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This sort of thing just doesn’t happen to Minho.
God knows how many times he’s had Taemin whining about it, or calling him, asking for a pick-up from whatever dodgy place he’s found himself downtown, but that’s Taemin.
Slinky, gorgeous, sex-on-legs Taemin.
Not him.
So he really has no idea how to react when he’s on the subway and suddenly this creep sidles over and says,
“Do you have the time?”
To which Minho replies, slightly confused as to why the man didn’t just look at his phone or something, “Sure, sir, it’s 7 o’clock.”
“No, I meant the time to write down my number.” The man winks and Minho’s brain doesn’t quite comprehend the situation. He stares. Then twitches, blinking rapidly.
“Pardon?” Because he cannot have heard right, that didn’t just happen.
Somewhat randomly, the man declares, “I’m not a photographer-“
“That’s nice.”
“-But I can picture us together.”
“That’s not.” Minho comments, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. “What the hell man?”
Said man rolls his eyes as though Minho is just being shy or coquettish or something. He really doesn’t seem to be picking up on the disgusted tone of Minho’s voice.
“Are you trying to tell me you’re not up for a little man on man action, with that suit on?”
“First of all, I believe the word you’re looking for is homosexual, secondly, what the fuck did my suit ever do to you, sir?” He tacks the ‘sir’ on the end because his mother raised him to have manners but honestly this is a little too much. Especially after the longest and busiest day he’s had to suffer through in a month.
Also, he likes this suit and he knows it makes his legs look even longer than usual, and he doesn’t want some sleazy creep ruining it for him.
“Your suit has done nothing except make your arse look delectable.”
“Dele-?” Minho splutters, physically unable to form the word. “Did you just call my…?” He drifts into stunned silence. He’s vaguely aware the other people in his carriage are eavesdropping and watching out of the corners of their eyes and is aggravated at their lack of help.
That is, until the train stops and in the tide of people who wash aboard sweeps a short man with blonde hair. The blonde guy stands nearby, moving with the train as it pulls away and disdaining the poles for balancing casually by himself, and is close enough to hear when Minho flinches away from the creepy-ass dude and says, “You’re making me really uncomfortable, please back off.”
The guy sidles even closer, “I didn’t quite catch your name?”
“Choi Minho.” Fuck, he hadn’t meant to say that, what the hell? Minho has to curl his fingers into a fist so as to not slap himself in the face. The man is crowding him into the closed subway door now and Minho can smell the reek of his sweat and thinks he might be sick, and can’t believe he’d told the bastard his name and has no idea how to get the man to piss off-
“Minho! Long time no see!” It’s hard to tell who is more shocked, the man or Minho, when the blonde guy suddenly slinks forward and forces the man to take a step back as the blonde slips between him and Minho, grinning widely. He digs Minho’s side with his sharp elbow and ignores Minho’s wince in favour of turning to the guy with a frankly scary smile on his face, “Oh hello! Are you Minho’s associate? I’m Kim Kibum.” He throws a smirk up at Minho and the taller man almost stumbles because 1) what was happening, 2) the blonde man had a smile like sunshine and cheekbones that could cut glass that Minho just wanted to lick and 3) what in Heaven’s name was happening? “But this dork has called me Key ever since we were five!”
“Five?” The greasy guy coughs, the single word more than Minho thinks he could manage at the precise moment.
“We go way back, don’t we?”
Another attack to his ribs - really how deadly are this guy’s elbows? - and Minho is nodding, “Uh yeah.” The blonde guy - Key - glares at him with eyes lined in dark liner and Minho wills himself to relax, slumping against the door and nodding less like he is being electrocuted. “Sorry, I’m just a bit shocked. Last time I saw you was at that barbeque your dad threw three summers ago in honour of your promotion at work.”
Key doesn’t even flinch and Minho is slightly disturbed at how his ebony eyes melt into sickeningly saccharine chocolate, “Don’t remind me! I thought I was going to die of embarrassment when the ‘rents started dancing to one of my girl group playlists.”
He rolls his eyes, amusement in every line of his handsome face and Minho is kind of in awe and kind of desperately attracted in a way he’s never been before.
He wonders if he has a saviour complex or something, as he matches Key’s slightly louder-than-normal tone because it’s all a show for the creep, who is looking between them with suspicious squints, and says, “God, do you remember year 6 when you dragged us all out to karaoke every Friday and wouldn’t sing anything other than F(x) songs?” Key’s eyes widen a little and Minho realises the guy is actually an F(x) fan, “I was this close to murdering you with one of your stupid scarfs.” Minho looks pointedly down at the lilac scarf draped stylishly around Key’s neck and is that a blush on the shorter man’s face?
“I still learn their dances, when they release a new single.”
“Oh, do show?”
Minho feels his heart leap around in his chest like a dying fish when Key links arms with him and murmurs, “Maybe later.”
Before he can respond, Key speaks up again, “That’s not fair, you can’t tell your friend,” Key turns the full force of his terrifyingly innocent smile on the pervert, who had been edging away slowly, forcing the guy to smile forcedly back, “All my embarrassing stories. You,” he waves a finger under Minho’s nose and the brunette goes cross-eyed to look at it, noting with little surprise - because Key is just so (wonderfully) bizarre - that Key’s fingernails are painted pastel blue, “Were the most awkward kid I’ve ever come across in my entire life. When you had that growth spurt, look at him, he’s a giant, isn’t he?” Key directs the question at the degenerate and arranges his features flawlessly (referring to both his acting skills and actual facial bone structure) into an expression of a fond grudge revived. The pervert nods warily. “Anyway, he had these long limbs that he didn’t know what to do with. He was so clumsy and uncoordinated, do you remember that time in my backyard?”
“In your old house or the new one?”
“The old one, we were only in year 8.”
Minho contemplates for a while and tries not to be distracted by the way Key’s eyes sparkle as he looks up at him. Minho groans suddenly, “Are you talking about the time we were playing with the hose-pipe and I slipped and fell against the wall and broke my arm?”
Key cackles, earning them more side-ways looks from the other tube travellers, “Slipped? You never slipped, you ran into that fucking wall, don’t pretend otherwise.”
Minho sucks air in through his teeth. He can’t believe Key, seriously, “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
Key laughs again and Minho feels so accomplished it worries him. Because this is just a random stranger on the train and he really shouldn’t be wanting to make the petite, gorgeous blonde guy laugh as much as he does, should he?
Then again, he’s having fun. He’d thought his day had hit rock bottom when the freak had first approached him but apparently inventing memories is amazingly good stress relief.
“Are you still working for the same company then? Didn’t you say your boss was a condescending, cruel and calculating cunt’?”
“I do believe those were my words exactly. The answer’s no.” Key smiles and Minho can’t help but smile right back down at him. “I’m at Elie Saab now.”
It takes a moment for Minho to recognise the name, then recall the designs, then gasp, “Seriously?” Though he isn’t sure why he’s so surprised; Key practically screams high fashion. The woman’s perfume should’ve been a hint, probably.
When Key swells with pride, Minho is sure his happiness is genuine. “Yeah. Only in a minor position but it’s always been my dream to work there.”
Minho grins with way too much fondness he’s sure. “I’m happy for you. Proud of you.” Key’s gaze seems to shift slightly and Minho quickly ruffles his hair and coos ridiculously so the other man stops dwelling on the fact that Minho’s voice had dripped with an almost parental pride.
“Yeah, uh, nice one. Look, I’ve really got to-“
“Oh no please, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Are you business partners?” Minho wants to laugh because the question is so ridiculous, what with the contrast between the creep’s trashy clothes and Minho’s bespoke suit, yet Key’s face is the very picture of sincerity.
“Uh, no. We only just met actually-“
“Yes, what was your name again?” asks Minho. “I told you mine.”
Key pipes up, “Only polite to extend the same courtesy.”
“Park Jinsoo.” The man mutters, then bows quickly and legs it to the other end of the carriage, ignoring the disgusted or amused looks he receives.
There’s a long pause where Minho refuses to look down at Key, even though he can feel the shorter man’s gaze burning a hole through his skull. Finally, the draw too strong, he gives in, meets Key’s eyes. His pupils are a mix of flint and coffee, all warm and deadly at the same time.
Minho clears his throat. He doesn’t want to shatter this beautiful state of improvised childhood friendship they’ve got going on, doesn’t want Key to move away so his side no longer bumps into Minho’s when the train turns a corner, but it’s inevitable. “Thank you so muc-“
“My mum keeps asking me about you.”
Minho doesn’t even think, the words tumbling off his tongue, “Oh? What does she ask?”
Key smirks, “If you’re still as handsome as you’ve always been. I swear to God, that woman loves you more than me.”
“I love her more than you too.”
Key sticks his tongue out childishly and Minho bites back a chuckle. “Anyway,” he continues with a roll of his eyes, “My answer was always no.”
“No?” Minho says, and then looks in the train window to see his reflection. He smooths his jacket out, large hands dragging over his ribcage then flat stomach then the top of his arse. He pats his hip and pouts at Key.
He really hopes he wasn’t imagining the way Key’s eyes had followed his hands like a hawk’s, nor the blush he thinks he sights flushing Key’s gorgeous cheekbones. Honestly, they should be illegal. (Has Minho mentioned he wants to lick them?)
Key huffs out a slightly unsteady breath, “I was lying.”
The pause is surprisingly comfortable before Minho says, “Do you remember that bitch who I dated at Uni?” He keeps gender deliberately ambiguous and Key’s eyes glint strikingly, even under the train’s ugly fluorescent lighting.
“The one who broke your heart?”
Minho nods, “I still haven’t forgotten the way you broke into her room and stole all her clothes then screamed at her that day in the corridor. You’d yell if she even looked at me. I’ve never met anyone so devoted to his friends.”
“Devoted?” Key says, in a strangely small voice.
“Never met anyone after you who has been so willing to stand up and risk punishment to defend me.” He wonders what Key is reading in his eyes, what emotions. Minho isn’t quite sure what he’s feeling himself. “I’ve missed you a lot, you know?”
Key hums and, after a split-second’s hesitation, surges forward to wrap his arms around Minho’s waist. “Missed you too, giant. Want to come back to my place, catch up on our own recent adventures?”
Well there it is. Minho has never wanted anything as much in his entire life. Well, except maybe to become a football player. Or get that promotion. Or for a boiler that doesn’t break down every fortnight. Still, he wants to say ‘hell yes’ pretty badly. “Look,” Key steps back immediately at his change in tone, face settling into a pleasant sort of dismissal, shutting down slightly. Minho keeps going. “I really can’t right now. I’ve had the shittest day at work ever and I can hardly think straight,” both of them bite their tongues against the expected ‘I don’t believe thinking straight is what we’re aiming for’ joke and Minho almost changes his mind, almost drags him back into a hug, “But I’d love it if you’d tell me your number. Did you buy a new phone? Your old number just isn’t working anymore.”
Key’s smile really is radiant.
“I still can’t believe we’ve never run into each other on the train home before?”
“I worked overtime.”
Key tuts. “Me too. New range, last checks, you know how it is.” Minho honestly has no idea how it is, but would really like to. He’d really like to know a lot, actually. Like if this gorgeous man really does dance to girl group songs. If the love in his eyes when he talks about his mother is justified. If he prefers pepperoni or meat lover’s toppings on his pizza. How long Elie Saab has been his aim, if he really is just a minor assistant there because there’s this confidence that makes Minho sure he must be something more. How he looks without his eyeliner, when he takes it off at night or wakes up in the mornings, if his perfectly styled hair breaks down into adorable bedhead. How he looks dressed to the nines, how adorable in sweats, how fit in workout gear, how fuckable in skin-tight clubbing clothes, what type of drunk he is.
“Shit, the next stop is mine.” Minho curses. “Are you free for lunch next Monday?”
“Minho-ssi, we don’t even know if we work nearby each other-“
“Please just call me Minho.”
“And besides, Monday is too far away.” Today is Friday. Minho feels a bit light-headed. “How about you come round tomorrow? I’ve texted you my address already.” Minho wants to say more but the train is stopping, making Key lean into his just slightly, just enough for him to feel the other man’s warmth. Minho can’t believe this is happening, or that he’s actually happy a creepy pervert with awful pick-up lines had come onto him. He blinks.
“That sounds…ok. Good, yeah, I’ll-“
“See you tomorrow Minho.” Key grins, pushing him off the train. He might blow Minho a kiss but Minho is too tired to see properly, everything slightly blurred at the edges. The lights illuminate Key’s blonde hair and Minho thinks he looks just like a guardian angel ought to look. Along the same line of thought, he really needs to sleep.
“Goodnight.” Minho says, trying to blink the exhaustion out of his brain. “I hope you sleep well.”
Just before the train doors shut, Key leans out and ruffles the taller man’s hair.
“Sweet dreams, Minho-ah.”
(They may or may not end up having sex on Key’s couch on Friday night after a week of lunch dates and dinner and clubbing and intense flirting and not-so-subtle eye fucking but that’s another story for a different day.)