisung’s. He picks important dates because they’re easy to remember, birthdays of the people he loves because they remind him of home. “Come inside, let me take your coat.” It’s the same cream one from last week, and Minho shrugs it off before bending over to unlace his boots. He gets impatient halfway through, toeing them off with a huff that makes Chan smile.

“Getting so cold,” Minho says with a pout. His ears are red and his hair is tousled from the wind. Without thinking, Chan reaches up to fix his hair. To his surprise, Minho leans into the touch for a brief moment before pulling away, handing Chan his coat. “Your apartment is cute.”

Chan laughs. “No need to lie, I know it’s kinda empty.” His apartment is devoid of personality, and it’s only recently that he’s decided to start changing that. “Was thinking you could help me decorate? If you can spare the time.”

“Of course I can,” Minho huffs. He steps forward as Chan hangs up his coat on the hook. Minho’s socks are white and printed with brown cat paws. Compared to Chan’s plain black socks, they’re adorable. “It’s been a while since I’ve decorated anything, so it’ll be fun.”

“We can go to IKEA over the weekend, maybe?” Chan suggests.

Minho nods, peering at the photos on the wall. “I could do this Saturday. It’d have to be in the evening though.” Chan takes out his phone to write himself a reminder in his calendar, then walks over to Minho to guide him to the kitchen. “What’d you make? Smells good.”

“Red braised pork belly, stir fried bok choy, and seaweed salad,” Chan lists, turning off the burner. He puts on his oven mitts and lifts the pot off the stove, placing it on a heat mat on the table and opening the lid for Minho to see. “This is my first time making it, but it should be good? I remember you mentioned you wanted to eat it a couple weeks ago, so—”

“Chan,” Minho interrupts, and Chan’s mouth immediately snaps shut. Minho slides between him and the table until they’re chest to chest with almost no space between them. He’s wearing makeup again, with these little silver gems next to his sparkling eyes. Chan is a little bit obsessed. Minho’s mouth curves into a kittenish grin. “I’m ready now, okay?”

“Ready for what?” The words have barely escaped from Chan’s lips when Minho leans in, grabbing him by the collar to tug him into a kiss that has his brain shutting down from the moment their mouths meet. Chan has fantasized a lot about kissing Minho, and it goes exactly as he expected. Minho takes control, and his mouth is as demanding as Chan thought it would be. His hands, still clad in their mitts, fall instinctually on Minho’s waist as he tries his best to keep up. When they finally break apart, Minho tips their heads together as Chan frantically tries to catch his breath.

“Okay, let’s eat,” Minho says decisively, squirming away and leaving Chan dumbfounded. “I’m hungry and the food looks too good for us to let it get cold.”

“Do you only like me for my cooking?” Chan jokes, still feeling like a rug had been pulled out from under him. He sits down heavily, his heart hammering in his chest as Minho navigates around his kitchen like he owns the place.

“Nonsense,” Minho says mildly, taking the pitcher from the fridge and pouring them glasses of water. “Your skills are nowhere near good enough.”

“Guess you must stick around for other reasons.” Chan accepts his glass gratefully and takes a big gulp, trying his best to calm himself down.

“I guess so,” Minho agrees, and it sounds like a different eight letter sentence, one that Chan thinks Minho might be ready to hear after all.