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Chan huffs through his nose with annoyance, glancing at the clock on his dashboard and then capitulates out of his car to his destination point.
As he climbed up the stairs he realized he needs a name for the doctor, which he definitely had somewhere written down. The problem is that he booked the appointment weeks ago after the consultation — both clinic's and his schedules were tight and incompatible. If that wasn't for his label's insurance he'd go to any other place — there was a slight pain last week too, the appointment just came in handy. The closest date for him was weeks away from his first visit and at the early 9 o'clock. Chan knew the chances of him getting proper sleep that day were slim. Yet it turned out worse.
And when Chan lifts his head from his feet that are now covered with purple overshoes, he doesn't expect him to be the person he has to explain why he's so late to.
The doctor's name comes to his mind instantly. Lee Minho. Right.
The time when he and the lady behind the counter were stressed with picking the date for the appointment, looking back and forth between Chan's schedule pulled up on his phone and her notepad, he laughed lightly when he heard his doctor's name.
"Like the actor?" he said absent-mindedly; the lady only nodded off, clearly having heard this before.
But it didn't stick with Chan that time. Neither has he made a mental connection when he found out Minho's last name probably a few days later. Perhaps, Chan was already gone for the younger, who felt so new and nothing like he has ever dealt with, cheap name association puns never appeared on his mind.
Minho also feels different in his uniform. A white coat draped over his calm matching green short sleeve and loose trousers. Nothing special about it. Yet Chan has to blink a few times to make sure he's not actually in his bed, sleeping the day away.
And Chan knew it's real when he saw Minho's gaze turn stern from the previous bewildered one. Chan has to give it to Minho, he did a good job acting like a professional that's slightly annoyed with his client running late, like he's complete strangers with Chan and that he didn't let out desperate whines less than 12 hours ago, caged between a brick wall and Chan's figure. Like he wasn't confused with what was going on at all.
Once Chan is seated in a chair he finds himself feeling a little awkward as he's turned away from Minho, who now rubs his hands dry on a towel.
"Care to explain?" he clears his throat and asks, his tone rather wondering.
Chan turns his head a little at the question, his gaze follows Minho approaching him.
"I think I might have caries on the top row teeth."
Minho sighs at that and Chan hisses a little. He really doesn't know how out of all places to provide insurance treatment his label picked the clinic Minho works in.
"It's definitely a coincidence," he voices out.
Minho's mouth is covered with a mask, but Chan still could see how muscles pull on his face, dissatisfied with the reply.
"I honestly can't tell if you're mad but, for your information, I didn't look you up or anything. You know I only have your Kakao."
That was true. Not that Chan used social media himself often but if Minho shared his accounts he'd have the motivation to. The thing is that he never asked Minho to share anything. Mainly because he wasn't sure how serious their whole thing was. And if they were to be dissatisfied with their real life selves, they could just cut it off harmlessly.
Minho seems to be preoccupied with thoughts too. Probably something different than what's on Chan's mind. At least, he likes to think so because overthinking makes him nervous.
Then Minho acts as if on cue.
"You're all cranked up," he says giving him a once-over, "Relax. It's just your teeth."
Chan wants to laugh to relieve his awkwardness but Minho is already seated and is pushing buttons to lower Chan's chair.
As time goes by Chan lets loose a bit. And that helps Minho too. To put things in perspective, it was embarrassing how long it took to keep a napkin on Chan's hoodie attached.
Well, Chan has nice teeth. Minho is almost sure he used to wear braces. If not, then he's one point up on Minho's perfection scale.
He's not the type to fall that easily, but Chan might be an exception. He's incredibly charming. Recollections from their last date flash before his eyes.
Minho doesn't like to talk about his occupation outside of his workplace. He's not insecure about it — why would he be if it earns him good income. Also he is passionate about it. It's the stress factor — he'd rather talk about anything else in his free time. Venting is not the way for him to recharge. So instead, he talks with Chan about his music projects. The elder seems to enjoy producing for days on end so much that it doesn't tire him. At least, not these days; Minho remembers how his eyes sparkled with interest when he tried explaining the different types of percussion he likes to use without having to pull out a special app for that.
Of course it's not the same glow he has now, as a single tear rolls down his cheek after Minho removes a now empty needle from his mouth.
"Ow," Chan lets out, "Hate it when men make me cry."
Minho laughs in small huffs. He wipes the tear with a napkin not missing how Chan's brows quirk up on his face and then guides him to press his hand to his cheek at the place of injection.
The iffy atmosphere seems to dissipate altogether at that though he still chooses to depart to get some of the tools needed.
It is weird. It's not bad. Would've been worse if Chan was a bad date. Yet Minho would rather meet in any other place besides his workplace. The sanitary environment of dentist room kills the romance.
As Minho starts treating Chan, he learns that the latter is just a little hyperactive. Mind you, Minho doesn't ask questions with his hands down his patients throat. Evidently, Chan lacks the practice.
Or he is just feeling awkward. He tells himself that it's fine and the stern look on Minho's face is of concentration and not of avoidance. He really shouldn't get in the way of Minho's work, but every time his eyes fall on the younger's face he notices his rich set of eyelashes and the delicate cat-like look his eyes have, he gets an urge to coo.
Minho nudges Chan with his elbow as he's moving back to change tools. Chan whines in his throat at the jab in his ribs.
"I need you to stop staring at me like that," Chan grunts something with a question in his tone, Minho's back to spraying water in his mouth. The younger can't miss the slight smirk that makes Chan's mouth reshape a little, "It's distracting. I might cut your gums."
"You won't," Chan slides his commentary when Minho withdraws his hand, "You're a professional. A prodigy in dentistry."
"It doesn't take that long to obtain a degree in dentistry."
Really? Chan asks in his throat; Minho hums in reply.
"Four years of undergraduate is enough."
Chan doesn't try to say anything, just shifts his gaze to look at the ceiling. Once Minho leans away he starts speaking again.
"Still, it's med. Always working with people and their mouths," he says and chuckles awkwardly, "I must look unpretty to you right now."
Minho just rolls his eyes.
"How do you even manage to talk so much?" he brings up a tool to Chan's mouth that, the latter assumes, is supposed to harden the sealant; the blue light reflects on his other teeth but since it's not direct it's okay for his eyes, but has Minho to look away and peek back every third beep to check the position on the tooth before making the light appear a few more times.
"I mean I'd never tell. That you work in this field."
Minho throws him a scolding look and Chan's brows rise playfully. The younger reaches inside again, doing whatever else he's supposed to do.
Meanwhile Minho holds a stoic expression, his attention seeming to be fully channeled into Chan's tooth. Well, as it's supposed to.
"I collected my peers' baby teeth as a child. Sometimes traded them for sweets and stones, sometimes stole them from under pillows," he says, his tone is casual, "Yeah, teeth are cool. I like to tender to them," he pulls out slowly, eyes flicking to look Chan in the face, keeping his expression calm.
Chan closes his mouth slightly, just to erupt in small giggles right that instant.
"Oh, so you are the tooth fairy!"
At this Minho's upfront falls, he blinks in surprise and laughs, his tone bright and the mere sound of it makes Chan want to bask in the moment for as long as possible.
Minho gives him that, agreeing hurriedly. His ears flush with red — too bad it can't be covered. He tries his best, keeping his mouth from spreading into a wide smile and Minho really appreciates the effort.
For the next segment of time Chan actually lets Minho do his job in silence. The younger only sometimes flickers his gaze at Chan; sometimes he looks back, but other times he stares up the ceiling and Minho lets his gaze linger a little longer. Chan is really pretty. Even in the position he's in right now. Minho thinks it's really unfair, but he's also happy, both for Chan and himself.
Chan makes eye contact again when Minho asks him to bite and grind his teeth against paper a few times. The process always made Chan a little nervous; he couldn't always tell if the seal was too big as he doesn't check his bite on a daily basis, so he might have bit it improperly, giving the wrong verdict and making his doctors cut too much sealant. Minho pulls his mask down to his chin, noticing how overly burdened Chan's face looks.
"Is it uncomfortable?"
Chan grinds his teeth one more time, sliding his jaw back and forth. And then nods his head affirmingly. Minho could feel his cheeks rising in a fond smile at the sudden lack of noise coming from Chan, even despite the absence of any constrictions in his mouth. Then he moves to grab a soft rubber cup to polish the tooth. Vibrations against Chan's skull feel nice and serve as a good distraction from the previous procedure.
Chan acknowledges the cotton pads stuck in between his teeth and upper gums again only when Minho pulls them out and throws the pair into the plastic bag beside Chan.
As Minho presses buttons to pull Chan's chair up, the elder can't help but sigh. He's glad the pain's no longer but also is his appointment with Minho.
Minho offers him a blue mouthwash and tissues, instructing him to restrain from any food intake until anesthesia wears off; his tone is almost as dull, as it is usually when he advices other patients, yet he can't help dragging out his words a little, waiting until Chan is done and is looking up at him.
His smile is lopsided, one part is almost unmoving, but it's barely noticeable.
"Thank you, doc," he says, sliding his legs down on the floor, "Will make sure to get into your appointment more often."
Minho chuckles dryly, pulling off his gloves and getting to the sink.
"If you do so, soon you'll have no teeth to be fixed."
"Ah, that's weird that it doesn't feel good," Chan says with a pout. Minho turns to see him shaking his legs, trying to adjust to standing again after lying for half an hour.
Minho can't help but feel his stomach sink. He knows he has three more patients after Chan, yet the only thing he can care for now is the man in front of him. The elder strolls closer to the door, his sheepish gaze fixates on Minho.
"I overlooked your other teeth," he starts suddenly, "Couple teeth on the bottom need checking."
A smug smirk pulls on Chan's non-anesthetized half and Minho feels a growl forming in the back of his throat.
"Oh, does that mean I'll be seeing you more often?"
Minho scrunches his nose before speaking.
"No, I'm not fixing your teeth anymore."
At that Chan's face falls.
"No. Why not? It's not the 'can't operate your lover' kinda thing, right?"
Minho grits his teeth behind his mask and squints. Chan doesn't have to know how something in his stomach shrinked for a second at the label.
"No, it's not that," At least it shouldn't be. Yet at times Minho found it hard to concentrate, his mind hazing slightly from the feeling of Chan's ribcage under his arms alone, "But I don't want my workplace to become our meeting point."
Minho pulls a planner out of a drawer beside the sink. He flips through pages, scanning plain tables before pointing his finger into it.
"Next Tuesday, 4 o'clock. My senior. She's not going to go easy on you," at this Chan pouts slightly, "But you'll be done and good til next year, around March, in no time. She'll fix you up quickly."
Chan wonders what's the 'easy' part that Minho let on him. His whole appointment felt nothing different from what he used to get from other practitioners.
He snaps out of his thoughts, when Minho asks him once again, his voice soft, if the time is okay for him. Chan nods and watches Minho scribble in the planner quickly before closing and discarding it back to the drawer. He puts his hands into the front pockets of his shirt, the pose feeling grounding for some reason.
"I have a pretty loose schedule for the next week," he says, fanning his lashes unconsciously.
Chan feels his skin prickle with goosebumps. The whole act of appointing a new patient to his senior without consulting with them first would probably cause him some qualms, but the elder revels in how adorable it is of Minho to speak so softly about it, his whole purpose is to just make time for his and Chan's date.
"Okay. That's good," he says lowly, clearly flustered, fiddling with the mask in his hands.
Minho nods, even though Chan doesn't see him do that. When the elder hoops the mask straps over his ears, Minho pulls his own mask down, guiding Chan further into the pit before the entrance door. He leans in, steadying himself by Chan's biceps and plants his lips on the elder's cheek, right beside the corner of his mouth. He stays there for a few moments, and leans away right when Chan clings his hand on Minho's shoulder.
"A blind spot for the surveillance," he whispers between them as if anyone could hear, a smile pulls at his mouth again. He glances Chan in the face and on the floor back and forth, resisting pulling a mask up to his nose bridge.
The elder lets out a breathy laugh. God, he feels like on cloud nine witnessing Minho like this — doing silly stuff he could probably get in trouble for and getting all shy afterwards. He shifts his palm onto Minho's cheek and the younger puts his gaze back up. Chan doesn't lean in, not wanting to grant Minho with a sloppy peck, his numb lips feeling cold against his flushed face. Minho deserves better. So instead Chan caresses his finger across Minho's cheekbone, his touch feather light, making the other fall into it; his lashes fanning over.
"Text me later. Please," the elder says, pulling his mask over his nose. The sparkle in his eyes is unconcealable even when he exits the room; it's still there and he feels as if he has a gloss over his eyes he can't blink away until when he gets to his car.