Chapter Text
Minho hated openings, not exactly because of the press — though that too — but because everyone seemed to expect him to be something specific: deep, mysterious, intense, silent, dramatic, the kind of artist who stares at a painting like he’s looking straight into his own soul. In practice, Minho just wanted to arrive, check that nothing was crooked, escape before someone asked a weird interview question, and, if possible, eat something that wasn’t a tiny canapé. That’s why he decided to get to the gallery early, when the space was still empty, quiet, with a light smell of fresh paint and newly polished wood, some works already hanging, others still leaning against the walls, and the only louder sound coming from something being dragged across the floor.
He entered without making a sound — an old habit — and stopped almost immediately, because in the middle of the main room there was a guy kneeling on the floor, trying to align a frame that clearly refused to cooperate, murmuring to himself as he pulled the measuring tape, sighed, lifted the painting two centimeters, lowered it again, frowned, and seemed to be having a silent argument with an inanimate object. Minho stood there watching, not exactly out of politeness, but because his brain had completely shut off, like some internal part had decided this was too important a moment to interrupt, and he couldn’t tell if it was the careful way the guy held the frame, the calm concentration on his face, or simply the fact that he seemed to exist with a very peaceful energy for someone in a gallery about to receive hundreds of people, but something inside Minho simply concluded: okay, that’s it, now I like this guy.
The guy finally noticed he wasn’t alone.
— Ah! — he turned too fast, almost knocking over the frame, and widened his eyes. — Sorry! I didn’t see you there. The gallery’s still closed, but if you want to take a look, you can… just try not to bump into anything because everything’s still kind of—
— I can help — Minho said automatically.
The guy blinked.
— What?
— Help — Minho repeated, vaguely pointing at the crooked frame. — With that. The frame. It clearly has something against you.
The guy let out a surprised little laugh.
— Oh, thanks, but it’s okay, I’m almost getting it.
He clearly wasn’t, but Minho stepped closer before his brain could interfere, holding the other end of the frame, lifting it a bit too much, then a bit too little, trying again, murmuring to himself while the object seemed to conspire against any attempt at alignment.
— Okay — he muttered. — Maybe it also has something against me.
— Apparently it hates everyone — the guy said, laughing.
They spent a few seconds adjusting the painting in comfortable silence until they finally got it straight, and the guy took two steps back, analyzed it, tilted his head, then smiled, satisfied.
— There we go.
Minho smiled too, without even noticing.
— Victory against art.
— The best feeling — the guy agreed. — Thanks for helping. I’m Han.
— Minho — he replied automatically, shaking the outstretched hand before realizing he was a little too nervous for such a simple gesture, like his body had decided to act before his brain remembered this was just a normal introduction between two normal people.
— Do you work here? — Minho asked, trying to sound casual, like someone who was definitely not having a mini internal crisis over a pretty smile.
— I do — Han confirmed. — More specifically, I try to stop things from falling, going crooked, or killing someone during exhibitions. It’s a high-risk job.
— Sounds stressful.
— Very — Han said seriously for half a second, before smiling again. — But I like it. I like being around art.
Minho felt something strange in his chest, not exactly heavy, just different, like that sentence had clicked into some very specific place inside him without asking permission.
They started talking naturally while Han kept adjusting details around the gallery, and Minho, who had technically only come to check a few things, ended up staying nearby for no very clear reason other than liking being there. At some point, he commented that Han always seemed to arrive early, and he explained that he liked the empty gallery, the silence before the public arrived, that moment when everything still seemed to breathe on its own. Minho agreed, a little too distracted by how much that made sense to him too.
It was only then that Han frowned, looking at Minho more closely, and asked if he was a visitor. Minho hesitated, tried to explain that not exactly, responded to Han’s guesses with increasingly awkward denials, until he admitted he was an artist. When Han asked what kind of art he made, Minho said painting, and when he heard that Minho was exhibiting there that same day, he saw the guy blink twice before finally connecting the dots.
— Wait… you’re Minho?
— That’s me.
— Oh my God — Han murmured, bringing a hand to his mouth, visibly embarrassed. — I told you not to bump into anything.
— I survived — Minho said. — And I promise I won’t trip over my own works, probably.
— I literally asked you to help me align a frame — Han said, laughing nervously. — Is that professionalism or am I about to get fired?
— Extreme professionalism — Minho assured him. — Artists also suffer from crooked frames.
Han laughed for real this time, relieved, and Minho had the strange feeling that that sound was the kind of thing someone might want to hear more times than would be socially acceptable to admit.
They kept talking, now with less formality, about arriving early, about liking to see art before people, about observing small moments, photographing simple things, and at some point Minho said, without thinking much, that Han should exhibit there someday. Han laughed, saying he could barely align frames, and Minho insisted, far too serious for someone talking about something so silly, that aligning frames was an underrated skill in the art world.
At some point, Han asked if Minho didn’t have anything else to do, and he replied that he was now emotionally invested in Han’s battle against frames, which earned laughter and a stack of labels in Minho’s hands with the simple instruction not to drop them. He dropped two almost immediately, apologized, and Han laughed, saying that always happened, while Minho pretended it had been intentional.
— So — Han said, while sticking one of the labels back on. — Are you nervous about today?
— A little — Minho admitted. — Exhibitions never get less scary. It always feels like someone’s going to look at one of my paintings and say: So that’s what you feel? Weird.
— I think that’s kind of beautiful — Han replied. — People trying to understand someone through colors.
Minho looked at him for too long.
— You say dangerously deep things for someone who works with labels.
— It’s a hidden talent.
— I like it — Minho said.
Han blinked, slightly surprised.
— You do?
— I mean — Minho corrected quickly. — I like the way you talk. About art. It’s… nice.
— Oh — Han smiled, a little shy. — Thanks.
The silence that came after wasn’t empty, it was calm, but Minho still tried to make conversation, asking completely randomly if Han liked coffee, which got a laugh out of him and an admission that yes, he did, why. Minho took a deep breath before explaining that there was a good café nearby and that maybe, if Han was free after his shift, they could go there… professionally. Han raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, commented that that sounded a lot like a date, which made Minho lightly panic, explain too fast that it didn’t have to be a date, it could just be coffee, normal, between people, no pressure, until Han interrupted, smiling, saying he’d love to get coffee with him — even professionally.
Minho blinked, asked if he was serious, got a serious in response and answered too fast that great, perfect, excellent, professional coffee, while Han agreed, laughing, that it would be extremely professional. They held each other’s gaze for half a second longer than necessary and looked away at the same time, like it was some kind of silent sport neither of them had trained for but both were playing anyway.
Han commented that he got off in an hour, Minho said he might be able to survive without coffee until then, Han suggested he sit around pretending to analyze his own works if he couldn’t, and Minho replied that he did that all the time, which earned another laugh. After that, Han went back to work, and Minho stepped a few feet away, pretending to observe one of the covered canvases, but really just trying to process the fact that he had just asked someone out inside a gallery without meaning to call it a date, and that person had said yes, which seemed statistically improbable considering his emotional track record.
He discreetly looked at Han, who was focused, lightly biting his lip as he adjusted a crooked label, and smiled to himself. A few seconds later, he got his attention again, pointing to a frame on the other side of the room and saying it was still crooked, which made Han sigh dramatically and accept professional help — extremely professional — as the two of them walked over and started another battle against art, laughing quietly, bumping into each other by accident, making dumb comments about how paintings clearly conspired against employees.
It was simple, light, comfortable, like they’d known each other longer than they actually had, or like the universe had decided to be kind for a few minutes. When the clock showed there was an hour left before the gallery officially opened, Han wiped his hands on his pants and asked if Minho was nervous, and he admitted that a little, but less now, explaining that if everything went wrong, at least he’d aligned frames with someone nice that day. Han smiled that way again and said that alone was worth the whole shift, while Minho thought, silently, that maybe it was worth much more than that.