Work Text:
They say ignorance is bliss, yet Seungmin finds himself testing the edge of it.
Break time in the practice room had always been its own kind of chaos, something they’d long since learned to live with. Oftentimes, it roars in the form of loud voices and playful banter; sometimes, it's in the way each of them scatter across the room, lost in their own orbit. Today was the latter.
Chan is seated on the floor, his laptop balanced on his thighs. His eyes flick between a to-do list and dance formation notes he’d scribbled earlier. Felix and Changbin are tangled in a dramatic debate about the best pizza toppings, acting all animated and gesturing like the fate of the world depended on Felix proving pineapple belonged on pizza, while Changbin theatrically gagged for full effect (and best believe Chan was glaring at Felix with slight judgment). Hyunjin is in front of the long mirror, running fingers through his hair with precision, muttering about how humidity and sweat ruin everything. Jisung would beg to differ; he finds Hyunjin hot no matter what, anyway. Speaking of, Jisung and Jeongin are likely on another snack run together.
And then goes Minho.
Seungmin doesn't resist the urge to let his eyes linger, so he notices him the most. He is curled on the couch in the far corner, one ankle tucked under his thigh, phone cradled in both of his petite hands. His thumbs tap slowly, and then in short bursts, pausing between each… line? What was Minho even doing? Seungmin assumes he's typing something, and it's as though every sentence needed a deep breath, because Minho does just that.
It isn’t an unusual sight, despite Minho usually being half in the banter, dropping in dry one-liners that make Hyunjin double over, or picking up on whatever inside joke or new TikTok meme reference Felix was carrying that day.
Minutes later, Minho stands up, slipping his wallet into his pocket. Okay, bathroom, he mutters to no one.
He stretches with a loud, echoing groan that no one acknowledges, arms unfurling in a slow arc, fingers flexing with a feline grace, almost like invisible claws might slip from their tips, before he pads toward the door. It closes behind him with a decisive click.
Seungmin watches him leave, and he lets his gaze drift back to the couch—to the rectangle of black glass sitting there in particular, facing down.
He finds himself now testing the edge of his curiosity. To his surprise, it rewards him. Minho’s phone is unlocked.
But that in itself was strange; Minho keeps his phone like a snake guarding its captured prey, never letting it out of reach, or never leaving it open. Seungmin isn't that nosy, isn't the type to act without thinking about it thoroughly—he tells himself that as his attention is fixated on the screen's soft glow.
His thumb taps against it, waking it fully.
The Notes app is open. Knowing Minho, he is expecting maybe a shopping list for the next time he and Jisung would have to go through very soon, a few Jureumi doodles, or maybe one of those cryptic three-word phrases Minho likes to jot down in the middle of conversations. Instead, his eyes met a block of text that slowed his reading.
Coffee doesn’t hit the same anymore.
I can't remember the last time I drank coffee, either. A fair estimate would be two weeks ago, or three. Upping the range for good measure, I'd say four. I do remember the feeling it gave, though. I drank it, and it just sat in my belly, bitter with a hint of sourness that I am not fond of, and warm, until the warmth is gone. Does this mean my body’s built up a tolerance? Because I drink coffee, and there's no sudden clarity behind my eyes as before. That's probably it, right? Coffee doesn’t give me the same caffeine boost it used to give me, whether it be a freshly brewed coffee from an overpriced café, an iced Americano from a big chain like Paik's, or a cheap 3-in-1 mix that does the job, despite it possessing a higher ratio of sugar to espresso. Or maybe my mornings just don’t start the same way they used to.
I used to complain about the jitters i feel in my fingers whenever the sudden rush of energy starts flowing through my system. I used to complain about the way coffee was made for me. A bit too bitter, too much ice, too little ice, not enough coffee. I used to complain about the stacks of single-use plastic cups and cupsleeves hogging space on the countertop, and that we should opt for reusable ones, even if it meant having to bring it everywhere once we're done, until we got home. How I wished I had complained for longer.
I was always handed a cup in the morning without you even knowing if I wanted one—I wanted one every single time. I never said it then, but I liked that you decided for me. That you thought of me first, even in something as small or as simple as bean extract mixed with water and ice. How I wish I had complained for longer, so that you'd still be around to ask me if the coffee is finally perfect and to my liking, to which I would have a reason to nitpick. I figured that kept you around. Because sometimes, I'd catch myself lingering in front of the convenience store fridge, staring at canned coffee I don’t really want, or simply walking past a coffee shop, wondering if it would taste different or the same if you were the one making it for me still.
The fact of the matter is still this: despite it all, I haven’t quit it. It's been a while since my last cup of coffee, because it doesn’t hit the way it used to. It's never tasted or felt the same. And maybe I’m not just talking about coffee.
Seungmin didn't mean to pry. And yet, the words he never thought he'd read at four in the afternoon start sitting in his chest. Before he could stop it, a single tear slipped past his lashes, tracing a quick, betraying path down his cheek. He sets the phone back exactly where it had been, screen down, as though it had never been touched, and blinks hard at the opposite wall.
He hears the faint creak of the door, and a second later, Minho walks back in with a bag of chips. “How much time do we have left for break?” he asks the room.
It was Chan who responds to him. Seungmin doesn’t look his way.
That night, the dorm is quiet. Felix had retreated to his room after greeting Seungmin good night, the sound of whatever music he was playing bleeding faintly through the walls.
Seungmin stands in their kitchen, facing the coffee machine.
There isn’t much to look at—it's a new model, but it's from the same, trusty brand as the machine he used to own in his dorm with Minho. There's also a slight scratch on one side from when Felix had scratched it with his box opener during move-in not too long ago. The metal components of it are pristine and clean. There are really almost no signs of usage.
He doesn’t drink coffee much himself, not as he used to, at least. But he likes to make it for others, for Minho… once upon a time. Back when mornings were slower, or even on early call days. When stress had settled too deeply on his shoulders. Or just because. Just because coffees were the usual, actually. And before their day starts, it had been a habit he didn’t think twice about.
The note replays in his head, until Felix’s door creaked open, footsteps padding into the kitchen. “You’ve been staring at that machine for like, two minutes,” Felix said around a yawn. “You okay?”
Seungmin reached for a glass instead. “Just contemplating.”
“Eh? About making a cup of coffee this late? It's 10 PM.”
“You can say that, yeah.”
Felix doesn’t push. He just fills his own tumbler with water and another glass with juice and walks back to his room, leaving Seungmin in the hum of the fridge and the faint smell of old grounds he hasn't touched for who knows how long.
Seungmin comes to practice early the next day, or so he thinks. He steps into the practice room to find it already half-full with some members of Step Kids already warming up, Chan toggling at the sound system, Hyunjin stretching with the drive of someone who’d rather still be in bed. Felix—who had arrived miraculously early and before his own housemate—spots the coffee immediately.
“Ooh, did you bring enough for—”
“Nuh-uh,” Seungmin subtly shakes his head before Felix could finish, though his tone was light enough to earn a scoff.
He cautiously sets one cup on the couch's arm rest, where Minho was leaning back with his hands in his pockets, still shaking off sleep.
“I made you coffee, hyung,” says Seungmin simply.
Minho looks at the familiar plastic cup beside him, then at him. “What’s the occasion?”
“Nothing,” Seungmin replies, taking a sip from his own cup, condensation forming all around it. “Just figured you might want one.”
"You… Is there spit in this?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
Minho blinks. "Eh, I felt it."
Seungmin dryly chuckles. "I'm kidding." And then, he follows up, more seriously. "Not this time, hyung-ah. That's all yours."
For a moment, Minho doesn’t move. And then he reaches for the cup, fingers curling around the coldness. He doesn’t fully smile—at least not for Seungmin to see in the moment—but his gaze holds steady on him for a second longer than necessary.
“…Thanks, Kim Seungmin-ssi," he says quietly, the words almost lost under the sound of Hyunjin and Jisung igniting a tickle fight in the corner.
Seungmin shrugs, taking another drink. “Always an honor.” It comes out a bit more formal than intended.
Minho finally takes a savoring sip. And it’s—of fucking course—perfect. The kind of perfect perfectly cold and soft sheets and pillows offer at night. Warm in a way no heater could be, familiar in a way that feels like coming home. The bitterness is just right, the sweetness subtle but balances out the whole thing. There is absolutely no hint of sourness, just the way Minho likes his coffee. At the same time, it’s so him—so Seungmin—that Minho swears even the aftertaste that stays on his tongue after every sip feels like the kind of mornings he wished never changed.
Minho opens his phone to reread the note, nodding at every line, every paragraph that he wrote. He was always handed a cup in the morning. He always liked how Seungmin always decided for him. He smiles into the straw in satisfaction, grateful for the fact that Seungmin has done it again.
Barely a minute passes before he calls out, “Kim Seungmin-ssi.”
Seungmin glances over. “Lee Minho-ssi?”
Minho holds up the cup, his expression mock serious. “This is too good. It’s a problem.”
Seungmin blinks in confusion. “Yah hyung, a problem?!”
“Yeah, a problem,” Minho confirms with conviction, leaning back lazily. “You’re gonna have to make me another one. Tomorrow, and the day after that. And then every day indefinitely.”
Seungmin rolls his eyes and snorts, but there’s a faint pink to his ears when he mutters, “Hmm, I’ll think about it, hyung.”
Minho swears he sees the corner of Seungmin's mouth lift before he turns away.