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"Delivery for Mr. Isaac," Minho says into the intercom, using the best smile he can manage.
He tries to neither sound impatient nor let it be known that this address is the last on his round. Today, thanks to a number of extra parcels and a few exceptionally slow people, that round has taken him twenty minutes longer than usual, none of that being any time that he will get paid for, and he really wants to get home in time for practice and then the new episode of that TV show he's been waiting a whole week for, thanks to a cliffhanger that ought to be illegal. He holds the package in front of the camera for his customer to see.
"Yeah. Er. Come on in, I'm on my way."
British accent, Minho notes; with clipped syllables, as if there couldn't be a worse timing for Minho appearing with his package than now. Minho would have preferred half an hour ago, himself, but that doesn't weaken the friendly expression. The door swings open for him with a click.
The display of his watch tells him the time. 4:22 PM. This is the last delivery of the day, and even if it is a package with no return address—as a delivery guy for a year now, Minho knows what that means—that doesn't mean that he can be less professional about it. So he straightens his spine, pushes his spearmint bubblegum against his teeth to not be chewing it in front of the man, and gets out his device for a quick signature from what he expects will be some shut-in dude with headset-flattened hair and subtly more definition in one of his arms. Minho doesn't care. They are his customers, people who continue to be strangers after he hands them their parcel, and he isn't one to judge.
A whole two minutes tick by before the elevator finally signals the approaching end of his long round. As fate would have it, Mr. Isaac lives on the second to highest floor, and he isn't the only one to use the elevator. A guy and a girl walking a dog come out, before someone who appears fits the bill. Minho readjusts the box in his hands.
"Where do I sign?" asks an accented voice from the dead angle on his left.
Next to him, slim but not gangly and with warm eyes under a shock of blond, a stranger points at his pen. It isn't the shock of Minho's estimation being a hundred and eighty degrees off that proves to be the cause for his glitching response or his reflex to pull the pen back. Not remotely. Minho struggles for professionalism and settles on a smile that borders on less-than-formal. "Mr. Isaac?"
"Hm."
There is no way around it; Mr. Isaac is hot.
They move through the formalities too damn fast. The parcel—so discreetly packaged that it practically broadcasts its contents, but people never consider that—trades hands like Mr. Isaac wants to keep the exchange to a bare minimum. None of the common small-talk happens. Then again, Minho is distracted watching the man and matching the grumpy yet kind of adorable exterior with a mindset that has to be a joy forever.
Agitated, Mr. Isaac scratches his signature onto the screen, inclines his head once in parting and then he is gone before Minho can get another word in. Before Minho can do or say something stupid, he reckons, but when he thinks that he will probably never get to see the man again, his cheerful mood flickers.
At a round ending almost half an hour later with considerable damage to the rest of his schedule, Minho's mind is instead stuck on a gorgeous man whom he knows nothing about. Except where he lives, and that he wants to see him again. Also, that he is pretty sure of what the man just got himself. Which does a whole lot of damage to the purity of Minho's thoughts.
He is having a hard time believing himself when he tells himself that he's not being remotely creepy.
* * *
It could be something else, of course. Just because it happens to be a blank box with just the addressee on a sticker and a couple of stamps does not automatically mean that the contents it bears must be vulgar in nature. They could be a gift from a friend with a good sense of humour, or maybe they are from some specific shop online but they are really just condoms.
Because Minho can't get the man out of his head that evening during his favourite show with a bowl of instant noodles on his lap, he thinks that he likes it more if it is what he suspects it to be.
The memory of Mr. Isaac comes to him during commercial breaks, when his mind is left to wander, and Minho idly spins the story of an expat who moved across the Atlantic for work; who lives in a large pristine flat paid for by the company, but which is still lacking in character a year later; who enjoys catching a movie by himself, or going on long walks during the rain when he has the street for himself. Nobody will judge him if he hums along to a song on his expensive earphones, likely a bit too big for his head, or if he ventures a playback.
The chances of seeing Mr. Isaac again are zero. An average household orders one, maybe two packages a month. Half of those packages are left with neighbours, and Minho works in a team of six people, all of them taking it upon themselves to walk Mr. Isaac's round in a rotation, which splits up the remaining odds even further. So Minho's plan is to just have Mr. Isaac, the grumpy hot Brit, star in his imagination for a few days and then let the idea go. Even if the thought of that is a little depressing.
"Seriously," his flatmate says after the end of the episode, "go to bed or something. I swear I saw you fall asleep at least twice. Rough day?"
"Only half an hour extra," shrugs Minho. Which is not that rough, and he certainly doesn't remember dozing off. As always, the other man overdoes it to make a point. "I'm not sleepy."
Thomas has been his best friend for years. They met in university, being assigned roommates on the first day. Minho was headed for a career in sports and Thomas's field was vague and really intelligent. Aerodynamics, or something like it. Life has a funny way, because Minho hasn't been able to secure a job as a manager or an athlete, so now he delivers parcels and trains a local track team in his free time and it makes him happier than the stress of either of his original goals would have probably gotten him, and Thomas is part of the R&D team in some big environmentally aware wood-processing company.
Even if Thomas brings in two-third of the month's rent with his prolific job and the balance should have logically become skewed between them, the office suit and UPC outfit come off in favour of sweaters, beanies and track pants, the minute they return home to their shared flat. In the kitchen are piles of cardboard pizza boxes, and there are speakers hanging around the place for those moments when their neighbours decide to go at it, with all the audio that ensues.
Thomas sees right through him. "Something's up. You haven't said a word all episode." And that startles Minho, too. He hasn't, now that he thinks about it; TV doesn't usually shut him up. "So, what is it?"
That is how Minho ends up relaying the day's events to his friend. He tells about the package, and the gorgeous man. He doesn't leave out Mr. Isaac's crankiness. It is oddly charming, after all.
"So, let me get this straight," Thomas sums it up for him. "The great Minho likes a sullen Brit. And hasn't just rung his doorbell again."
"Professional ethics, man."
His friend scoffs. He puts his bowl away, and Minho is reminded that his own is still filled with a cold mess in barely lukewarm soup. "Sure. Whatever you say."
"Besides," Minho defends himself, "he isn't that special."
The lie is so transparent that Thomas just rolls his eyes, and Minho doesn't deign to defend himself.
* * *
Two weeks later to the day, Minho's palms start to sweat the moment he presses the doorbell. He reprimands himself, pushes his gum away, and offers a bright smile. If only Thomas could see him now, he would be laughing his ass off.
A familiar voice on the other end of the intercom replies, "Yes?"
"Delivery for Mr. Isaac."
A long silence follows. So long, in fact, that Minho's brows crease. Maybe the intercom broke. He waits a couple of seconds longer before he reaches for the doorbell again.
"I'm not expecting anything."
Minho checks the address once, and then once again. He already knows that it is the right address, because he has been looking at it since being given the list of deliveries to check off before the start of his round. "921 North Drive?" he asks. "N. Isaac?"
"Yes, that's me."
"Then I've got a package for you," Minho says.
He checks for a return address when the door unlocks for him, and walks into the lobby without being able to find one. Mr. Isaac's address is written in handwriting so meticulously neat that it becomes stilted, the package having the definite weight and size of a book. Whatever it is, it is the reason that Minho gets to see Mr. Isaac again, and so he doesn't care what is in it. He is intent on leaving a better impression this time.
Mr. Isaac flips the package over and over in his hand. The writing doesn't look familiar, and he is reluctant to accept it. "You don't have anything in your system about whom it might be from?"
Minho wants him to not agree to sign for the package for ten minutes more, because confusion is a good look on him.
"Not if it's not on there," he says, "We always check packages for hazardous stuff if they are suspicious though, so you can rest assured that it's not a bomb or an Anthrax letter. Probably just someone who forgot to write it on there, Mr. Isaac."
He curses himself for talking business, but the alternative is talking about the weather or whether Mr. Isaac liked his last package, and both options are a sure way to get him kicked out, with the latter adding a restraining order to the affair. He looks him over once while the man frowns, and doesn't have to do much effort to put a smile on his face when Mr. Isaac's eyes turn to him.
"All right then."
Mr. Isaac signs. He hesitates only slightly before accepting the package back, and he looks over his shoulder at Minho uncertainly once when he returns to the elevator.
Minho gives him that look that he knows weakens people's knees. Or, it used to do in university.
Mr. Isaac is gone without a response, and Minho decides that he has become an utter failure at impressing people.
* * *
The third time, apparently, is the charm. Shirley, who alternates the round with Minho on Wednesdays, mysteriously falls ill and Minho is asked to cover for her. As he finds Mr. Isaac's address again on the list, he doesn't have to think twice.
This time, there is a first name. "Newt", he tries on his tongue.
"Hey, is that your real name?" he calls while he leans in the doorway of the man's apartment, a step away from a different world on which he still can't believe he is balancing. Minho can only catch some details of the place from where he stands. He notices the faint vanilla scent, and the lack of colour. Apparently, Mr. Isaac likes taupes and greys in his apartment, the floor a whitewashed wood and his coat rack a glossy black.
"If I tell you my real name, you'll laugh," Newt calls back from wherever he is.
"I'm sure it's not that bad."
"Trust me, it is."
Minho still doesn't grasp how he got here. He is still holding his package—properly addressed this time—while Newt is apparently looking for something that he wants to return. Dressed in his pyjamas.
"There it is!" he hears exclaimed. Newt soon thereafter returns into view with a big scarf wrapped around his neck and fluffy felt boots unapologetically warming his feet. The image of the lonely expat is gone at once. "Hi. Thanks for waiting. Sorry about having to ask you to come up here, I didn't expect it to arrive today. I don't suppose I expected to fall ill, either. Thanks, anyway. I keep running into you, don't I," he looks at his badge, "M. Park?"
"I've got the Wednesday shift," Minho says. "And it's Minho." He has seen Mr. Isaac three times in one month, defying all the odds of an average person's average online orders, and he just can't stop smiling.
For the first time, Mr. Isaac is returning the favour. Minho works hard to maintain formality. He wants to kiss it off him.
"Wednesdays, huh?" asks Newt as the boy signs for receiving the package and takes Newt's in return.
"Once every two weeks. My co-worker called in sick today, so technically I'm not supposed to have this round until next week. And now and then in between."
Newt gives him a glance from over his scarf. "Good to know."
"Best service on Wednesdays," Minho boasts. He takes back the device and the pen, tips his hat to Newt, and starts walking back to the elevator. He kind of wants to stay. Newt still hasn't closed his door by the time Minho opens the door to the elevator, and it is hard to be the one stepping away from this. He doesn't know why he does. "Get well soon," he says.
"Thanks, Minho Park," Newt laughs, leaning against the same spot where Minho was seconds ago. "See you around."
The moment the elevator starts its descent, Minho stares at himself in the mirror. Ex-imaginary-expat Mr. Isaac calls himself Newt—which is weird and yet plain adorable—and Minho has just seen both his apartment and the man in his bedwear. Also, he is pretty that sure Minho is officially crushing on someone. And has just successfully flirted with the object of his affection.
Is it too late to go back up, ring Newt's doorbell and tell him that his shift has just ended?
Is it remotely professional? Should he ditch the uniform and come back later? Or is it still too early? Is it even socially acceptable to visit a customer after office hours?
One more package, he tells himself. And if next Wednesday there is none to deliver to Newt, he will make sure that he's got one to back it up.
* * *
"So hey," Minho starts in the middle of the season finale. He covers his comfortable chair sideways, his legs dangling over the arm rest, so as to better watch the screen without straining. Except he isn't watching. "Have you heard of this place called Room 59?"
His friend is ready to throw him daggers for interrupting this really crucial scene between Alice and Mercutio. Then he pauses. "Room 59? Since when are you into that?"
Minho doesn't know what that is supposed to mean. His ears glow nonetheless, clutching the coffee mug between two hands. Thomas cleaned up the pile of college books that have served as his coffee table for months, and he now either has to keep holding the mug or put it on the floor, which is is too much of a stretch. Holding it, it is.
Minho has been up to Newt's apartment again that afternoon—with an actual package to deliver; while he doesn't know anyone else who orders so much and so regularly off the internet, he is not one to complain—and Newt has had to run back inside to mute some kind of drum-'n-bass music blaring from the back of the apartment, before being able to sign for reception.
"Making a selection for tomorrow," he had apologised. "I play at Room 59."
"Okay. Cool."
Newt had chuckled and accepted his response in good grace, which ultimately led to Minho promising to maybe stop by for a listen some time.
He can't back out now, when Newt has told him he'd like that.
He has no idea about the place, but the music sounds good enough, and he needs something that pushes them both past the status quo of being mailman and boy who wants stuff delivered to him. Maybe Room 59 can do that.
"Room 59," Thomas expands, "is kind of underground."
"Underground sounds good?"
Thomas laughs. He holds up his hand, points at the TV and throws him a glance. "Five minutes. Or you know, google it."
Subdued, Minho watches the end of the episode without further comments. At the end of those five minutes, Thomas is wailing that they cannot end a season finale on this note, that it isn't fair to have someone on the brink of death and not give them closure for half a year. Before Minho can get a word in, Thomas rounds on him. "How can you not say a thing? Did you not see what I saw?"
"Uh."
"Right, right. I swear, Min, you have to do something about that guy, because this here, this isn't healthy. How can you just accept an ending like that? It's not right. It's not—how could they do that?"
Before Minho can get a word in, Thomas ventures off for a strong coffee that he claims he desperately needs. Never mind that he has already consumed three strong coffees in the last hour. Thomas scrolls through page after page of fan commentary on his phone with utter disregard for his friend's emotional confusion, and only accepts that what he has just witnessed is truly the season finale after fifteen minutes with a definitive, "Well, at least it's pretty sure they get a sixth season now."
"Thomas," Minho groans, "Room 59?"
"Oh!" Somehow, the mention of that perks Thomas right up. Like a good bit of gossip about his friend's failing love life can patch his woes right up. "Room 59."
"And?"
"That's guys with eyeliner, Min. Hard-core alternative shit. I told you to google it, didn't I? Whatever. What's with the sudden interest?"
Minho's expectations about Newt's job shift into instability. His new perspective forces him to admit that maybe Newt isn't quite like the ordinary-yet-charming customer who has walked and talked his way into Minho's heart so easily. Hard-core alternative shit is far enough outside the borders of his comfort zone that he doesn't know where it ought to be on the map.
"Your boy goes there," Thomas gasps in realisation.
"Not 'goes'," Minho quickly says back. "Works. He works there. And he's not my boy." But it would be really great if he was.
Newt looks nothing like the crowd Thomas has just described. He doesn't wear all black—in fact, Minho can't recall him wearing anything black—nor is he covered in tattoos or piercings. And eyeliner is definitely a far stretch. So if he wears that to work, then that is not so very different from Minho who wears awfully boring brown shirts and pants over dress shoes for a living.
Laughter peels from his best friend's throat. "Oh my god! Well, that's decided, then! We're going. When does he play?"
* * *
In the middle of an urban stroboscope jungle, with anonymous people moving and grinding along to the hypnotic pulse of the music under an admittedly incredible light show, Minho forgets about the dullness of everyday life. It is like he is right back in a party designed to make him forget about everything in the morning. If he closes his eyes, he can practically taste the familiar excitement. He has missed this.
He and Thomas have literally upturned their wardrobe to wear the blackest of outfits possible. They haven't gelled their hair to match the image, and although they have joked about it, neither of them is wearing any eyeliner either. As a result, they should have fitted in. Instead they are bland and boring.
"If we find him, you are not, I repeat, not to talk to him tonight," Thomas warns. He must have noticed their wardrobe malfunction, then. People of all the colours of the rainbow move around them, all flowing skirts and blacklight paintings, with hot pink contacts and acid green dots circling ear shells and punctuating the dip beneath lips. The few people that are in black are in a handsome suit or a dress straight out of high fashion.
And then there is them.
The music still crawls under their skin and into their blood, which is why Thomas is the first to start bobbing along to the music and Minho eventually follows along. All things considering, it is good music, and if they can get their hands on some beer, then they might as well enjoy it.
"He's a DJ, right?" Thomas shouts over the music as he leans against the bar.
"Yeah! But not this one!"
"Do you know when?"
Minho grins. "No fucking clue, mate."
"Who you waiting for?" The barkeeper leans over the bar, a septum on dark skin catching a glimmer of light. If he pays their clothes any attention, he must assume that it is their first time here.
For a guy at an alternative gig, he looks a lot like someone they used to know. In fact, Minho is pretty sure that he is; Alby, one of the runners on the track team in university. He immediately decides to make this as short as possible, before Alby recognises them and thinks that Thomas and he are together. It wouldn't be the first time someone says so, and tonight they are wearing matching outfits to boot.
"Newt Isaac?"
"Ah. Up in five." He raises his glass of coke with a knowing look. "Cheers."
Minho quickly steers them both away from the bar.
They make sure they get the best view of the DJ booth. Thomas makes a bigger effort than Minho expects, just to get a good look at the guy who has been occupying Minho's mind for so long that he might as well call it infatuation. True enough, Newt doesn't know that Minho is here and still Minho is anticipating his rise to the stage with a nervous twitch in his limbs.
What they don't expect is the rising cheer from the crowd as soon as a second figure appears behind the turntables. Minho once saw on YouTube that it is all a big hoax, that the music has been premixed and that they are just turning buttons and pushing slides for show, but Newt still looks amazing enough to watch him pretend all night.
"That's him?" Thomas asks.
There is no eyeliner. Newt's special outfit is just a simple oxford and dress pants, with a sleek black tie to finish the deal. He would have looked out of place, if not for the contacts that turn his eyes black. It clashes with the honest joy that he has to be up there, and the result that it has on Minho is frankly disarming.
"That's him," Minho responds with a dry mouth.
Thomas grins from ear to ear as the music swells into a drum-'n-bass that the crowd has been waiting for. He shouts something back at Minho, but it gets lost in the swelling music.
"What?"
Thomas grins. "Get him," he calls back, "and keep him."
* * *
Apparently though, chance disagrees with Minho. The first Wednesday shift comes and goes without package, two weeks later when he is ready to pass Newt his number. Of course, it makes sense that Minho's run of good fortune with package after package for Newt was going to have to end some time. But Minho's patience is stretched thin when at the fourth week, a month after watching him play, there aren't any packages for 921 North Drive either.
He finishes his round disappointed. On the kitchen table in his apartment stands a fake package addressed to Newt, an excuse to use at any time. Somehow though, Newt no longer ordering stuff to come in on a Wednesday feels like a message. And Minho, much as he gets a little breathless every time he thinks about Newt, does not want to overstep his boundaries.
"You've got his round on other days, right?" is what Thomas tells him. "Does it have to be on Wednesday?"
It does not, Minho supposes, so he carries along the package on his other rounds. He rings Newt's doorbell on Friday, which is the next time that he has this round, but gets no response.
Minho can't recall catching someone around having been this hard before.
On Saturday, he goes back to Room 59. Dressed like his usual self this time, he swirls his bottle of beer idly and hangs out at the bar for half an hour. Then Alby takes pity and tells him that Newt doesn't play on Saturdays, but that he'd gladly pass him a message if Minho wants him to. By the time he leaves, Minho now also has a running date to catch up with an old friend.
Maybe it has been a daydream. Still, the more walls Minho hits, the more he knows that he will climb up and over them if he going around is not an option.
He talks his co-worker into switching shifts with him next Wednesday, even if there's no package and a downpour makes the rest of his shift a disaster, with half of his time spent being stuck in the ensuing traffic jam.
But it is worth it.
"Hi," he smiles brilliantly with matted hair and a drenched jacket, as soon as the door opens.
He gets one look over from Newt, and a pitying wince. "Minho. Hi. Wow, rough weather, right? You okay? I don't expect something today." It should be illegal how tempting the man can look even now. It is late and yet his hair still looks like he just got out of bed. When he thinks about it, it always does, really.
"Just doing my job," Minho shrugs. He is doing his best to be smooth as fuck, ignoring the rust that has accumulated over the past year, as he hands over the card. "Please sign here for reception."
Newt flips the card in his hand, opens it. Minho's number, it says neatly, followed by the number in question. Minho knows, because he put it there. Newt regards it, looks up at him, and then back at the card.
He snorts. "Want to come inside?"
"Absolutely," Minho tries not to be too eager. He has approximately ten minutes before he really has to go. There is no rest for his team just because their trainer makes progress in other areas where he's been stagnant for weeks. Ten minutes of being inside Newt's apartment.
Newt's eyes take in his soppy shoes and drenched jacket trickling puddles of water on the treated wood, and he wrinkles his nose. "We have to do something about that."
"Uh."
The sweetest smile appears on the man's face. By now Minho knows enough about Newt to know that nothing is as it seems, and so this can only mean something bad. "Take it off."
The forwardness is something new, but then Newt doesn't know Minho well enough to know that he meets challenges like that gladly, the pulse that runs under his skin becoming electric. He still tells himself not to drop his guard until he is sure. Who is he kidding, though? Ten minutes won't be enough, not when he is in the hallway of the man he's been thinking about for months, whom he wants to do bad, bad things to, and when said man hss just asked him to step out of his clothes.
Admittedly, Minho was going for a date, or maybe some texts. Taking off his clothes is last on the list of possible effects. The choice is still made in the blink of an eye, passing right by any voluntary decision in his brain as he expected it would.
"Shit," he still mutters. People are depending on him. He should not forget. "Are you home later? I have this class, and I really can't ditch it. Eight o'clock?"
Newt's shoulders sag with disappointment. Oh god, he probably takes that as rejection. And it isn't, it really isn't. "You're seriously hard to get a hold of," he shakes his head, a soft smile that hints at being less than heartfelt. "Bloody deliveries coming in a day late last couple of weeks and everything. Eight o'clock? Are you sure?"
Minho's operating system jams, then crashes. He cannot compute. Newt has been trying to time his deliveries for this? Every Wednesday, Minho has been looking for an excuse to talk to him and Newt has been trying to give him one all the time?
That is all he needs.
Screw class.
All soggy uniform and wet skin, he shivers as the message that every one of his students must already have been hoping in this awful weather for takes too long to send, but when it does, the phone is quickly dropped on the padded mountain of wet clothes on the floor and he feels himself warming up despite the lack of fabric.
"Cup of tea?" Newt offers with renewed patience, like he doesn't notice the half-naked man in the hallway. But Minho catches the stolen glances, and he knows that Newt is watching.
"Pair of pants or a blanket," Minho requests instead. "Then, yeah, cup of tea."
"I'll get you warmed right up," promises Newt.
That is when he knows. Newt is enjoying this. In fact, Newt knows exactly what he is doing. Minho nods once to suppress the swallow. He hasn't read him wrong. There is a glimpse of desire whenever he watches Newt long enough. It is in the smile that he can't suppress, and the fingers that twitch to reach out. For some reason, Newt wants this exactly as much as Minho does. And Minho didn't know it. "Changed my mind. Kiss me."
Newt is on him in the blink of a second.
They swerve into a corner without knowing where they are going. Newt's hands are on him, tangling into wet hair, and his shirt is quickly patched with wet spots from being pressed up against a man who really has been drenched to his skin. But all of this is Newt, kissing him like there is no tomorrow while Minho needs to grasp what is happening before he can fully return the favour.
"Weeks," Newt pants against his lips, his jaw, then his neck. He draws him further down the hall. The card with Minho's number on it must be left somewhere near the pile of clothes. Minho has forgotten about it. "You're going to have to tell me everything about you tomorrow, because I'm not letting you out of my bed tonight."
"I can live with that." It is still baffling that this man wants this as much as Minho does. "You're wearing too much clothes."
"Do something about it."
They create space between the two of them long enough to get rid of Newt's shirt, now clammy and sticking to his skin. He is cold underneath, providing a blissful contrast to Minho, who is burning up. Newt is gorgeous, from the slightly hazed expression to the merriment that lies underneath. Minho longs to map all of it.
Despite the ease with which they move, they are still practically strangers, stumbling down a line that inevitably has them falling into the bedroom and struggling to get rid of the remainder of their clothes. Minho does not usually do this. He has the feeling that Newt doesn't particularly care about that, and for now, he takes as much as he can get.
That means fumbling in the twilight with the rain pattering against the window outside, beyond the closed curtains, satin sheets feeling too smooth against his calves when a body crawls on top of his own, and accepting that for once his body is going to stay pinned to the bed by the weight of an other.
And then Newt is between his legs, with the last barrier being removed. Minho gasps at once, in need of more. His hands rub through the man's coarse hair, desperate enough for friction as they are. "Shouldn't we talk?" he blurts out.
Newt's head slowly appears in his vision, his lips red and evident of amusement. "Talk?"
"Yeah. Like, I don't know anything about you."
"I'm about to go down on you," Newt points out. "Unless it's important?"
Minho laughs, and the nervousness dissipates. His head hits the pillow. It is important, he supposes, but the whole thing has rewired his system until it is left with only one priority. Talk later. "Not important," he nods.
The first impulse, the first pinprick of pleasure from skin wrapping around skin, delivered through branches of nerves, synapses and neurotransmitters, is chemistry at its purest. Newt chuckles something that Minho can't hear over the buzzing in his ears. It doesn't matter, because they navigate each other by touch in the growing dark. Soon, he has forgotten that it was ever there.
Sheets crumple and stain in the hours they spend in the bed. By the time Minho is sure that he can't move another muscle, breathless and brimming with pleasure both fulfilled and dormant, only to wake up at the next touch, Newt too finally succumbs to the limitations of his body with a tired laugh.
Midnight has come and gone without them knowing. And Minho still knows close to nothing about Newt, except now a number of intimate details that are precious. Which is kind of really good. He keeps wanting to kiss or give more, just like he suspects Newt wants.
"I'll be honest," he says, "I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep one minute tonight."
"Me neither," smiles Newt. He looks at Minho like they've known each other for a long time, but like he only recently opened his eyes.
"Can I stay though?"
"I insist."
Newt stretches his body, groans, and sits up. He looks Minho over shamelessly and steals a careless kiss. In its gentility, it is still a burst of sensations against Minho's raw lips. Everything about him is tired but satiated.
"I'm going to freshen up and get some water," Newt says. "You can grab a shower if you want."
He is unabashed in his nudity, and it distracts Minho. It sets off a cluster bomb of something good in his body, but as soon as Newt is gone, he remembers that he has no idea whether it is just the one night. That might have been good enough for him one time, around when he delivered the anonymous package and first caught sight of him, but now Minho wants to know all there is to know about Newt.
The thing is, it has all happened rather fast. Minho rolls around in bed and warmth explodes on his features when he remembers Newt inviting him in. The truth is though, he wants more. And after a night like that, he is not sure whether he's still got much to offer Newt.
"You have work tomorrow?" asks a voice from the doorway, startling him from increasingly sobering thoughts. Newt looks like he has been watching him for a while. He is now clad in a t-shirt with some grunge logo on it, and a toothbrush sticks out of the corner of his mouth.
And Minho falls helplessly in love with the sight. "Probably," he admits. "Yeah, probably." He can't quite think straight with an image like that.
"Early?"
"Too early, if I have."
A grunt is his response. Newt disappears into the bathroom to rinse his mouth. When he comes back, he moves to his closet, appearing to be looking for something. "Get a shower," he says fondly over his shoulder.
And maybe that isn't such a bad idea. If anything, it might clear his mind.
* * *
"Talk," whispers Newt sleepily.
Fresh sheets are drawn up for warmth. Newt is still in his shirt, and Minho has gone for boxers, the only other clothes he has with him now draped over a chair next to the heating to dry. The alarm clock reads three in the morning. His phone has confirmed that he has a shift in the morning, which means getting up at five and a quick ride home for some refreshments, but sleep still eludes Minho as he watches the man who is falling asleep on the other pillow.
"Later."
"Mh, but you're away later."
"I can come back." Minho smiles softly. "I will, anyway."
"The postman always rings twice and all that, eh?"
Minho's ears glow warm. "Something like that. Are you working tomorrow?"
Newt's cheek rubs against the pillow affirmatively.
"Alright." The idea of talking makes Minho jittery still. What is worse is waiting too long. "Can I have your number too?"
"Absolutely."
He feels daring. "Want to do this again some time?"
Newt grins like the Cheshire Cat, all languid limbs and grace, and it helplessly constricts Minho in his web. He knows that his heart is gone by now, but it seems to be in the good hands of a man sleepy enough to be telling the honest truth. And it is a good truth. "A hundred times. We should probably go out on a date first though. That'd be nice."
"Deal," says Minho, light-headed.
* * *
It is too early when he sneaks past the sleeping form still in bed, too damn early. His eyes refuse to stay open long enough, and he doesn't want to switch on the lights and risk waking him up. Although he does, if he is being selfish. It is on his list right under not going to work at all.
Minho finds his familiar brown uniform in the hallway, the fabric stiff and crumpled but dry. He pulls it on in the living room, over old socks that are a pain to locate. It is the first time that he gets to see the rest of the apartment, so for a moment pushes aside feeling like an invader in an other man's home to discover more about the person that is Newt, from the black electric guitar on the wall to the copper wire frames forming geometric shapes around fancy light bulbs.
A piece of paper is found easily enough. Ready to leave, Minho writes a quick note that hopefully does not make him sound like the sap that he is sure he really is. It is basic. Off to work. You've got my number, please use it. Minho. It is but a fraction of what he really wants to say to Newt, but it sums up the essence well enough.
His eyes fall on the coffee table, and the book on there. Down to the clipped edge and the stripe of green marker an inch off the top of the page edges, he knows that book. It is the most curious thing to find.
It belongs on the pile that carried his mug. The one that Thomas cleaned up at long last. It should by rights be in his book case, because it is his.
A note peeks out at the top, the writing familiar from years of refrigerator Post-Its.
Minho can't help it. He laughs.
PS. A+ book, he adds to his note to Newt. Love to hear your opinion on it. It is embarrassing and humbling to his pride, although he can't say that it makes him less grateful.
He tucks back the message scribbled in Thomas's spidery hand writing between the cover and the first page.
Minho steals a kiss from the man still mostly asleep tangled under red sheets as a promise for later. There is a pleasant buzz spreading in his chest, and he could get addicted simply to being around him, if he is not already.
The note comes back to him while he waits for the elevator with a smile on his face.
Nope, you didn't buy this book. Don't worry, you didn't pay for it either. But if you like it and would like to donate, treat the man who delivers this to dinner. It's his book after all. And I think he really wants you to.
Kind regards, a meddling flatmate.
* * *
At twelve, Minho's phone blinks with some twenty texts from Thomas and one from an unknown number, and he knows they will be just fine.