Work Text:
“How long is this gonna take?” Chan asked, looking at the digital clock in the upper left corner of his vision-display. He was leaning on a wall, arms crossed, and a leg propped behind him.
“Not too long,” Jisung assured. “Just need to do a system check.” He was crouched down by a disassembled panel, wires and dials sticking out chaotically in every direction. Only a techie such as Han Jisung would call that ‘just’.
“Why do you even accept these odd jobs?” Chan wondered, tapping his fingers on his bicep. “You get more than enough eddies by sticking with me.”
“I owe the owner a favor,” Jisung explained, tongue sticking out in concentration while he fiddled with a wire. “She helped me out when I just moved to the city.”
They were at Clouds, one of the priciest and most technologically advanced dollhouses in Night City. The corridor they were in was the main one: on both sides were rows of booths where services were performed, and next to each one were suggestive posters promising the fulfillment of your deepest, darkest desires. It was pretty dark inside, most lighting coming from the hot-pink LEDs lining the bottom of the wall, and gaudy neon lights with tacky outlines of lips and naked bodies.
It never ceased to amaze Chan how even with all the eurodollars at their disposal, the elites still had shitty taste. His work has taken him to a handful of dollhouses across the City, so he could contend that this one was at least the most clean-looking one.
He sighed, rubbing his eyes with a finger and thumb.
“You’re so strung out these days, hyung,” Hyunjin said through a mouthful of churro, leaning on the wall opposite Chan. “Relax.” He followed the words with a flowing motion of his hand mimicking a wave.
At that moment, a shady-looking corpo guy passed by them in the narrow hallway, looking at the three of them suspiciously. Both Chan and Hyunjin returned the stink-eye. Jisung’s head was still inside the panel.
When Chan’s face returned to detached neutrality, he said, “Is this really a place to relax?”
Jisung guffawed, head popping out to give Chan a judgmental look. “This is the place to relax. Don’t tell me you never went to a place like this?”
Chan shrugged. “I never needed to.”
And it was the truth. Call him old-fashioned, but Chan never sought out the services of a dollhouse; he was getting by just fine. Besides, between being swamped by gigs, managing fixers, and making sure his teammates were set, where could he possibly find the time?
Sure, it would be incredibly embarrassing if it ever got out that he was probably the most bitchless crew leader in all of Night City. Another ineffable truth. But it was completely by choice, obviously!
It was one of the reasons why his crew could rise to the top fairly quickly in this city that chews you up and spits you out faster than you can say Johnny Silverhand. Chan had a keen eye for talent, and his hand-picked tight-knit crew was there to show for it. He wouldn’t change them for a thing.
“Nah, no way,” Hyunjin said, pointing his churro accusingly at Chan. “You’re lying.”
For. a. thing.
“Not even out of curiosity?” Jisung asked, touching live wires with his bare hands. The electricity-proof cyberware Felix installed last week was working well. “Like, we’re in Night-fucking-City. The world is your oyster!”
Chan rolled his eyes, deciding that indulging them served no purpose.
Hyunjin and Jisung exchanged cryptic glances, before Jisung returned to work, putting the wires back in their correct place. He spoke from inside the panel, “But for real, hyung. What’s bothering you? You can tell us.”
“I don’t know, nothing?” Chan said surly, rubbing a hand over his face. “We just finished off a pretty big gig so I could still be reeling from that. And I guess I haven’t been sleeping that well.”
“You never sleep well,” Hyunjin pointed out, his voice tired like he was the sleep-deprived one.
“And don’t blame it on the gigs, we’ve had it pretty good lately,” Jisung added. “The crew is happy, you’re the only one who’s stressed and depressed.”
Chan scratched his cheek, pulling his lips to the side. “Am I?”
“Yes,” Jisung and Hyunjin said in unison, exasperated.
“The mood of the leader affects the crew. Everyone’s noticed, hyung! Why not take a day-off to enjoy yourself? If anything, cheap thrills should be easy to come by,” Jisung said, gesturing vaguely around himself.
“I’m tired of those,” Chan said peevishly, scuffing a toe at the worn-out rug.
“Aren’t we all?” Hyunjin said dreamily, crumpling the churro paper.
Jisung closed the panel and got up, dusting off his pants. “Look, it’s your birthday today, right?”
A coiling fear gripped Chan. “Who told you that?” he asked, alarmed.
Hyunjin rolled his eyes dramatically. “We’ve been working together for who-knows how long now, hyung, did you seriously think we wouldn’t know?”
Now that was a fucking lie, because Chan managed to keep it a well-guarded secret for years. The only person who could possibly know was–
“It was fucking Felix, wasn’t it?”
Jisung slinged an arm over Chan’s shoulder while Hyunjin walked beside Chan’s other side. “All I’m saying is, we were thinking–”
“Sounds horrible.”
“–we were thinking,” Jisung repeated, ignoring Chan, “that you deserve a break. To chill out and let it all out. To not think about fixers and gigs and eddies for one single day,” he said, Hyunjin nodding alongside every word. “We appreciate you, hyung. You treat us well, that means we’ve got to treat you better, too,” he finished by shaking Chan’s shoulder affectionately.
Chan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to do something like that,” he conceded. “What did you have in mind?”
In a rehearsed sequence of events, Hyunjin moved a step back while Chan was violently pushed to the side, stumbling inside a booth. He was completely blindsided, not having time to process what just happened, so he reacted by instinct, turning around to the door immediately. The last thing he saw as the automatic door slid shut, was Hyunjin and Jisung waving like creepy horror-movie twins with matching shit-eating grins.
Chan banged his fists on the thick, now tragically locked, door. “Sung, what the fuck?!”
“Sorry, Channie, this is for your own good!” Jisung said, his voice muffled by the barrier between them.
“You seriously need to get laid, hyung, you’re bringing us all down with you!” Hyunjin added.
“Let me out!” Chan kept banging on the door.
“No can do!” Jisung said. “And for the record, we paid good money for this so it’s considered more than a cheap thrill!”
“It’s a birthday present from the entire crew!”
“So don’t waste it!”
“Have fun! Oh, and–”
“Happy birthday!” They shouted at the same time.
“Jisung! Hyunjin!”
Chan kept slamming but the voices disappeared after that; Jisung and Hyunjin were gone.
Chan hit his head on the door, hands falling to the side limply.
What kind of birthday present was this? What happened to taking a man out to dinner? Or getting trashed at Afterlife? Getting into bar fights with pretentious corpos?
You seriously need to get laid.
Chan groaned in despair, hitting his forehead again.
Maybe he was being ungrateful; this was actually a pretty banging present when you thought about it. And his friends obviously cared about him, there was no malice in this gift. If anything, they were looking out for him. Just in their very own, very twisted way.
Chan was having second thoughts about treating his crew as family rather than rats he found on the streets because this was definitely crossing boundar–
“Are you gonna stay there all day?”
A voice behind Chan broke through his streaming thoughts. It was familiar-sounding: smooth, cold, not exactly unfriendly, but with a mocking undertone.
Chan squeezed his eyes shut and smacked his head to the door again. Fuck. Shit. Cock-sucking fuck.
Of course. Of-fucking-course. What did he expect? Why would it be anything other than the absolute worst sequence of events?
He steeled himself, taking a big, deep breath. He turned around, facing his worst nightmare come to life.
He was in a small room with just a queen size bed pushed to a wall and a chair next to it.
On the bed was a man with dark purple hair, smooth and shiny under the red mood lights. He was laying casually on his side, head propped by his hand. The cat-like eyes of the man were unmistakable, as was the cheshire grin, unsettlingly true to the original. The only piece of clothing on his lithe muscular body was a thin sheer silk robe, revealing startlingly more than it covered. Chan felt his mouth involuntarily dry up as he gulped around the lump in his throat. Fuck, this was going to fucking suck.
The doll’s appearance was flawless, save for the missing tattoos and a few minor augmentations. Chan realized it was probably the doll’s real body, though it did have a stark resemblance to what it was imitating. Not that Chan would know. Another great reminder of his failures.
Chan’s heart still skipped a beat even with all the imperfections.
That, before him, was a near perfect copy of one of Night City’s best braindance engineers, as well as a person in Chan’s close working circle, and someone Chan liked to consider a friend – Lee Minho.
They really splurged on this one. It was true that they came into some good fixers lately, but Chan thought, or rather hoped, his crewmates would spend their hard-earned money on themselves and their loved ones – not whatever-the-fuck this cursed present was. All dolls aimed to fulfill The Deepest, Darkest DesiresTM of their clients, but this chipset was advanced because it also projected the ideal appearance of who would fulfill it.
And Chan’s – Chan’s was this.
He was going to be sick.
Did he have a crush on the engineer? Perhaps. Maybe. Just a teeny, tiny one. And he only realized it recently. So it was completely new, really.
It’s not like he had been pining and yearning for the man since he met him or anything like that, haha, no.
No.
He was Stray Kids’ leader Bang-fucking-Chan. He had a reputation to keep. Not have pathetic sniveling crushes on unfairly gorgeous engineers.
He let out a dry hopeless sob. He was so fucking screwed.
“Well?”
The doll that held Minho’s appearance asked impatiently. Chan snapped his attention back to him. The doll quirked an eyebrow. God, he even had Minho’s mannerisms down to a T.
“Any day now.”
“I’m not having sex with you,” Chan blurted out.
The doll looked at Chan for a few moments, then threw his head back and laughed. The familiar cadence unnerved Chan. “No one’s forcing you to.”
Chan’s back stayed glued to the door, unmoving.
Doll-Minho rolled his eyes. “Are you gonna come over here already? I don’t bite.”
Chan slowly peeled his back from the surface. This didn’t have to be bad.
Doll-Minho flashed his teeth. “Unless you want me to.”
Chan groaned, spine finding solace in the cooling metal door again. “You suck even when an algorithm makes you.”
“If that’s how you really felt then I wouldn’t be in this form,” Minho-doll smiled winningly. He patted the bed next to him.
Chan glared for a few moments more, hesitating a normal amount (This wasn’t the real Minho. This guy won’t even remember anything after you leave. He’s not going to bite your head off.) – okay, a LOT – before deciding to bite the bullet and unglue from the door.
This was a gift, no matter how ill-advised, the least he could do was try to make the best of it. He took one step, two until his shin was touching the edge of the bed.
The fake Minho was looking up at him with an ease and invitation, and this close up Chan could see the robe he was wearing was really really transparent and Chan started sweating, so the only reasonable action he could take was to step to the side and sit on the chair. He crossed one leg over the other and looked anywhere other than the man in front of him like that was exactly what his plan was all along.
The doll snorted. He looked over Chan’s face, who was still adamantly avoiding eye contact. “I look like someone you know, right? This form is pretty hot.”
“He wouldn’t say that,” Chan retorted, defending Real Minho’s honor.
“Based on your perception – yeah, he would,” the doll pointed out, unfazed.
Chan imagined a smiling, giddy Minho who had too much to drink at Afterlife on payday, throwing himself all over Chan’s crewmates. Except over Chan. His shoulders sagged, deflating.
“So what is this?” The doll poked Chan’s knee with a toe, ignoring Chan’s inner turmoil. “A bachelor’s party gone-wrong?”
“Birthday,” Chan replied forlornly.
“Ah,” the doll said. “Classic.” When Chan didn’t react again, lost in his brooding thoughts, the doll moved on the bed, making space, and patted the mattress once more. “The least you could do is get more comfortable.”
Chan dragged his eyes back to the man in front of him. Even looking at the doll made him feel…things. He chewed on his lip. Why was he making this so hard on himself?
He exhaled in resignation, transferring to the bed. He laid on his back, gaze fixed to the ceiling, feeling the proximity of the man next to him, but still stoutly ignoring him.
The doll huffed. “Why can’t you look at me, Channie?”
Chan fixed a frown on his face, still looking straight ahead. “Minho definitely wouldn’t call me that.”
“Is that who I was programmed after?” The fake Minho tilted his head, disturbingly like the real one. Chan cursed himself inwardly for letting the name slip. “Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t,” he concluded. “But the sad fact is, you’re here with me, and not with your Minho.”
Critical hit!
“He’s not my Minho.”
“But you want him to be.”
“How do you even know my name?” Chan deflected, changing the topic.
“Hmm,” the doll hummed, not pushing further. Somehow, Chan still felt analyzed. Then it got worse. “I’m fed data about the client as soon as the session starts. Bang Chan of the merc group Stray Kids. Born in Seoul, raised in Sydney, moved to Night City by himself when he was only 14 years old to seek a better life for–”
“Alright, alright!” Chan interrupted, panicked. “I get it, jeez.”
“But don’t worry, most of this information is completely inconsequential to my work. And it gets wiped out once the session is over, anyway. I’m only here to fulfill your innermost wishes after all.”
“How does– how does that even work?” Chan asked, glancing at the man next to him.
“The algorithm analyzes your data, and then I respond to the client according to that. For example,” he palmed Chan’s crotch, “you find me incredibly attractive.” Chan’s breath got caught in his lungs, face flaring hot. “But,” he removed the hand, and Chan’s airways opened, allowing him to breathe again, “you don’t really want that.”
Chan was being read on things he didn’t even allow himself to reflect on. The hollow in his chest deepened. This guy; doll; worker; whatever; was trying his best, threading lightly around Chan, and Chan was still being difficult. He felt the need to explain himself.
He turned to the side, finally getting face to face with all his doubts and worries. Seeing him so up close still punched the air out of Chan’s lungs and made his skin tingle with anticipation, but now he saw things that he hadn’t noticed earlier: how the skin was smooth and elastic, no wrinkles or crinkles in sight, and how every strand of hair seemed deliberate in its placement, no raggedness from long hours of hard work reflected on them.
It was the perfect illusion, and therein lies the problem.
“You’re all– wrong,” Chan said, definitively, meeting the man’s eyes for the first time.
“I’m the picture of the Minho that you want,” the man carrying Minho’s face replied simply.
Chan shook his head. “But you’re just– you’re not– him.”
And the other shoe dropped.
The doll’s face split into a soft smile, like he knew all along, like this was a win, an earned breakthrough. “Then why are you with me, and not him?”
“He doesn’t–” Chan started, then stopped, knitting his eyebrows. “He gives off mixed signals.”
“You rose to the top with nothing to your name,” the doll said, his gaze inward, like he was reading off of something. “You’ve worked first-hand with corpos, nomads, other gangs. You’ve earned respect from all of their leaders, and you’re afraid of rejection?”
Chan balked. “It’s not that simple! Everything I achieved was earned through hard work, and taking care of those around me,” he said. “They trust me, and depend on me to keep pushing – we’re only halfway to the top, for hell’s sake! I shouldn’t get distracted with– with this!”
He spat out the last of his words like they were an insult, but hearing himself out loud, they fell flat, sounding more like a childish tantrum.
“Would it really be that bad?” Minho-doll softly prodded.
Chan was left heaving after getting it all off his chest, raw and chewed out, no walls left to hide behind. He shook his head in answer.
“Do you think your crew would care?”
“Probably not.”
There was a pensive silence between them.
The man before Chan rested his head on the pillow, looking at Chan in a way that Chan could only dream Minho would some day. “Tell me about him,” he said, putting a warm hand on Chan’s wrist.
Chan’s heart swelled painfully inside his ribcage. He turned on his back. It was easier not to look.
“Minho is…” He sighed. “I met him through a mutual friend for a gig. He aced it, naturally, and I tried recruiting him immediately, but he’s not really interested in the whole solo merc business,” he said, waving his hand to the ceiling. “So he jumps in and helps out when the gig needs him.”
The doll hummed, tracing his fingers up Chan’s arm, drawing patterns on his bicep. “Does it always need him?”
Chan smiled, shaking his head fondly. “Of course not, our main techie is more than capable. But the crewmates really like working with him, and they,” he swallowed, “I need him.”
There was another beat of silence to let that sink in. Just how much was Chan denying himself his own thoughts and feelings until now? As if encouraging him, the doll scooted closer, spreading an open palm over Chan’s beating chest.
“I think he knows it, but he still always answers my calls,” Chan continued, adding over the ache beneath his ribs. The weight of the hand dispersed it, acting as a salve.
“What makes you think he doesn’t like you?”
Chan scrunched his nose. “We tease each other a lot. And he’s sorta…particular. It’s not easy to figure out what he’s thinking. He’s not very touchy-feely. Sometimes it seems obvious that we’re flirting, and then the next second I can’t tell if he just thinks I’m a major pain in the ass.”
“You do seem kinda annoying,” the doll deadpanned.
Chan nudged him with his shoulder, laughing. “Shut up, man.”
The man that looked like Minho, but wasn’t Chan’s Minho, kept asking follow-up questions, humming at each of Chan’s answers. The reverberation and melodic sound of his voice soothed Chan, relaxing the tight knots in his muscles, extinguishing the burning receptors of his mind.
With every word that left Chan’s mouth, he felt lighter, until there were barely any more words to say, his consciousness teetering. At that point, not-Minho was safely tucked into Chan’s side, anchoring him to the bed, nose nuzzling Chan’s neck, arm spread over Chan’s stomach.
He was humming a tune that Chan distantly recognized as a song from his childhood while he drifted far, far off to a dreamless slumber.
***
“It’s open.”
Chan pushed open the heavy door and entered the room. The musty smell of bad ventilation, burned wires and melted metal filled Chan’s nostrils as soon as he stepped inside. The room was dimmed, as it always was, apart from the blue light coming from the monitors in the corner of the room.
Minho’s back was turned to Chan, hunched over his desk working on one trinket or another. He glanced briefly at Chan, protective goggles on his face.
“It’s you,” he said, turning back to his work.
“It’s me,” Chan said lamely, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Minho waved his hand in dismissal, “I still need to finish this.”
Chan nodded, but then realized Minho couldn’t actually see him. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He was still dazed from his nap at Clouds, which in and of itself was a really fucking weird sentence to form. Since he’d left, he’d felt so light, like he wasn't tethered to the ground anymore but floating through the gray atmosphere, amongst all the blinding billboards and flashy ads.
He made his way to the desk that was adjacent and perpendicular to Minho’s, and sat on top of it; his usual spot. From there, he still couldn’t see Minho’s face, but he had a good view of the engineer's hands, holding tweezers and other small tools to tinker with the circuit board in front of him.
It was such delicate work, and it was doubly impressive since Minho’s hands weren’t enhanced by cyberware like other techies’ usually were – he was holding it off until his fingers weren’t serving him anymore. Chan watched the grace of their movement in enchanted admiration.
“How was Clouds?” Minho asked suddenly, breaking Chan out of his trance. It took him a moment to recalibrate, and for the words to compute.
“You knew?” he ended up spluttering, louder than he intended to.
Minho snorted. “Yeah.” He waved his hand again, still keeping his back to Chan. “But I passed. Knew you’d hate it.” He chuckled then, raising his head. “I do wish I could’ve seen your face when you realized what was going on,” he said wistfully. “Must’ve been priceless.”
Chan groaned. “The bastards pushed me!” he said with indignation. “I wanted to kill them!”
“So did you?”
“Kill them?”
“No,” Minho said. There was a brief moment of silence before he clarified. “Hate it.”
“Oh,” Chan said. “I guess not, in the end.”
“Then that’s eddies well spent,” Minho said, putting his tools on the table, and lifting the goggles on top of his head.
“Why did you call me over?” Chan asked, feet dangling under the desk.
“To give you this.” Minho finally swiveled around in his chair, and flicked something over at Chan. Chan scrambled to catch it. “Happy birthday.”
Chan looked down at his hand. It was a chip, a bit smaller than the size of his palm. “BD?” he questioned, turning it over with his fingers. He froze when he saw what was written on the label.
BONDI BEACH, SYDNEY
The insignificant weight in his hand suddenly felt like a heavy pindrop, pulling Chan down from the stratosphere like a balloon on a string back to Earth, back to Night City, back to Minho's dingy workshop, and back to Minho himself.
He stared at the label in disbelief. “But how did you…?”
“It took some scouring. The key was finding one I could work with. Had to tune it quite a bit actually,” Minho said impassively, like he was reading a weather report. Chan lifted his head to look at Minho; the voice didn't match the face. There was a soft curve to Minho’s mouth as he spoke, a twinkle in his eye trained at the accomplishment in Chan's hand. “Felix helped where he could.” His eyes met Chan's then. Chan’s heart did an Olympic-level somersault. “But I really wanted to hear your thoughts about the temperature and the texture of the ocean, and – oh!” He grabbed a braindance viewer from a shelf and slid it over to Chan. “Let me know if I got the wind right. That was a bitch to configure.”
Chan looked at the device, mouth agape, then back at Minho. There were still red imprints of goggles around his eyes, a frame within a frame for his dark, tired under-eye bags. His skin was pale and pallid from being cooped up in this little windowless box most of the day, making the colors of his tattoos pop in contrast. Chan's neglected emotions welled up, making his throat close up.
The Minho in front of him was more beautiful than all of his wildest dreams, and deepest darkest desires, combined.
“It was you,” he croaked.
“Mm?” Minho asked, distracted; oblivious.
Chan still had a chance to take it back. “The doll. At Clouds,” he clarified. “They got the premium package or whatever. It was,” his mouth was so dry he wasn’t sure how he was forming words, “it looked like you.”
Realization dawned on Minho’s face. “Oh.” He looked down, eyebrows furrowed. Chan was distantly aware of the fact that Felix’s clinic wasn’t too far away in case his heart gave out. Minho looked back up. “Who set the parameters?”
“Parameters? What?” Chan faltered, a note of mania laced in his voice, because that was what Minho decided to focus on?
“The parameters, hyung, the parameters,” Minho repeated impatiently, like it was obvious. “How did they get your data? You had to jack yourself somewhere.”
Chan was slowly losing the ropes of the conversation. “But they just pushed me into the room, I didn’t–” And then he remembered. He groaned and smacked a hand to his forehead, dragging it over his face. “Last week. Jisung jacked in for a maintenance check. Said it was urgent.”
Minho leaned back on his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “There you go. Could’ve been that dumbasses prank.”
Minho was giving him an out, and it was a tempting theory, but even if it was true…
“Jisung didn’t tamper with it,” Chan said slowly. “I got what I needed from that session.”
A beat.
“Then that’s even worse,” Minho muttered under his breath.
“What?”
“If all you wanted was to get laid, you could’ve just told me,” he said, sounding offended. “But now I have to go and compete with that.”
“I could?” What. “I didn’t want to just get laid.” Was. “Compete with what?!” Happening. “And wait, wait, stop.”
He inhaled.
“I didn’t even have sex with the doll!”
“What else is there to do?” Minho asked, getting confrontational. “Did you do something weird and freaky with him? Is that it? Did you discover something so incomprehensibly nasty about yourself? It’s okay, hyung, I won’t judge if that’s how it is.”
“What? No! What’s wrong with you?!” Chan said, frantic.
Minho pinched Chan’s calf, his gaze demanding. “Then tell me what you did with this perfect clone of me.”
“We talked!” Chan confessed, much too loudly for the cramped room they were in. “About you, mostly. And then we sort of cuddled, and I…fell asleep,” he concluded weakly. Minho’s eyes went wide with an emotion Chan couldn’t comprehend. It didn’t help that his face was overheating and he wanted to catapult himself to the other side of the city. “Oh. Oh god. That’s so embarrassing to say out loud. That’s so fucking embarrassing, oh my god.” He short-circuited, putting his face in his hands.
What was he thinking? What even was the point of this in the first place? Well, he didn’t think, for starters. Now this whole conversation has gone haywire.
There was the sound of scraping wheels on the tiled floor edging closer to Chan. Minho gently pulled down Chan’s hands. He picked up the chip Chan left on the desk, and held it between his forefinger and thumb, right up Chan’s face.
“Do you know how many Australians there are in Night City?” Minho asked, face unreadable. “Like six, including you and Felix,” he answered flatly, putting the BD back on the desk. “And then I heard what Jisung was planning for your birthday. I wanted to strangle him.”
(Right now, in some sketchy bar in Heywood, Han Jisung was having an unprompted sneezing fit.)
Chan peered at Minho, questioning. He took the braindance from Minho’s hand and set it aside again, not losing sight of Minho’s face. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Minho shrugged. “It wasn’t my place.” He leaned with his elbows on Chan’s thighs, one cheek propped on a hand, looking up at Chan. “That being said, I have to admit it’s really flattering that your custom doll was me. Like you wanted me that much, Bang Chan? Carnally?”
Chan choked, and whined, and chuckled, all in one. “Is this going to haunt me forever?”
“Oh yeah,” Minho said, amused. “I'm never gonna let you live this down. Everyone will know. It’s gonna be great for team morale.”
Chan guffawed. “You’re not even part of the team!”
“I can be persuaded if asked nicely,” Minho cooed, batting his eyelashes. There was a playful glint in his eyes, and something that looked suspiciously like fondness at the corner of his mouth. The real Minho, Chan’s Minho. “So, did they get my likeness right?”
There were two thoughts in Chan’s head.
The first: Everything was going to be alright.
And the second: This asshole was absolutely enjoying this.
Chan cupped the smug cheeks staring up at him, and leaned down, meeting them in a kiss.
“Annoyingly close to the real thing.”