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The blue light of his phone feels a bit too much on his tired eyes.
Minho squints at the screen, blinking a few times to try and adjust to the unpleasant feeling. He swipes down to the control centre, and wonders why it is even still this bright when he has dutifully set the brightness to the lowest it can be. It is most definitely just because he has been in the dark for so long, and he can't bother to at least put on his glasses, that lay forgotten on his bedside table, to try to appease the sting in his retinas.
Slowly sliding his thumb across the screen, Minho soon finds himself staring at the dark setting of his contact app, the names he set for each number saved glaring back at him. He clicks around for a bit, scrolls down the contacts some more, until he is skimming through his call history, almost laughing bitterly at the reminder that his last call was nothing more than telemarketing, sixteen days ago, as were all the others up until his birthday last year, when his mother called to wish him well.
It’s somewhat baffling, he thinks, to know he has such an extensive contact list, but no one to actually talk to, even when they are all a click away. Half of these people aren't even in his life anymore, and yet, he clings to their numbers, refusing to get rid of them, expecting someone to suddenly call again.
No one ever does, of course, and no one texts, either — his message app is just as empty and forsaken — but Minho can’t seem to ever put the past behind him, holding onto memories, unused gifts, and long-gone people, shoving them inside the dark closet of his mind to maintain them safe, hidden, yet reachable for him.
The way he is soon thumbing at a very specific contact, rereading the number he has already memorised and has known by heart for years, confirms him as much.
Minho stares, and Chan’s name stares back at him, cold and unmoving, still lovingly pink and unchanged ever since they last talked, quite a few months ago. He vaguely wonders if the older man would even pick up if he dared to click on the glowing green button right under the all-too-familiar sequence of numbers, and snorts, because no, Chan wouldn’t, he guesses. No— Chan wouldn’t, and he knows it.
He stares at his ex-boyfriend’s, his ex-best friend’s, number, lost in thought and dwelling over the what ifs and why nots for so long the thirty minutes of his screen timer go by without him even noticing until he's staring at the pitch black of his phone’s display, no blue light assaulting his poor eyes.
It's been a while since they broke up, and although they settled that it was on good terms and promised to still be friends, Chan didn't bother keeping in touch with him for more than a few weeks before he stopped texting altogether. So, why would he ever pick up if Minho plucked up the courage to actually call? A part of him wants to try, while the other one is both just too petty to let go of the little bit of grudge he holds against Chan, and too insecure to do so.
It would be a lie to say Minho doesn’t miss him. He doesn’t often miss anyone, not really, finds himself to be self-sufficient, just what he needs, and he isn’t exactly that great with people, anyways. But Chan is different. Without other people, Minho is just alone, and he doesn’t really mind being alone, revelling in the silence and serenity of his own company, and the steady, continuous pace of his quiet routine. Without Chan, however, he is lonely — has been for the past six months.
Loneliness has always been an all-too familiar feeling to Minho, but he expected Chan to not let him feel it ever again. Yet, he did.
Perhaps that is Minho's fault as well.
The faint pattering of raindrops on sidewalks and roads outside is barely acknowledged as Minho chews on his bottom lip for a moment, presses his thumb down on the power button, unlocks the screen, gives in, and calls.
As he holds the device up to his ear, hand a bit too shaky, it rings.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
When it rings for a bit too long, he wonders if maybe it’s just too late in the night. If Chan has forgotten his phone on silent again, or if he is actively ignoring the insistent ringing of it.
Minho quickly begins to second guess his stupid, idiotic decision, turning over on his bed and wriggling his body to make himself more comfortable, and considers hanging up and pretending this never happened, and—
The line connects with a crackling sound.
A sigh makes its way through Minho’s lips, but it’s really more of a gasp than not.
“Minho?”
It’s pathetic, really, the way his heart painfully thumps against his ribcage, both excited and anxious, when Chan’s voice comes from the other end of the line, sweet and melodic as it’s always been, laced with barely-concealed surprise.
Minho swallows the lump forming on his throat, sucking in a deep breath, and stares at the ceiling through the dark of his room.
“Hi,” he says, a bit too quietly.
Chan takes a moment to whisper back. “Hey,” he breathes, still sounding dumbfounded.
Suddenly, Minho just doesn’t know what to say. It’s a constant, frankly. Chan always left him at a loss of words, always because he is such a beautiful, kind soul, but never in this situation. Never because he is calling him at the dead of night, months after they have broken up, months after they have last talked, and Minho just does not know what he should say now that he has done it.
He is still wondering about what he should say when there is a soft rustling sound against his ear, something like clothes or sheets, then a creak, and Chan’s hesitating voice comes right after, calling his name one more time.
“Hi,” Minho mutters again, squeezing his eyes shut. “Hi, sorry, were you sleeping? Did I wake you up?”
“No. You know I don’t sleep before four,” the older man jokes, and Minho can’t hold back the fond smile tugging at his lips, even if Chan sounds a bit too awkward right now.
“Yeah, you don’t,” he agrees.
They fall silent again. Minho lets his eyes flutter open, and his heart is still thumping in his chest, the dull pounding in his ears cutting through the soft whir of the call.
“Do you… uhm— do you need something?” Chan inquiries, stammering exasperatedly when he notices how the question sounds. “Not to sound rude or anything! It’s just, uh, we haven’t exactly, uhm—”
“— talked for a while, I know,” Minho calmly interrupts, even though he feels somewhat guilty now. “It’s okay, I just felt like calling. Sorry if it’s bothering you or something.”
“It isn’t!” the older one assures nervously. “It isn’t, really.”
Minho nods slowly, promptly realising Chan can’t really see him, and sighs quietly.
"It's cold," Minho mumbles wearily, turning over on the mattress again to lie on his side. He cranes his neck to peer at the window, huffing when he realises it's too dark to see anything, and the blinds are drawn shut anyway, so it's not like he would be able to if it weren't.
Quietly settling back into a more comfortable position, Minho pulls the phone away from his ear, only to tuck it between the pillow and the other side of his head, too lazy to keep holding it in place.
"I think it's raining, too."
Chan hums, a pleasant little noise to hear, even when it sounds a little laggy. It reminds Minho of all the late night calls and talks they have had before.
"It is cold. And it is raining, yes," he confirms, a twinge of amusement in his voice.
Minho actually smiles this time, but there is still something he wants to say, the words sitting heavy on his tongue, ready to spill past his lips, but he stubbornly holds them back. Perhaps he does not have the right to utter them.
Chan beats him to it, in the end.
“I, uh, miss you.”
Relief washes through him, because this isn’t really a one-sided thing, and Chan misses him, too, and he feels much less stupid now.
“I miss you, too,” Minho whispers back, fiddling with the pillowcase under his head.
I still love you so much remains unsaid, painfully stuck in his throat like pricking thorns.
Chan gives a soft, acknowledging hum in response, and there is more shuffling coming from his end of the line.
“I’m sorry I didn’t try to keep our friendship like we promised to do," the man sighs.
“I didn’t try either, so it’s not completely your fault,” Minho reassures, “we both neglected it.”
“Yeah,” Chan agrees quietly, “yeah, we did.”
Minho turns to lie on his back, seemingly unable to remain still, restlessness buzzing under his skin, and grabs his phone to press it to his ear again. He wonders if things would have been different if he just hadn’t waited for Chan to come to him, instead of doing it himself. Wonders if they could be best friends again. Wonders whether Chan still loves him as much as he loves the man, or if everything he once felt for Minho has long turned into mere crumbs of emotion.
Even then, when he is pretty sure Chan no longer harbours any romantic feelings towards him, he is unable to stop himself from wanting. No matter what Chan can give him now, he wants it all, as long as he can get something from him. Minho misses him, his friendship, and his presence by his side too much to allow himself to be demanding. He can not want so much, not when he deserves so little.
“Hypothetically,” Minho begins after a beat of silence, “if I asked you to come over, would you?”
"Right now?" There it is, the poorly-concealed shock in his voice. Chan is way too transparent, sometimes.
"Yes, right now," the younger one confirms.
“Oh. Well, it’s two in the morning,” Chan points out. He makes a pause, then, before adding, “the rain seems to be getting worse, too.”
Minho blinks at the ceiling. He cranes his neck to glance at the window again, before humming quietly, adjusting himself on the soft mattress.
“Yeah, I’m aware,” he mumbles. “Would you, though?”
The silence that follows his question stretches itself for so long that Minho starts to wonder if Chan hung up to avoid answering, long enough to have him check his phone to see if the other man actually did.
The seconds ticking under Chan's contact name tell him the call is still steadily going on, and his ear touches the device just in time to hear Chan speak up again.
“I would,” the other one murmurs, “if you wanted me to, I would.”
“I do,” Minho mutters back, taking a deep breath. He truly hopes this isn’t a mistake, that this won’t go awfully wrong, but says the words anyway. “Come over.”
“Okay. Wait for me.”
And it's not like Minho has done anything these past few months other than secretly, subconsciously waiting for Chan.
When the call beeps to indicate its end, Minho slowly lets the phone slip from his hand, landing with a soft thud on his pillow, and stares at the ceiling for a bit longer. Slowly, Minho lets the half nervous, half content smile he feels growing in his chest spread over to his face, a mix of nauseating anxiety and sweet satisfaction swirling inside his stomach.
It doesn't take long before he finds himself stumbling into his living room, turning on the lights on his way, and taking a moment to assess whether it is presentable enough. But, again, Chan and him had dated for nearly two years, and it’s not like the older man hasn’t ever seen both him and his tiny apartment at their lowest.
Deeming its condition good enough to have someone come to his home at two in the morning, Minho unceremoniously plops down on his couch, Soonie promptly walking over to jump on his lap as soon as he’s made himself comfortable enough, and patiently waits, phone tightly clutched in his hand. His head falls to the backrest of the couch, and he waits. Waits quietly, like he’s waited for Chan every single time the older one asked him to.
Waits, waits, and waits, the soft purrs of the cat snuggled to his side kindly soothing his nerves and slowly helping to stop the continuous bouncing of his restless legs, until a gentle knock on the door echoes, barely audible over the sound of the rain that grows louder by the second, but still there. Minho scrambles to his feet, startling Soonie in the process, and takes a deep breath, before heading for the door, trying his best not to look nervous or overly excited as he unlocks and very nearly swings it open.
Meeting Chan's kind chocolate eyes again after so long is like a wave hitting him across the face.
Minho’s breath hitches, and he feels somewhat suffocated for a moment, fingers gripping the cold, light brown wood of his front door, staring at the older man just as intensely as he stares at him. Chan’s gaze borders on feverish; sends burning hot warmth coursing through his veins, makes his skin buzz.
It’s a sweet feeling, really, something he was just so used to feeling around the oldest, and hadn’t felt in so long. Non-aching, non-burning, but still dizzying in the best way.
The loud sough of the wind pulls them out of their little staring contest, and Minho glances down at the umbrella in the older man’s hand instead.
“Hi,” Minho softly greets, suddenly bashful.
“Hi,” Chan greets back, just as hushed. “Can I come in?”
Minho blinks at him. “Right, yeah,” he mumbles, stepping aside.
He doesn’t really mind that water drips from Chan’s umbrella onto the floor as the man walks in and leaves it aside, and quietly watches him toe off his muddy shoes, closing the door behind himself with a soft click.
Minho holds his breath as the other man instinctively reaches for the white slippers Minho reserves for guests — not that he often has any —, halting for a moment, before turning to the younger one with surprise evident in his expression.
“You still have them,” Chan gasps, pointing his thumb over his shoulder, and even though he knows just what Chan is talking about, Minho peeks behind him, feeling his ears stupidly warm up at the sight of the black slippers that belong to the older man himself.
“Oh, yeah.” He chuckles awkwardly. “I forgot to give them back to you, and I wouldn’t just, like, throw them out, so. Yeah. They’re there.”
Chan smiles. “Well, at least they're here, and I like them a lot. Thanks, past us.” He giggles.
Minho smiles, too, unable to hold back the fondness spreading through his chest. Cute. Chan is so cute. Minho always found him adorable, and it doesn’t seem to have changed even now. Both Chan being this lovely, and Minho finding him this lovely.
Further realising he is still this thoroughly enamoured by the other man is something he chooses to not dwell on for now. It can wait.
After Chan slips on his slippers, they stride to the couch, quietly, and Chan settles comfortably on the ragged cushioning of it, lifting his face to watch Minho curiously when the younger man doesn’t join him, but does not ask the younger one to.
The silence feels both comfortable and awkward, and Minho glances at the kitchen, this tiny little thing, poorly divided from his living room by a half wall, before looking back down at his ex, tipping his head slightly off-centre.
“Want something to drink?” he asks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Chan nods, leaning forward. “That would be nice, thank you. What do you have?”
“Uh, I have… coffee, but you don’t drink coffee. I think I might have tea somewhere? I don’t have juice, and no lukewarm water either. I know you don’t really like cold water, so—” He waddles to his kitchen, Soonie and a recently awoken Dori hot on his heels, then stops, frowns, and turns back to Chan. “Wait, do you still not drink coffee and cold water?”
There is something about the way Chan’s smile widens that makes him feel rather skimpy. “Yeah, I don’t.” He chuckles softly.
Minho feels warm.
Isn’t he supposed to feel cold, with the rain and everything?
“Right.” He nods, turning around again to check what he actually has, and to hide the blush creeping up his face, too.
Why is he even this sheepish and antsy, anyway? It’s just Chan.
Chan, his ex-boyfriend and ex-best friend, who is nonchalantly sitting on his couch just like he used to always do, like nothing's changed in the last few months. Bang Chan.
Yeah.
Minho takes a deep breath, and starts looking around his stuff. He vaguely hears Chan get up and walk over to him, but pays him no mind, focusing on his task for now, dutifully trying to make his silly heart settle down in the meanwhile.
He quickly finds a couple boxes of tea tucked away in the back of one of the cabinets, right where he keeps his spices, diligently checking the expiration date and the flavours — flavours? Can it be considered a flavour when they are plants? ‘Types’ would be better, maybe? Fuck, he knows nothing about tea, really — with furrowed brows, before turning to Chan once more when he deems it consumable.
“I found these,” Minho announces, even though Chan has most definitely been watching him sniff the boxes tentatively and glare at the words written on them for two whole minutes. “It’s, uh—” he glances at the flavours again— “lemon and peppermint. I've got milk too, though. We can just warm it, or...”
“Oh!” Chan perks up, stepping closer, and gently prying the peppermint tea box out of Minho’s hand, studying it for a moment. Minho tries not to think about the brushing of their fingers against each other's. “Peppermint tea latte does sound nice.”
Minho stares at him for a moment, before cocking an eyebrow towards the older man. “Sir, this is not a coffee shop, I’m afraid. Or tea shop. Whatever.”
“No—” Chan cackles, so enchanting-sounding Minho nearly melts, hiding his absolute endearment under a little amused smirk. “Peppermint tea latte is just peppermint tea with milk.”
“Oh.” The younger one blinks. “Why even give it a fancy name, then?” he grumbles, grabbing the tea box back, and settling it on the counter, alongside the lemon tea.
“Minho,” Chan calls, sort of sounding like he is failing to stifle another laugh, and Minho hums absently as he opens the fridge to grab the milk, taking the opportunity to take a peek at the lower shelves and check if there are still any leftovers of the brownies that Felix gave him a few days ago. “Latte itself is also just coffee and milk. It’s not really that fancy.”
Minho halts for a second, then gasps, whirling around to face Chan again. “Fuck, you’re right!”
The older man laughs one more time, shaking his head, and Minho thinks he is so fucking beautiful.
God, maybe calling Chan over was, in fact, an awful idea of his.
Maybe not.
As he moves back to start preparing Chan's silly-named tea, and a coffee for himself, because he is not really that much of a tea guy, Minho tries to coax the older one into sitting back down on the couch, promptly failing as Chan insists on making his own so to not be a bother, and he allows him to with a defeated sigh.
The way they quietly move around feels so foreign now, yet extremely familiar, a domesticity that was so theirs before, elbows bumping into one another when Minho reaches to grab their matching bunny-and-wolf mugs from the cupboard. Chan gasps at the sight of his own, the one with that patch of black nail polish right behind the handle that they never managed to scrub off, lightheartedly questioning Minho about just how much of his stuff he still has, and the youngest babbles about how he just wouldn't throw his things out.
By the time both of their beverages are made and poured, and they have finally settled on the couch again, Minho feels much less jittery than before, watching Chan cautiously sip on his peppermint tea latte as he blows his burning hot coffee. Maybe he is staring a bit too much, for the older man soon watches him back, eyebrows drawn up nearly to his hairline in a silent question.
Minho averts his eyes, sipping on his coffee, before hissing and hastily placing his mug on the coffee table.
Chan giggles, patting his shoulder sympathetically as he whines about his burnt lips and tongue.
Even with a burnt lip and tongue, this feels nice. Feels lovely.
Chan is lovely.
"I missed this," Minho blurts out after his mouth no longer stings that much.
"Me, too." Chan smiles, scooting closer. "I missed you."
Minho smiles back, watches him place his mug right beside his, and lets Chan press their thighs together. His skin tingles where they touch.
"So, how've you been these past months? Tell me everything."
And Minho sure does.
They talk, laugh, and complain for hours. Minho tells him about his new job, and Chan tells him about how much more boring his own has gotten after they got a new boss. Minho tells him about this one day his co-worker, Seungmin, got really drunk on a work get-together and ended up calling their boss stupid to her face, and, for some reason, Chan cackles so loudly Minho needs to smack his arm to remind him it's too late to be laughing like that.
Minho tells him about how his neighbours and best friends, Hyunjin and Felix, are finally engaged, and Chan excitedly tells him about how his best friends, Changbin and Jisung, are finally an actual couple. Minho talks, Chan listens. Chan talks, Minho listens. Minho stares fondly at him, and Chan stares back, and the younger one feels whole again.
They remain like that, legs tangled so instinctively they don't even notice, leaning into each other's space until the early hours of the morning, after the rain has long stopped and the dark sky lightens in a faint bluish grey, and Minho likes it so much. This is what he missed — the long conversations, the exchanged smiles and glances, Chan's presence.
It feels so good, like truly nothing has changed, and they are barely awake by the time the conversation dies, heads dropped to lie on the backrest of the couch and heavy eyes absently staring at one another, the comfortable silence broken only by the faraway singing of the morning birds and the gentle euphony of their mingled breaths.
Minho can't help but say it.
"I love you," he whispers, soft and sluggish.
Chan smiles sleepily. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Still." Minho lets his eyes flutter closed. "I haven't moved on, unfortunately. I still like you and your stupid dimples and your stupid laugh too much."
"Wow." Chan giggles, and Minho huffs out a laugh of his own. "Should you have moved on?"
"I don't know. Should I not?"
"I haven't, either. So, maybe, no, you shouldn't," the older one mutters.
"Okay," is all he replies. "Sleep with me."
The silence that follows makes Minho realise the implications of what he said, and his eyes fly open to find an amused-looking expression taking up Chan's features, adorned by a little smirk that looks just a bit too funny with his sleep-droopy eyes.
Minho laughs at his ex-boyfriend’s stupid little face, kicking him half-heartedly.
“Shut up,” he grumbles with a giggle, even though Chan hasn’t said anything yet.
“That is a very unexpected thing to ask an asexual person while also being asexual yourself, Minho-yah,” Chan jokes, and Minho kicks him again.
“Shut up!” the younger man repeats, rightfully, this time. “You know that’s not what I meant, stupid. Come on.”
He gets up, grabs Chan by his hands, and quickly pulls him to stand on his feet, the other man nearly falling on him as he does so. The both of them stumble to Minho’s room, giggling and whispering to each other, drunk with sleep, and pay no mind to anything other than plop down on Minho’s bed.
Minho faintly protests when Chan slings a leg over his hip and pulls him closer, but does nothing to actually pull away, cuddling closer to the older man. Again, it is just like before, to be like this close to Chan, holding him in his arms. He wonders, for a brief, fleeting moment, if this means they could be them again, but tucks the thought away to nuzzle Chan’s cheek. It can wait. For the time being, everything that matters is that, at this moment, they feel like them.
For the time being, Minho doesn’t care about anything else.
It doesn’t take either of them too long to slip into dreamland, chests pressed together and heartbeats in sync as they had been so many times before. Safe in each other’s arms.
And if, after they wake up in the early afternoon and have a brunch full of laughter and small touches together, Chan steals a kiss from Minho just as he is about to leave through the front door, that is for Minho only to giggle, kick his feet, and squeal about.