kat_lair: (SKZ - Chan Freeze)
[personal profile] kat_lair

***

Title: in the course, in the night
Author: [personal profile] kat_lair / Mistress Kat & [personal profile] dreamersdare 
Fandom: Stray Kids
Pairing: Bang Chan/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Tags: Drunken Confessions, In Vino Veritas, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Feelings, Canon Compliant
Rating: T
Word count: 5,243
Disclaimer: Very clearly not true.

Summary:

“Lee Minho,” Chan says, fond amusement bleeding through into his voice that Minho can clearly hear if the way his eyes narrow are any indication. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” Minho answers with a straight face. It crumbles even faster than normal though and the next second he’s giggling, his whole body shaking in Chan’s arms.


Author notes: Well, this is the first of our approx fifty (it's an exaggeration sure but not as big as you'd think) SKZ fics to see the light of DW/AO3. Evidence suggests that Minho showing up at Chan's door tipsy and sincere is entirely plausible. And of course Chan carrying everyone around like his favourite stuffed toys is canon. Title is from Bang Chan and Lee Know's Drive (a song about driving, obviously) though it suggests something spicier than what you get in this particular fic. Idk, stay tuned, fic with higher rating will drop at some point in the future.


in the course, in the night on AO3


Chan doesn’t hear it first. He’s sitting cross-legged on the hotel bed – terrible for his posture when the desk with a perfectly acceptable chair is just there, but so comfortable – his laptop open in front of him, headphones on and the half-finished beat of untitled track number twenty-three on loop. It’s well past midnight, inching on two am according to the clock at the corner of his screen, but he’s still wired from the concert earlier this evening and they’re looking at three rest days after this one so he can just… Stop fighting his insomnia for a while and let his brain work out its restlessness in a way that might, if he’s lucky, turn out actually productive.

The track ends and in the half second of silence before it starts again there’s an unexpected… Thump? What the hell? Is there a glitch on the file? Chan pulls the cursor to the right and listens again for anything amiss right at the end. Nothing this time. Maybe it was… There! Again, fainter, but there and this time at the start of the track, what…?

The noise comes again, and Chan finally realises the source is external to the little bubble of music and isolation he’s created for himself. He pushes the headphones down and then fully off when it becomes clear that the sound is someone knocking – with their whole fist it seems, what the fuck? – on the door. It doesn’t sound particularly urgent or aggressive, so it’s probably not an emergency, and Chan surely would’ve heard the fire alarm going off if they were about to be evacuated or something drastic like that, but the sound is constant and loud. Loud enough that Chan winces, imagining the noise complaints from other guests come morning.

He tossed the headphones to the bed, hits save on the file out of habit, even though he hasn’t made any edits yet, and gets up, remembering to grab a t-shirt at the last minute, pulling it over his head before he yanks the door open.

“Oh,” Minho says. His fist is still raised to knock, and his eyes are not entirely focused. “You’re in.”

He doesn’t add anything else – he just stands there, or rather leans against the doorframe, his hand hanging in the air and his eyes crossing a little as he stares at Chan – and Chan feels his own eyebrows creeping up toward his hairline. “I’m in,” he agrees, and Minho’s gaze flicks to his mouth. “Is something wrong? Is it something with one of the members? Do you need-“
 
Shhhhhh.” Three of Minho’s fingers press against his lips, his skin warm and a little damp against Chan’s, and Chan’s mouth snaps shut in surprise. “They’re sleeping,” Minho says by way of explanation, far too loud for his exclamation of quiet, and Chan winces again, darting a quick glance down the hotel corridor which is, for the moment at least, blessedly empty. Minho follows his line of sight, except when he turns, it’s with his whole body instead of just his head. It rolls him away from the doorframe in a way he clearly hadn’t expected, and he sways on his feet, listing dangerously to the side with a stagger. It’s so unlike him – Minho’s balance is phenomenal; Chan has written beats with Minho’s inevitable choreography working as a half-formed inspiration at the base of his brain – and instinct has Chan reaching out to catch him, one arm curling protectively around his waist, the other hand splaying across his chest in a steadying gesture.
 
“Minho-yah…” He can hear his own concern bleeding into the syllables of Minho’s name and Minho’s eyes snap back to his like a magnet. This close Chan can see the flush in his cheeks, half hidden under the remains of his stage make-up, but there for anyone who knows what to look for.
 
“Ooops,” Minho says, his breath washing over Chan’s face, and Chan’s nose wrinkles automatically at the familiar scent of burnt apple sweetness that hits him. He knows that smell, although admittedly, he’s never smelt it so potently on Minho before. It’s enough to ease the edge of worry he’d been carrying since he opened the door to Minho’s hazy expression.
 
“Lee Minho,” he says, fond amusement bleeding through into his voice that Minho can clearly hear if the way his eyes narrow are any indication. “Are you drunk?

“No,” Minho answers with a straight face. It crumbles even faster than normal though and the next second he’s giggling, his whole body shaking in Chan’s arms.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Chan mutters in English, hauling Minho inside his hotel room before one of his neighbours decides to come and investigate with his phone camera at the ready and they end up on the frontpage of every entertainment website.

Minho isn’t exactly helping but he seems at least amenable to the direction Chan is pulling him, which makes sense since he’s the one who came knocking. Chan uses their combined weight to push the door shut and then shuffles Minho further in, only really letting go once he is in safe falling distance from the bed and the standard overstuffed armchair hotels seem to love.

Carefully, Chan unwraps his arm from around Minho and takes a step back, though not too far. Just in case. For a moment, Minho sways in the middle of the floor, head swinging slowly between the bed and the armchair. Then he seems to come to a decision and swivels toward the bed, doing something that can be best described as a controlled fall into it, his back hitting the mattress, head narrowly missing Chan’s laptop, arms akimbo.

Chan’s first sharp intake of breath is for his laptop, but his second, which he tries to hide even though Minho seems well short of his usual observant self, is for the overall picture of Minho, spreadeagled in Chan’s bed, his clothes rumpled, easy grin on his face. He can’t, won’t, do anything about the second so instead he focuses on getting his laptop and headphones out of harm’s way.

By the time he’s tucked both into his suitcase, still half-unpacked by the wardrobe, Minho has gotten up from his sprawl enough to lean back on his elbows, his eyes following Chan around the room. The new position is, if possible, even more devastating to Chan’s peace of mind. Minho’s shirt, something old and thin from use, is stretched further, the fabric straining over his chest, the frayed v-neck just low enough to be a distraction but only if you’re looking.

Chan is always looking.

He drags his eyes back to Minho’s face with years of practice and finds him looking back. The grin from earlier has faded into a smile that softens his whole face. “Hyung,” he says. “I lied.” There’s a beat and then the smile widens a bit as Minho whispers conspiratorially “I am drunk.”

Chan snorts. “No shit,” he says, sitting on the armchair, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely crossed as he leans forward. The seat is as uncomfortable as it looks, but right now it is the safer option. “You have a good night, then?” he asks. “Did you go out to celebrate something?”

“Yeah,” Minho says but then shakes his head. “No. Wait. I need to…” He struggles up to a seated position. Well, more or less. “Hyung,” he says. “Hyung.”

Then nothing.

Chan waits him out, watches the way Minho’s face scrunches up into a frown, then smooths again, the way his lips are moving but no sound comes out, like he’s talking to himself silently. Chan can’t actually lipread though so finally he nudges him. “What is it, Minho-yah? You know you can tell hyung anything.”

Minho’s gaze which had been wandering aimlessly around the room snaps back to him. “Hyung,” he says again, but this time it comes out sad, wavering. “I’m sorry. I lied.”

Chan cocks his head questioningly, worried. Just how drunk is he? “Yeah, you said. But Minho, it’s okay, I knew it was a joke. Don’t—”

“No,” Minho interrupts. “I don’t mean that.” His face has shuttered into the kind of carefully neutral expression – bland, vaguely pleasant but in no specific way – they have all perfected for the cameras and to see it here, now, to see it aimed at Chan, when not five minutes ago Minho had been giggling into his shoulder feels like someone had poured a bucket of ice water at the back of his shirt. “I mean…” Minho hesitates then, the mask cracking for a split second as he licks his lips, gaze dropping, roaming, then coming back to Chan again.

Chan straightens up from his slouch. He wants to touch Minho but doesn’t think he’d be welcomed right now. “What do you mean, Minho?” he asks. “Tell hyung.” And if that one comes out more like an order than a request then so be it. Chan needs to know now.

“I lied,” Minho repeats. Breathes; in, out, in. “Last week. After the… After the rehearsals, when you… I lied.” His eyes drop to the floor again, fingers twisting together in his lap. “I’m sorry.”

“Minho,” Chan starts, Minho’s name sticking on his teeth like dalgona before he trails off. Minho doesn’t lift his head, his breathing heavy like he’s just run a particularly challenging race and even across the room, Chan can’t miss the tense line of his shoulders, the way they’re hunched up around his ears. It’s clear he thinks he’s just made some significant confession and he’s waiting for the fallout, and just the sight of it is enough to make Chan’s heart ache, to make his fingers itch with the urge to cross the room, to wrap Minho in a hug tight enough to squeeze the sadness straight out of him.
 
He already knows he’ll do whatever he needs to in order to wipe that… expression from Minho’s face. The problem is, he genuinely has no idea what Minho is talking about. Rehearsals all blur in his head at the best of times anyway, the constant repetition that lets them commit everything to muscle memory doesn’t make for easy recollection of any particular instance, and no matter how hard Chan wracks his memory, he can’t think of anything that stands out from the last few weeks.
 
“Minho-yah,” he tries again, softer this time, rolling Minho’s name out in the most soothing way he can manage, comfort in his voice instead of at his hands, and he sees the way it hits in the shiver that trembles through Minho in response. “Tell hyung what you lied about. What did I do after rehearsals to make you lie?”
 
Minho’s reaction is immediate, his head shooting up, his eyes determined when they meet Chan’s again, although there’s… something swirling behind them that Chan can’t quite get a read on. “Nothing,” Minho declares emphatically. “You didn’t… I mean, you were just you. I lied, you didn’t make me.” The certainty in his voice trails off the longer he talks, his eyelashes fluttering erratically against his cheekbones, and Chan’s fingers twitch against the armrests of his chair.
 
“About what?” he prompts, and Minho’s drunk, and maybe he shouldn’t push this, but Chan’s about as capable of accepting Minho being anything less than utterly comfortable with him as he is at consistently sleeping through the night, which is to say not at all.
 
The bottomless pit that opens in his stomach at the thought of not having his Minho in whatever form he gets him is worse than any prolonged insomnia anyway.
 
Minho leans forward to lean his elbows against his knees, with enough of a sway that Chan’s not convinced he isn’t going to end up sliding to the floor instead, but he manages it well enough. He doesn’t look away from Chan’s face, his eyes flickering from his eyes to his mouth like he can’t decide where to focus his attention and he lifts his hand from between his thighs to beckon him closer in a jerky motion. “It’s a secret.”
 
Chan leans forward, mirroring Minho’s pose. “I won’t tell anyone,” he promises, and that’s definitely not fair, but Chan never promised he would play fair when it comes to his members and that holds doubly true for Minho.
 
Minho brings one hand up to cup his mouth, as though he’s about to whisper something to Chan that he doesn’t want the camera to capture, even though they’re in Chan’s hotel room and there’s no camera to avoid. “You picked me up,” Minho whispers conspiratorially, “Over your shoulder. And I said I hated it. I’m sorry.”

Chan blinks. That’s… It’s an answer, coherent enough even, but it actually explains nothing. “What? I… What?”

Minho seems to take the question at face value and repeats, this time with a slightly higher volume as if Chan’s question was because he couldn’t make the words out and not because they didn’t make a lick of sense. “You,” Minho points at Chan, “picked me,” He points at himself, “up.” He makes some vague miming motions which Chan definitely would not interpret correctly in a game of charades. “You know. When you put me over your shoulder like I weighed nothing, like it wasn’t even hard,” Minho’s face goes briefly accusatory here, as if he’s personally affronted by this particular detail, “and then… Carried me around for like ten minutes. We went to lunch like that.”

And that does ring some bells. Chan remembers that particular day, everyone in good mood; Felix and Hyunjin giggling over something on their phones, Changbin tolerating Seungmin’s teasing, even encouraging it, and it had just seemed like a right moment to first swing Jisung around and then just… pick up Minho on their way out of the practice room, all of them smiling and sweaty and heading toward cafeteria together. Minho had done his usual grumbling, his usual ‘Yah! Put me down this instant!’ but by now it was so familiar it had gone in one ear and out the other, easily pushed aside by the much more pertinent detail of Minho’s sturdy thighs under his hands, the way he’d gripped the back of Chan’s shirt as Chan balanced him over his shoulder for the whole trip down two floors, all the way to the lunch queue of the cafeteria, where he’d finally set Minho down and handed him a tray. He’d been flushed and kicked Chan on the shins, but that was par for the course and there had been a familiar smile too, fighting to break free and tugging at the corners of his lips. It’s entirely possible that ‘I hate this’ may have been part of the litany of routine complaints, but Chan wouldn’t swear to that under an oath or anything.

“You remember,” Minho says decisively. Apparently, he’s been watching Chan’s face closely.

“Yeah,” Chan says because it’s the easiest answer, and close enough. “But Minho-yah… You say that or things like that all the time.”

“Yeah.” Minho nods resignedly. “And I always lie. To you.” His gaze had fallen to somewhere near Chan’s bare feet again. “Wanted to tell you.”

The why of it is still not making any sense, but at least Chan can do something to wipe that tight look from Minho’s face. “Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate it, but…” And, well, there’s no easy way to break this. “I kind of knew that already. You’re not that good of a liar.”

“…Oh.” Minho stares at him like Chan’s just revealed the secrets of the universe.

“Yeah. Oh.” Chan can feel tentative, nervous laughter bubble in his throat but something about Minho’s expression causes it to die before it makes it out. He doesn’t look relieved or amused. If anything, there’s an almost bitter twist to his smile, self-deprecating and ugly in the way Chan never thought it was possible for Minho to be. He’s missing something. Something important.

“Well, guess that’s clear then,” Minho says, standing up. He sways for a moment, badly enough that Chan shoots to his own feet, hand reaching out to steady Minho in repeat of the hallway. Except this time there is no warm, laughter loose body leaning to his. This time Minho pulls away the way he’s never done before, not really, not like he means it, not in any of the hundreds of times Chan has reached for him and Minho had told him he hates it and then smiled softly when he let himself be caught anyway. “I’ll get out of your hair,” Minho continues, turning toward the door. “Sorry to have—”

“Wait!” Chan grabs Minho’s arm, steps around him until he’s standing in front of him. “What’s the secret?” he asks. He’s mostly just flailing in the dark, grasping at straws, and not at all sure it’s the right question until the exact moment he sees the words register and Minho’s eyes go from dull and hazy to panicked and hazy. Bingo.

“I told you,” Minho deflects. “I lie—”

“No,” Chan interrupts. “That’s not it. Or not all of it.” He’s thinking out loud now, working it out like a puzzle box, one of those you need to feel in your hands and turn around and around until you find just the right angle to push. “You knew. You must have known, at least on some level, that I didn’t take your protests seriously, not after I got to know you and how you show affection, how you tease and intimidate and cook and care…”

“Chan,” Minho whispers. It sounds like a plea. “Hyung.”

And Chan knows Minho is drunk, knows he’s pushing his advantage in a way that is neither particularly fair nor kind, but rooting out whatever is the cause of this look on Minho’s eyes, this wary, uncertain, sad thing, is more important than either of those. “What’s prompted this?” he asks. “Minho-yah, what’s the secret?”

Minho makes a noise, a little hiccup of a sound, but it’s nothing that resembles actual words. “If you saying that you hate it was the lie…” Chan says slowly, watching Minho’s face carefully, still working it out step by step, “if you knew I knew that…” A swallow, Minho’s eyes darting to the side, his arm twitching in Chan’s hold, “then what is it that you want to tell me, really? The truth?” Minho’s eyes squeeze shut. Chan wants to touch him. He knows Minho doesn’t hate it, he just told him.

So he does.

“Minho-yah,” he says, gentle now, thumbs brushing over thin, fragile skin under Minho’s eyes, then over his eyelids, down the slope of his cheeks. “What’s the truth? What’s the secret?

“I…” Minho’s breath washes over his fingers as he lets it escape shakily and, this close, Chan can see that same tremor echoing through him, a tense quiver under his fingertips that translates into a barely visible shiver that Minho clearly tries to hide by pulling his hands up inside the sleeves of his shirt. It helps him less than he thinks, because Chan’s never been as acutely aware of Minho as he is right now, and Chan is always acutely aware of Minho. “I don’t—”
 
“You do,” Chan says, cutting the deflection off before it has chance to take shape, letting one hand slide down to cup the side of Minho’s neck, and he feels the bob of Minho’s throat against his palm as he swallows again. Chan indulges himself for one dangerous moment, lets his finger scratch reassuringly against Minho’s nape, with the gratifying reward of watching Minho’s lashes flutter helplessly against his cheekbones. The fondness that swells up in his chest threatens to smother him – Minho might bitch extensively about his cat persona, but Chan knows how he responds to being petted – and then, because he needs to focus and he’s not above begging like this, for Minho, “Please, Minho-yah.”
 
Minho’s eyes fly open, wild now, his pupils bled so wide they’re threatening to drown out all the colour and, oh, oh, his lashes are glimmering in a way that Chan can’t write off as a trick of the light. He sweeps his fingertip lightly under Minho’s eye again, just to be sure, and the damp smear against his skin makes his heart lurch uncomfortably against his chest. “Minho—”
 
Don’t,” It’s Minho’s interruption this time, choked and brittle in a way that makes Chan ache to draw him in close, wrap him tight and not let him go. “You want…” He cuts himself off, his eyes darting left to right like he’s searching for something in Chan’s expression. Chan has no idea what he wants but he keeps himself open, doesn’t try to hide anything and just lets himself submit to Minho’s scrutiny. If he’s honest with himself, he knows it doesn’t matter. He’d give Minho anything he wanted. He’d give him everything.
 
However that shows in his face must be enough because Chan sees the moment Minho reaches a decision, his head dipping in something that’s more determination than submission and the flat line of his mouth signalling more intent than unhappiness. He doesn’t pull away though – always Chan’s brave boy - and Chan can’t help the reassuring squeeze of his finger against Minho’s neck. He’ll unpick this secret himself if he has to, but he’d rather… it’s better if Minho tells him himself.

“Alright,” Minho says, and it still feels so brittle, like Chan could move just a little wrong, and shatter things irrevocably, but there’s also a thread of steel running through the syllables that’s so quintessentially Minho.
 
Alright,” Minho says again, like he’s readying himself for something, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips, and Chan can’t imagine what this secret is that has Minho so scared to share it, but he’s already determined that, regardless of what it is, Minho won’t get anything from him that isn’t acceptance or reassurance or whatever else he needs. Chan can’t, he won’t be the reason that Minho looks at him again with that blank, camera-ready expression ever again. He’s the leader and that has to count for something; he can surely handle whatever Minho is about to throw at him.
 
He’s not ready for Minho to surge forward and kiss him.
 
It’s not the most co-ordinated kiss Chan has ever had; Minho’s still drunk and his usual awareness of space is clearly shot because the way he spills forward into Chan’s sends them both staggering back a pace before Chan rebalances, bracing on his back foot as his hand drops from Minho’s face to his hip to steady him. Minho’s mouth catches his off-centre, his lips pressing wet and warm to the corner of Chan’s mouth in something that could almost be mistaken for chaste.
 
But. But.
 
There’s nothing chaste in the way Minho’s eyelids flutter, like he can’t quite keep his eyes open, nothing for Chan to mistake in the brush of Minho’s fingers across his jaw, tentative like he isn’t sure that he’s allowed, but filled with trembling intent nonetheless. There’s nothing innocent in the press of Minho’s chest against his, bleeding heat even through the layers of their clothing or the erratic huff of Minho’s breath that he can feel better than he can hear.
 
Minho’s kissing him. Minho’s kissing him and Chan hadn’t unpicked Minho’s secret yet, but he’d never for a moment imagined it was this. Hope like that is dangerous.
 
It’s over before Chan has a chance to react, standing frozen as Minho sways back under his own steam with one hand resting like a brand on Chan’s shoulder to keep himself upright. He keeps his eyes averted, staring down at the carpet as though he can reach some divine enlightenment if he just looks hard enough, his fingers flexing against Chan’s shirt in a way that Chan thinks is involuntary as he lists a little in the direction of his gaze. Chan’s hand tightens instinctively on his hip, Minho’s breath hitching audibly in response, in a way it never normally would and right, right, Minho is drunk and Chan shouldn’t, he can’t…
 
“Did you see through that lie?” Minho asks, self-deprecation dripping from his tone like poison and burning straight across Chan’s spiralling thoughts, because, okay, no, to hell with that.

“Didn’t feel like a lie,” Chan says. His voice comes out gravelly, like he’s done something more than receive one off-centre surprise kiss, like they’ve already been making out for hours, slow and intent, like he’s mapped out every dip and curve of Minho’s body and claimed them all his. “Felt…” amazing, too brief, like everything he’d ever wanted and never thought he could have, “like the truth.”

Minho’s eyes flick up. He doesn’t deny it, but the trembling is back and his grip on Chan’s shirt is going lax. He’s withdrawing.

Not allowed. Not like this.

“I hope it was the truth,” Chan says. “I…” And fuck, now his voice is breaking too. He never thought he’d be doing this like this; Minho decidedly less than sober and himself still reeling from having all his presumptions yanked from under him. He never thought he’d be doing this at all.

But if there’s one thing Chan is good at it’s taking hold of opportunities and then working at them until they become reality.

“I’ve got a secret too,” he says, and it’s not a lie either. He grabs Minho’s hands in both of his before he takes them away, before he leaves. “Want to hear it?”

Minho is staring at him now, eyes wide and still a bit unfocused from the alcohol and the panic both Chan guesses. Shakily, he nods.

No backing away now then. Chan’s thought about the words before, of course he has, many times. He just never expected to actually say them. But Minho’s told, shown, him his already and fair’s fair.

Chan takes a deep breath and leans close. Minho’s eyes flutter shut.

Chan indulges himself just a little, lets their cheeks brush, late night stubble catching as he gets his mouth right next to Minho’s ear, close enough that he can feel the warm metal of his hoops against his lips. “I’ve wanted to kiss you ever since I met you.”

Minho’s breath hitches and his hear jerks like he’s trying to turn to look at Chan.

Chan lets go of Minho’s hands and grabs hold of his jaw instead, fingers splayed half over his throat, thumb dangerously close to his mouth as he keeps Minho from moving. He’s not sure he can do this with Minho watching him, and Chan is not done yet. He could be, this might even be enough, but… Minho deserves everything. Chan will give it to him.

“I’ve wanted it to mean something since I knew we… I would get to keep you.”

Chan.” He can feel the way his name fans across the sensitive tip of his thumb. Minho’s face may be held in place, but his hands are free and they scrabble at Chan’s waist now, sliding over ribs, digging into the muscles of Chan’s back hard enough to make him grunt.

Shh, shh,” he whispers, and it’s for himself as much as Minho. “Just… listen.” He leans his forehead against the side of Minho’s head, closes his eyes and lets his fingers trace the hinge of Minho’s jaw, then lower, to the sharp jut of collarbone. Goosebumps chase his touch. Minho’s head drops forward.

“I’ve wanted to,” Chan says. “I couldn’t.”

Minho makes a noise that could be a whine, could be a sob.

“You know why.” Chan dances his fingers up and around, following the line of Minho’s shirt collar into the short hairs at the back of his neck, rubs the pads of his fingers against them, petting again. “So instead, I…”

“Pick me up?” The question is soft, tone light with hope.

“Pick you up,” Chan confirms. “Carry you around. Hug you. Tease you. Trust you. Rely on you.” He presses his smile into Minho’s hair, and this time when he tries to turn his head Chan lets him. They are fully embracing now, Minho’s arms around Chan’s waist, hands kneading at the muscles at the small of his back, Chan’s fingers carding into Minho’s hair, his other hand dropping to his hip again, because he’s already addicted to the sound Minho makes when he does that.

“Hyung,” Minho whispers, lips trailing over the curve of Chan’s jaw. “I don’t hate it. I love it.” His mouth brushes Chan’s. “Channie-hyung, please.” And then they’re kissing again, except this time it’s deliberate, expected, mutual, and so, so good.

This time Chan kisses back, kisses Minho like he’s wanted to every day for the last four years; slow and deep and thorough, drinking in every gasp and bitten off moan, every helpless clench of his fingers, digging bruises into Chan’s skin. Minho gives as good as he gets, still clumsier than Chan knows he would be – will be, he hopes – fully sober but even so devastatingly skilled, teeth grazing at Chan’s lips with just a hint of a bite, tongue teasing over his with quick, fleeting touches.

It's Chan who slows them down, who gentles his touch, kisses growing shallower, touches lighter, but Minho follows his lead easily enough. They part but not fully, Minho hiding his face in the curve Chan’s shoulder while Chan does what he’s wanted to since Minho’s apology and hugs him tight, tight, tight, trapping his arms against his sides and lifting him up like that, just a bit.

Minho giggles and Chan is maybe, definitely, extremely gone on him, not that he didn’t know that already.

“I’m still a bit drunk,” Minho mumbles into Chan’s neck once he’s back on his feet.

Chan hums in agreement, stroking Minho’s hair off his face, tilting his head up enough to catch his eyes. “Do you… Do you want to stay here? Just to sleep,” he clarifies, even though he’s pretty sure Minho knows that’s what he meant. Chan would be saying the same thing even if he wasn’t drunk, and he reckons Minho knows that too.

“Yes,” Minho says, yawning. “Although…” he frowns.

“What?”

“Jisung and Jeongin know I came to talk to you. They might… You know. Give us a hard time tomorrow.”

“They do it all the time anyway,” Chan says. “Why would I… Wait.” He can feel his eyebrows hike up. “Do they know why you came to talk to me?”

“Yeah,” Minho says. “It was Jisung who…” He trails off, eyes suddenly narrowing. “Son of a bitch!”

What?” Chan asks again, grinning because he thinks he already knows.

“Jisung said you’d told him you were going to try not to ‘bother me with your physical affection’ anymore. That you’d said that.”

Chan barks a laugh. “And you believed him!?”

“I’m going to kill him,” Minho mutters.

Chan is still chuckling by the time they climb into bed. “Shut up, it’s not funny,” Minho whines but Chan knows he doesn’t mean it, can tell he’s smiling, face pressed against Chan’s forearm, his body curled into Chan’s, warm and perfect. He drops a kiss to the nape of Minho’s neck, pulls him in tighter.

“It’s a little funny,” he says. “But mostly just… Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah. Really, really, good.”

Minho huffs but doesn’t argue. Under the covers, he slips his fingers between Chan’s and squeezes. Feels like the truth.

***

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