Work Text:
Minho doesn’t normally keep his phone right next to him when he’s up late watching Premier League soccer unless he and Changmin are texting through the match. He likes to focus on the game. Tonight Changmin was busy with family stuff, however, so it’s just Minho, the Arsenal match, and whatever Gunner fan commentary happens to be in his feed at the half.
Then his phone buzzes with a notification. He swipes to messages and reads the new text.
My Beloved Kibummie
I need to get railed and you’re the best person I can think of right now. Come over asap thanks
Minho squints at his phone, pushing his glasses up his nose. He reads the text through several times. Each time he reads it, his heart clenches. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.
The best person I can think of right now.
His heart does a flip. The best person. Kibum wrote this.
For a long time, Minho has been aware there’s an undeniable chemistry between the two of them. They work with it onstage, play it for laughs on variety shows. But he thought they had an unspoken agreement to let it lie, to avoid opening that door when it came to their private lives. They’d worked too hard for the relationship they had. Why upset the balance with sex, right?
Maybe this is why Minho has tended to keep mum about his dates and hookups unless things got really serious. Sure, the few times he’s had a serious girlfriend, he introduced her to the members, and Kibum had—at least in recent years—been kind and friendly. But Minho generally kept things private when it was just a hookup, whether with a woman or man.
But Kibum. Kibum. The attraction had been so present for so long, Minho had grown used to it, like a joint that always ached after a hard workout. He’d almost stopped thinking about the fact that his best friend was gorgeous, beautiful, undeniably alluring. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Kibum had no interest in a guy like him.
But. The best person. Huh. Maybe he’d been hasty.
And then there’s the other thing.
I need to get railed.
Railed. What sort of language is that? Why would Kibum text him like that, when the last messages between them were ordinary and businesslike, arranging a coffee truck for a coworker, a payment sent, and a thumbs-up.
Kibum doesn’t talk like that, not to him.
Not to him.
Minho’s heart drops. What if Kibum intended this text for someone else? Someone he feels comfortable enough with to invite directly into his bed. A bed where Minho would, now that he thinks about it, very much like to be invited. Without thinking too closely about it, he’s definitely imagined what it would be like to kiss Kibum, more than their occasional friendly, drunken smooch. He’s pictured taking Kibum in his arms and kissing him deeply, embracing him, telling him with lips and hands all the things he feels but can’t say with words. But then he’d push those thoughts aside.
But he hadn’t quite let himself picture what it would be like to— to. Well. He’s pictured falling to his knees, getting his mouth on Kibum’s dick. He’s pictured kissing him head to toe, slowly working him open, pictured his reaction when Minho makes him fall apart. But he hadn’t pictured this. Fast. Strong. A little rough. Deep inside enough to make him moan. Fuck. Fuck. Now he’s picturing it.
He stares down at his phone. He’s left the text open, his cursor in the reply box. His hands are trembling. What could he say? He’s tempted to tease. Wow!!! My kibummie is so needy. But if he does that, Kibum could back off. He could say no. Minho reads the text again.
Come over asap thanks
In the beautiful game of football, the greatest strikers aren’t always the fastest players, nor the strongest. What a great striker can do is find any opening in their opponent’s defense and take advantage of that opening to score. He may not be a Thierry Henry-level striker, but Choi Minho is a strategic thinker. He knows better than to waste an opportunity once he’s given it.
He closes his phone, and pauses the game, to watch later, on delay.
There’s only one thing to do.
Minho’s been given an opening to get through Kibum’s defenses. And he’s going to make the most of it.
Quickly, before he can talk himself out of it, Minho washes up, shaves, and changes into a soft sweater, one he remembers Kibum liking. He had been extra clingy the last time Minho wore it, playing with his sleeve that night after they’d been drinking. He seemed to like the fabric.
He pulls on his jacket and checks his look in the mirror. Decent for 4 a.m. Normally, on the rare occasion he’d meet someone for a late-night hookup, he’d make sure he had condoms and lube with him as a courtesy. But he knows Kibum, and knows he is always prepared and very picky. Whatever Kibum wants, he’ll have it in mind already. Kibum will tell him how he wants things to go; and it’s up to Minho to fulfill his plan. To make it so good Kibum will come back for more.
***
Minho lets himself into Kibum’s apartment quietly, greeting the sleepy dogs with a low voice, removing his shoes.
Kibum pads out of the bedroom, his tousled hair framing his face that’s still gleaming with traces of whatever skin serum he used before bed. His pale silk pajamas frame his figure perfectly, an inviting dip at the collar exposing the elegant line of his throat. He looks debauched already, and Minho hasn’t even touched him.
Minho’s hands are shaking as he draws him into a tight hug, his heart about to pound out of his chest.
“Woah, slow down, honey, what’s wrong?” Kibum pushes away and looks up at Minho with a quizzical expression. They’re so close Minho could trace the worried furrow in his brow with his lips.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Minho says. The hug is grounding; feeling Kibum’s body in his arms is normal. They’re unquestionably close—they even love each other. Minho’s past the initial defense line. He just has to keep going, to take the shot. He has to kiss him so well Kibum will let him stay.
Nothing’s ever felt so right as he lowers his lips to Kibum’s with intent. He’s overwhelmed with the awareness of the fact that this his first taste of Kibum as more than a friend. He deepens the kiss, angles so that when Kibum’s lips part, he presses in, tasting him deeply. Ah, it’s sweet. He’s so sweet. Minho could kiss him all day. They’re good at this, too—good right away, finding the rhythm of what they’ve denied could be between them for so long.
A fire flares to life in Minho, burning so hot he loses track of his senses. He wants Kibum so fucking badly he might die of wanting. The more they kiss, the brighter he burns.
Kibum pulls back and looks him in the eye, an unquestionable spark of desire mirroring Minho’s own. But there’s something holding him back. Kibum wants him too, but—and then Minho remembers the text. There was something off about it. Kibum doesn’t seem sure.
He keeps Kibum’s hands in his own so they don’t shake, as he asks the question he doesn’t want to hear the answer to. “Is it too much? I know I can— uh— come on a little strong.”
Kibum narrows his eyes, like he wants to ask who said that. But then the anger passes, and a look of tenderness comes into his eyes. “Of course you do,” he says. He brushes his fingers through Minho’s hair. “I’m used to it. Don’t change anything, okay?”
Minho has to kiss him. He just has to. Kibum kisses back, but then pulls away, giving some excuse about work stuff that Minho knows is a lie. But he lets Kibum disappear into the bathroom without protesting. He wanders into Kibum’s bedroom, pulling his sweater off, folding it, and setting it on the side table. He’s slept over plenty of times, even slept in Kibum’s bed, usually after drinking too much, but never like this. Never with intent.
Kibum’s staying in the bathroom longer than expected—silent. Minho calls his name, and he responds, emerging uncertain and flustered. Whatever’s going on, Kibum isn’t telling him the whole story. It’s a delicate balance, he thinks, as he takes Kibum’s hand. He wants to seduce him, make love to him, give him everything he wants, show him what their love could be. But he can’t be pushy with Kibum at all right now; he can’t nag him the way he normally would. The stakes feel too high.
“Kibum-ah, are you having second thoughts?”
Kibum laughs bitterly. “Sort of,” he says.
Minho isn’t normally the type to get on his knees and plead. But for Kibum, he would in a heartbeat. He’d lay it all on the line. “Let me prove I can—”
“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” Kibum interrupts, shaking his head, his hair falling in his eyes. Minho brushes it away and kisses him again as they draw closer to the bed. When he’s soft and insistent, Kibum goes along with him. Kibum must want him too. He must. There’s no other possibility. Whatever his hesitation, surely Minho can overcome it.
They chat as they undress each other, and soon they’re skin to skin. Minho can’t get enough of Kibum’s soft skin against his, heated, burning him up from within. Kibum in bed is a thing to behold. Teasing, sharp and wild, the way he moves, the way they move together as smooth as the way they move in sync onstage. Like the hours of choreography practice somehow prepared them for this, the give and take of their bodies together, the rhythm of ragged breathing, sighs and moans, layered like the vocals they mix in the studio.
Minho wants to capture it, wants to remember the feel of Kibum’s mouth on him, the feel of Kibum’s fingers inside him, to turn it into something he can keep. Every sound he makes, everything Kibum says—his mouth running, a stream of words that get Minho worked up and wild—saved in his memory to keep, to treasure. He’s so noisy. So responsive. So talkative, so worked up—they both are.
He’s close, so close, shuddering as Kibum slides his fingers out of him, but he holds it together, turning the tables again, drawing a satisfied moan out of Kibum as he presses him into the mattress.
“Let me give you what you need,” Minho whispers.
Kibum goes still, eyes closed, and nods. Minho reaches toward the bedside table where he figures condoms would be, but Kibum stops him, a hand on his arm, a slight shake of his head.
“I don’t need to if you don’t,” he says. “I tested recently and—”
“So did I,” Minho says, voice choked with desire. “We can—do you really want—are you sure?”
“Yeah,” Kibum says, his voice soft, his eyes still closed.
Minho feels like fireworks just went off inside him, like he just bent a corner kick straight into the net.
Whatever the score between them may be, when it’s all settled, Minho is more and more assured he’ll call it a win.
He leans in to kiss Kibum again and again, parting his soft lips, the heady taste doing dangerous things to his heart. He can hardly believe it. Kibum—always so cautious these days—wants to let him in this way, wants him bare their very first time.
Kibum wants him.
And of course Minho wants him too, hot desire roaring to life and flooding his veins. He wants to be as close and intimate as he can get, to feel the heat at Kibum’s very core. He can’t keep his hands from shaking as he slicks his fingers and begins to touch Kibum, to open him up. Minho hasn’t done this with that many partners—a few women he dated were into it. And even once he realized he was interested in men, he’d mostly let the more-experienced hyungs he’d hooked up with do this part.
But with Kibum it’s always been push and pull, give and take between them. Before they ever even kissed, Kibum had always challenged Minho to give him exactly what he wanted. And Minho will always give him nothing less than his best.
Kibum pulls him down for a fierce, raw kiss, as Minho pushes two fingers deeper, searching out the spot that makes Kibum sob with muffled, desperate pleasure as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Kibum urges him on, his voice low and broken, kicking his heels up against Minho’s back as Minho slicks himself up and starts to sink in.
“Come on.” Kibum whines, near begging, tears glistening at the corners of his eyes. “Harder, deeper, I know you can.”
Without question, Kibum is the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. Minho hasn’t thought about him that way in a while, since they see each other all the time, but now he wants to drink his beauty in, to memorize the pink flush on his cheeks and chest, his swollen and glossy lips, the pale flat of his stomach and smooth waist, the dark, swollen contrast of his cock slapping against the rest of his body, leaking even though Minho isn’t touching it at all. Minho starts to fuck him, deep and smooth as he can, adjusting his hips in time to the rhythmic moans wrenched from deep inside Kibum. He's so noisy, he’s so responsive. And he loves it. Kibum’s singing his praises now, a rare occurrence and one that Minho can’t help but soak in.
Minho wants to make it last as long as he can. If it were up to him, this magical night would never end. He slows his hips to watch the slick slide of his own cock, in and out of Kibum’s pretty hole. Maybe it’s odd to notice, how pretty it is, how the soft skin clings to Minho’s cock, how sweet it looks, all stretched and slicked up for him, but Minho wants to remember every intimate detail.
“Touch me, please touch me—please—”
Minho caresses Kibum’s cock, hot and heavy in his hand, softly, the way he wants to. To say, without words, to touch you like this is precious, an honor. If he were allowed, he would worship forever with his hands and mouth. He can’t make the words come out, but he looks deep into Kibum’s eyes as he starts to stroke him, slowly, in rhythm with his hips, then faster, faster, till Kibum’s cock is leaking, till his moans become one continuous cry of pleasure.
Kibum breaks the eye contact and pulls Minho down for another kiss. Kibum’s mouth crushes his as he spills hot and sticky into Minho’s fist.
“Keep going,” Kibum urges. He’s whispering a stream of sweet and filthy things between breathless kisses, tilting his hips into Minho’s thrusts. Minho feels like he’s drowning in it, lost to the heat, the rhythm, the way Kibum urges him deeper, so they’re really moving together. He can’t look away from Kibum’s hot gaze, the moment so intense between them, that when Kibum lifts his hand to his chin and whispers, “Pretty,” Minho loses it. He comes, shaking, as he comes apart in Kibum’s arms, broken open by sweetness.
Kibum holds him through it, the racking sobs he can’t control, the intensity of being so close to the person he’s wanted so desperately to hold like this, to feel and smell and touch and taste him so intimately. Minho wanted to overwhelm Kibum, to make love to him so well that Kibum wouldn’t want anyone else. But in the end it was Minho who was overwhelmed. Kibum cries with him, a little, too, enough for Minho to tease him and break the tension between them, enough to collect himself a little. Slowly, in Kibum’s arms, Minho comes back to himself.
He stays the night, stays awake listening to Kibum’s breathing as he drifts off, warm and sated in his arms. Wishing the night would never end.
***
Minho wakes up alone.
Well, he’s not completely alone. The second he sits up, he hears Commedes and Garçons yapping at the gate. He lets them in and up onto the bed for a cuddle for Commedes and a few tosses of the ball, for Garçons. It’s exactly what he’d do if he’d spent the night at Kibum’s after they’d been hanging out drinking on one of their normal nights together. Except it wasn’t.
Nothing about last night had been normal. Not the way Kibum texted him, not the way they both went at each other like it was the last night before the end of the world. That’s how it felt, if Minho’s honest with himself. It felt like the first and last chance he’d have to make love to his best friend. He would have be stupid not to.
Now, waking up alone, he feels stupid in a new and different way.
He fumbles for his phone, which Kibum had put in the charger last night, and sees nothing from Kibum, just a spate of texts from the managers. He needs to be at the airport in two hours. His luggage is packed, but it’s still at his place.
He grabs a pair of sunglasses from Kibum’s closet, gives the puppies hurried goodbye kisses, and dashes out to his car. He manages to make it home in time to get airport-presentable before his pickup time, even if the sunglasses and makeup are hiding some serious dark circles. If he needs to sleep on the plane to Thailand, he can. He’s done this enough times, the routine of doing his airport fashion pose then going to catch his flight, that it’s second nature.
He goes through the motions, waving to the cameras, and pushes aside the abyss of feelings swirling in his gut that he doesn’t have time to sort out. He can still feel Kibum’s lips on his, the ghost of skin on skin.
“You’re quiet today,” Nakcheon observes, as they board the plane.
“I slept poorly,” Minho admits.
Nakcheon makes a sympathetic noise, acknowledging that Minho rarely mentions anything about feeling less than fine. “We’ll get you a break before the show if we can.”
Minho dozes fitfully on the plane, in the car, through soundcheck, hair and makeup. He can leave all the messy emotions behind once he gets onstage at the fanmeet, the intensity of performance absorbing him totally, the way it always does.
But in the meantime he keeps opening his phone and staring at the solitary message from Kibum.
have a safe flight. miss you already
He wants to imagine that it means Kibum misses him the way he misses Kibum. The way his body already yearns for his touch, longing to be back in the intimacy of last night. But that’s all in his head. That text is a text Kibum could just as easily have sent him before last night. It might mean he wants to pretend last night never happened. If he had to, Minho could live with that.
But he doesn’t want to. A text isn’t enough. He needs to hash it out with Kibum in person. He needs to tell him.
I can’t go back to the way things were, without telling you I’m in love with you.
He imagines saying this, imagines Kibum’s reaction. They know each other so well by now, it’s usually not too hard to predict what he would say, his expressions. But they’re in uncharted territory. Kibum might embrace him, or he might reject him. He really might. If Kibum rejected him, they’d work through it, somehow.
They have enough history together. And Minho is strong. He’s seen his team endure defeat at the hands of their rivals season after season again. Enough to know his crushed heart would heal, in time.
***
Minho goes through the steps and the routines at his fanmeet, drawing on his years of pushing aside whatever offstage worries bothered him, to embody the idol his fans need him to be. He remembers how to do this just the way his body remembers choreo they haven’t done in decades. The hurt in his heart might not be last forever, but he lets it out onstage, singing “Heartbreak,” playing up the feeling to release something of what he really feels. He ends the show more drained than usual, ready to be alone for a while.
But he as he heads offstage, he catches a glimpse of a familiar figure waiting in the wings.
He came.
Kibum flew all the way to Thailand, unplanned, just for him. He’s standing there, smiling at Minho, and holding an adorable bouquet of flowers.
Minho’s heart gives a leap. He runs to him, crushing Kibum in the kind of hug that makes him squeak, lifting him off his feet. “You’re here,” he whispers in Kibum’s ear.
Suddenly, everything seems better, like someone turned up the lights. Minho had been dreading the after-show photos and team dinner, but with Kibum here, chatting with the dancers, making wry quips that get everyone laughing, hanging out in Minho’s orbit, everything feels better. Whatever they started last night, it wasn’t the last of it. It wasn’t a one-night thing. Minho will get another chance to love him. He’ll make sure of it.
***
At last, they’re alone, Kibum having followed Minho into his hotel room. Minho thinks of pushing Kibum down into the bed, undressing him, and kissing him senseless. If the look burning in Kibum’s eyes is any indication, they want the same thing. It’s like they’re magnets drawn to each other with some invisible force. Minho had avoided letting himself feel it for so long, but since last night, it’s the only thing that feels real. He takes Kibum’s hand, sits down beside him on the bed.
But before Minho can make his move, Kibum speaks. “We have to talk first,” Kibum says, his voice shaking. “I have to tell you some things.”
Minho’s heart sinks. He can’t—Kibum can’t have flown all this way just to reject him, right?
He tries to understand what Kibum is saying, why he’s so clearly nervous. He’s the one who texted Minho to hook up and left afterward, and now he’s saying it can’t be just sex. What does that even mean? And why—
“Why did you text me like that?” Minho manages to ask. He can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt. He thinks the answer is going to hurt. And it does.
“That text was meant for someone else.”
There it is. “I should have known.”
Minho has spent many, many years pretending he didn’t care that Kibum was fucking other guys. He’s spent many many years convincing himself that Kibum had never showed the slightest bit of interest, telling himself that it was better that way. But they can’t go back. They can’t erase that night of passionate lovemaking. And if Kibum flew all the way to Thailand just to tell him it wasn’t enough—
Minho feels the anger rising, but tries to control it. He scrubs his hands through his hair. “I don’t know what to say. I made a mistake, coming over. I thought you wanted me.”
“I do,” Kibum says, leaning over into his space, twining his arms around his neck. Their lips are a breath apart. “Minho, baby, I want you so much.”
Minho wants to believe him, wants to embrace him and kiss him till the dissonance melts away. But his throat is hot with unshed tears. “Why should I believe you?”
“I’m in love with you,” Kibum says, with a wry twist of his mouth, with the directness that bowls Minho over. His honesty, his sharpness that cuts right to the bone every time, is part of what Minho loves about him, even when it hurts. Kibum wouldn’t say it if he didn’t mean it. Minho knows. “There’s not going to be anyone else.”
Minho leans in and kisses him, softly, and Kibum absolutely melts into him, the sweet warmth of his body moving against Minho like they were meant to fit together. Tears might be falling from Minho’s eyes. He’s not sure. It doesn’t really matter, not when he’s got his Kibum in his arms like this. When he can hold his waist, stroke the curve of his hip, breathe his scent, familiar yet new.
Minho is so turned on, immersed in memories of that night, he doesn’t think he could hold back even if Kibum wanted him to. But the way he’s gasping into his ear, the way he’s feeling Minho’s chest up under his shirt, the way he’s grinding into Minho, where he’s already rock hard, tell him Kibum’s not holding back either.
If this is going to be real between them, if they’re going to do this, Minho is all in, ready to defend against any objections Kibum might have. After all, the best defenders know their opponents’ patterns of attack, and can predict the angles they might take. “You don’t think we’re too different?” Minho says.
“Not anymore,” Kibum says. His eyes are warm and amused, the hint of a dimple in his cheek as his lips quirk in a wry smile. “We want the same thing, don’t we?”
Minho kisses the dimple, kisses the smile, too. His heart is racing, like he’s lining up to take a PK at the World Cup. This is his chance at love. And he knows he’s going to score. His heart has never been so full. “Do we?”
“Let’s find out, honey.”
***
Another morning.
This time, in a hotel room in Thailand. And this time, he’s not alone. He can feel Kibum’s body next to him in bed, his radiant warmth, even though they moved apart during the night. He rolls over to admire his sleeping form, and finds Kibum already awake, quiet, looking at him.
Kibum quickly squinches his eyes shut, pretending he wasn’t watching Minho. The effect is so cute, Minho bursts into surprised laughter.
Kibum hides, burying himself in the duvet. “Ugh, I can’t believe I’m waking up next to you. Your morning breath stinks.”
“Better get used to it.” Minho rolls over, flings an arm on top of him, and pulls the whole pile of blankets with a squirming Kibum inside toward him, laughing still.
It’s infectious. Kibum starts laughing, too, and then they can’t stop, Kibum is burrowing into Minho’s body, cackling, till they’re breathless, till they’re in each other’s arms, till Minho is kissing him quiet, morning breath and all. Kibum lets him, lets Minho spoon up against him, lets him grind his morning hard-on against his ass, lazily as Minho kisses the back of his neck.
“Ah, Kibum-ah,” he sighs, “What was I doing the rest of my life when I wasn’t kissing you?”
Kibum snorts. “Normal straight-guy stuff probably? Watching sports? Fucking women?”
There’s an unspoken question in his voice, this thing they haven’t really talked about. Minho hadn’t thought, really, what it would mean to actually talk about his sex life with someone who knows him this well. With Kibum, from whom he can’t hide anything, not anymore. He hesitates for long enough that Kibum senses his discomfort.
Kibum twists around to face Minho, shoves at Minho’s shoulder to hit him lightly. “Yah, you don’t have to tell me everything.”
But Minho knows he wants to overcome this barrier, to push past whatever feeling is making him shy. “Not just women.”
“I gathered,” Kibum says. He waits, still and patient, for Minho to continue.
“It’s—” Minho struggles for words. “For a while. I’ve been— I’ve tried stuff. With a few people. Some hyungs. And it was. Yeah. Fine. But it wasn’t like this with any of them.”
“No?” Kibum purses his lips thoughtfully. “Of course not. ‘Some hyungs’ could never be me.”
“Kibum-ah—”
“But I wonder, should I send ‘some hyungs’ a thank-you gift for teaching you about the prostate so I didn’t have to?”
“Yah!” Minho gives up yelling and pokes a finger between Kibum’s ribs to make him squirm. “You’re making me late for my morning workout.”
Kibum’s demeanor shifts instantly. “This is why we never room together. I am still going to room with Taemin on tour. By the way.”
He makes to get out of bed, but Minho tackles him again. Kibum goes down easy under an onslaught of more kisses. “Taemin doesn’t do this.” Minho is a quick study, already learning the places on Kibum’s body where he’s sensitive, how he likes to be touched.
“How do you know?” Kibum fires back. “For all you know—” But Minho stops the stream of nonsense with a kiss, the way he’s always wanted to. And the way he plans to from now on.