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wherevermyway · 4 years

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we’re professional. (4/??) // minbin // 18+

❄ part of yuki’s favourites! ❄

we’re professional. chapter three: dispensable series navigation: [desktop] [mobile]

pairing: lee minho x seo changbin rating: explicit! 18+ series warnings/tags: slow burn, angst, eventual sexual content, age difference, art student changbin, artist minho, fake dating AU. chapter warnings/tags: explicit sexual content, blackmail (involving photos taken without someone’s consent), someone gets punched. word count: 20k (that’s not a typo, this chapter is almost as long as the first three chapters combined) also on AO3!

originally posted: 11 march 2021

chapter summary: Who exactly is Lee Minho, and why is he known as The Heartless?

note: if you’re interested in seeing the paintings referenced in this series, check this post out.

disclaimer: this is a work of fiction! any reference to persons in this work of fiction are purely coincidental. the characters referenced from Stray Kids are interpretations loosely based on their personalities in the group and do not represent the real people behind the personas. if this, or any of the content included in the warnings above make you uncomfortable, please stop reading now.

“It’s going to be fine, Minho. Give it time, and it’ll blow over.”

Heavy footfalls echoed against the hard, marble-like floor tiles and painted drywall of Minho’s large, empty kitchen. “They’re all calling me ‘the heartless,’ Chan. It’s not going to be fine.” Minho’s hands trembled as he rifled through his cellar for a bottle of wine. “Jisung is out for blood. He wants to destroy my entire fucking career. And for what — just to have me back?”

Chan leaned on the black quartz island counter, digging his chin into one of his palms and running a finger against the pattern. He watched Minho scramble around, biting at his cheek while trying to find the right words to say. “At least you got away from him before he trapped you further.”

Minho set a dark bottle of red wine on the countertop, a wine key following the bottle. He stared at Chan with heavy, bloodshot eyes. “Did I actually escape him, though? You know how much money the Hans have. I don’t think he’s got the influence to tear me down, but there’s already been damage done.”

“What can you do, though? I mean, realistically, the tabloids are out.” Minho uncorked the bottle of wine as Chan spoke, grabbing two crystal glasses from the rack that hung above the counter. “Sure, people will read them, and yeah, some people are going to believe the words that are printed, but it’s the fucking Toronto Chronicles. Nobody worth their salt takes that shit seriously.” Chan reached out for a glass, eyeing the deep maroon liquid before rolling his eyes and taking a quick sip. Minho, in contrast, took a long sip, his brows furrowing and eyes squinting as he did. “And the people that really do believe that? Do you actually want them in your life?”

A long, exasperated sigh came from Minho as he set the glass down on the countertop as softly as he could. He kept his brows knitted, leaning into his hands against the counter. Some of his brown locks fell as his head drooped. “You’ve got a point, man.” As much as he hated to admit it, Chan was right. The tabloids were out, damage was done, and he simply couldn’t go and retract the print from existence; the legal battle that would follow wouldn’t be worth it, and he simply wanted to be rid of Jisung’s talons.

“Hey,” Chan tipped his head down, trying to get into Minho’s line of sight, “you’re my best friend, man. I’ve got your back through this.” A polite smirk curled up Minho’s lips as he scoffed. “I’m glad you came back to Vancouver; you’re half the country away from that shitbag. Besides, if Jisung’s gonna try to pull some dumb shit, now he’ll have to go through me first.”

The smirk blossomed to a full-blown, toothy smile. Minho lifted his head and grabbed his wine glass, offering it up towards Chan. The older man lifted his glass in kind, gently clinkling the crystal against his friend’s glass. “I’m thankful for you, man. I’m glad we’ve been friends for this long, and I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

Chan took a swig of wine from his glass, some of the rich liquid staining his bottom lip as he smiled. “You’re basically my brother. I’d be just as lost without you.”

To some extent, Chan was, again, correct. The tabloid issue blew over, yet the nickname of “the heartless” stuck with Minho, haunting him wherever he went. Luckily, most people that used the nickname attributed it to his works. A lot of his art focused on darker themes, motifs and expressions of heartache and death. His rivals and some of his clients brought up the nickname while discussing his work, which initially caused him irritation and agony, then he slowly became used to it. Sure, Minho could be cold and callous at times, but nobody ever stopped to ask why he came off that way.

The truth of the matter was that nobody would have cared to actually get to know Minho on a personal level. Time and time again, nobody ever did — not even those closest to him. The only person that was close to him now was Chan. His parents didn’t care, and Jisung was out of the picture. What was the point in trying to be accepted by the masses while they simply brushed him off?

Minho’s more emotional work generally wasn’t well-received by non-critics. So many people would walk through galleries that presented his work and make hushed remarks, only looking at the works at face value, not bothering to take everything in and really chew over the meaning that lay beneath the layers of paint, the silent screams of agony whispered with each stroke of his brush against canvas.

Since university, Minho had shifted his focus from his own art pieces to adding other artists’ pieces to the galleries his family owned across Canada. He would include some of his work, yet avoided holding any exhibits that focused solely on him. “Maybe you could have an exhibit called ‘Heartless’ because of this? Y’know, profit off of a bad situation.” Chan’s half-serious suggestion over a business dinner made Minho smile, yet he continued to think about it, seriously considering a solo exhibit focusing around heartache.

The problem was, however, he had no muse. Six months had passed from the incident, and Minho was more stuck than ever.

One afternoon, several months after the tabloids were released, however, would change Minho’s life forever, he just had no idea how much four canvases crafted by a sophomore student would affect him.

“Hey,” Chan called Minho one day as he was on his way home from a business deal, “why not go scout out the new artists at the UBC exhibit this Saturday? It’d be a good way to celebrate your return to Vancouver, man. Go fuck around on our old stomping grounds, and all.”

Minho groaned, leaning his head up into his palm as he idled in rush hour traffic. “There’s never any actual talent there, dude.” He nibbled on his thumbnail, watching the seconds tick by on the active phone call on the dashboard of his new car.

“Yeah, but I think you could use a break from all of the professional artists you’ve been working with lately.” Chan’s voice was relaxed, yet still sounded somewhat stern. Concerned, maybe. “I know you get into weird headspaces when you haven’t painted anything; you just kinda lock yourself up with the business side of work and it eats away at you. I don’t want you to get as bad as you were after university.”

A bird flew past the windshield, catching Minho’s eye as it fluttered along, long across the harbour. In the distance, the skyscrapers that towered over the heart of Downtown Vancouver shimmered in the sunlight, some beams reflecting in the water underneath the bridge he idled on. If Minho were in the right frame of mind, he would have mentally captured this moment, kept it tucked away for a future painting.

“Hey, did you die?” Chan’s voice ripped Minho from his thoughts. “Minho, dude, just come with me. It’s not like going back to UBC is gonna kill you or something.”

Traffic gradually continued to inch forward while a cyclist flew past the passenger side of Minho’s car. What did he have to lose, really? He didn’t have any plans that weekend, and spending some time with Chan while poking fun at pretentious art pieces made by wannabe artists could prove to be entertaining. “Fine,” Minho lamented, bringing his free hand back to his steering wheel, drumming his fingertips against the leather. “But don’t blame me if I wanna dip halfway through.”

Chan scoffed, his laughter sounding somewhat distorted thanks to static crackling and interrupting his voice. “C’mon, dude, you love making fun of pretentious newbies.”

Minho nodded his head once, his lips curling upward in a smile. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Wanna meet me at my place?”

“Ah, I’ll probably be pushing it if I went downtown first. There’s always something about ironing out a catering contract on a Saturday that eats up my entire schedule. Why don’t we just meet there?”

“Sounds good to me.” Minho’s smile widened as he cruised along the bridge. “Just like the old days.”

Perhaps things would finally look up for him, if not just for a momentary distraction.

Saturday night came by quickly. Minho eyed the familiar arts building as he sat in his car, aimlessly adjusting the collar of his turtleneck. A sense of nervousness fluttered in his stomach as memories of the last two years he had spent completing his bachelor’s degree flooded his mind. The drunken nights that he and Chan would spend in the studios; the occasional quick, mindless sexual encounters he shared with other art students that he never bothered learning the names of; the tears, sweat, and blood he had spilled out onto his canvases.

This place was somehow both refuge and hell for Minho.

A group of young adults loudly walked past Minho’s car, pulling him from his reminiscing. They cackled and shoved each other around playfully as they made their way towards the arts building. “University students,” Minho sighed under his breath as he turned the car off and opened the door. He took a step out of the vehicle, eyeing his surroundings for any sign of Chan. Minho closed the door, tugging the sleeve of his sweater back a bit to eye his watch.

He was on time, if not a few moments late, yet Chan was nowhere to be found.

The rumbling of a motorcycle startled Minho, causing him to snap his gaze upward towards the violent sound that approached him. He brought a hand up in front of his eyes, shielding them from the headlamp that shone on him, pulling up behind his car.

“That crazy bastard,” Minho scoffed as he recognised the modern black motorcycle and the helmeted man that rode it. The engine cut out, the headlamp dying off with it. “It’s supposed to be minus three tonight!” Minho shouted as he took a few steps closer, adjusting the false glasses on the bridge of his nose. “You’re insane for riding that deathtrap in the middle of winter.”

Chan lifted the helmet off of his head, an arrogant smile plastered on his face. “C’mon,” he pulled the key from the ignition as he fastened the helmet against the bars, “I had to get one last ride in before February really settles in, man. Never know if this’ll be the year we get a surprise dump of 20 cents and the whole damn city shuts down.”

Minho shivered, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “It’s Vancouver, dude.” He rolled his eyes as he watched Chan run a hand through his hair and undid his jacket. “It never snows that much here, not for more than a couple minutes at a time, then it’s all gone. You’ve lived here forever, you should know better than me, of all people.”

The older man shrugged as he took a few large strides towards the building, throwing his jacket over his shoulder as if he were some hip protagonist of a bad 80s film. “Hey, we get some oddities, man. Just you wait. One of these years, Vancouver will put Toronto’s winters to shame.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Minho followed, adjusting the cuffs of his sweater as he walked, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Both men dropped their coats off at the entrance of the gallery, Minho rubbing his hands together to warm them up. “I know it’s kept cool on purpose,” he quietly muttered, “but you’d think they’d bring it up to something just a bit more tolerable.” Ambient buzzing and chattering could be heard throughout the large gallery hall, the turnout of people surprisingly large for a mere sophomore showing.

“Why didn’t you keep your jacket on, then? You shouldn’t have dressed like you were the main artist at an exhibit; should’ve worn something a bit more practical.” Chan’s tone was lighthearted, somewhat distant as he eyed the surroundings. “Oh,” he interjected before Minho could actually respond, “hey, wasn’t this where you hung up that piece you had drunkenly painted with your body junior year?”

A disgruntled sigh came from Minho as he rolled his eyes in response. “Yeah. I hated that piece.”

The men slowly made their way through the gallery, poring over each piece of art that had widely varying levels of passion crafted into them. Several pieces were self-portraits, many pieces were mindless, half-rushed, or avant-garde skylines that were supposed to resemble Vancouver’s modern silhouette.

“Do these students even care about art?” Minho’s cynical quip was barely audible enough for Chan to catch, yet it earned him a sharp elbow to his ribs.

“C’mon,” Chan sighed, “don’t be a downer. You know a lot of these students probably aren’t even art majors.”

“I know,” Minho shrugged his shoulders as he barely looked over the next few pieces they walked past, his heart heavy for the lack of passion in any piece he was seeing. “Doesn’t make the work suck any less, though.”

Chan spun on his heel and puffed his cheeks out in a joking manner as he stared at Minho. “How about we make it through these last few pieces, then go back to one of my restaurants and I’ll throw something together just like the old times?”

The brunette nodded once, smiling weakly before Chan spun back around. Minho continued to shuffle his feet, hands in his pockets, as he eyed the next pieces. Another self-portrait, an uninspired skyline painting, a still life, and then…

Minho stopped in his tracks. “Wait a sec, Chan.” He didn’t bother to see if the other man stopped; he found himself drawn into the four greyscale silhouette paintings that were delicately arranged against the prop wall. He took two subconscious steps forward, being pulled into the canvases like a ship to a siren’s call.

arranged: in black. The title of the pieces didn’t make much sense, but it seemed authentic. Too authentic for a casual student. Minho peered over the placard next to the canvases, hoping for some sort of explanation, yet there was none. Crafted by a sophomore fine arts student, Seo Changbin.

Minho’s breath hitched in his throat as he studied the way the brushstrokes blended from white, to grey, to black in the shape of a human silhouette. There was an unexplainable feeling that bubbled up under Minho’s skin, like he finally found the final piece to a puzzle he had long-since abandoned hope for completing.

The student that created these works had drive, an actual love for painting and the artwork he created. A drive that had been lost in most of the works Minho had hanging in his galleries recently. The feeling that emanated from the was raw, authentic — most important of all, the works were passionate.

An unfamiliar presence came up behind Minho, causing him to defensively tense up. Minho turned on his heel, his eyes peering over the black frame of his glasses as he stared down a meek, gaunt young man. “Can I help you?” His voice was cold, far colder than he meant for it to come off as he looked the person in front of him up and down.

This had to have been the student that made the works — everything about him just screamed the same mysterious song that the paintings did.

“Oh,” Minho pointed his finger over his shoulder as the realisation hit him, “you created these, didn’t you?” An uncomfortable, cold beat passed as they stared at each other. The young man was timid, frozen in place. Without really thinking about it, Minho had slipped into the persona he built up for working with potential new artists. “Figures.” He didn’t mean to scoff as he turned around, yet his brain was on autopilot. “The aura just kind of… fits.”

Chan took a step forward as Minho brought his index finger to his teeth. He watched his friend take in the artwork, and he dipped his head down, lowering his voice as he spoke. “You’re not really going to—”

Minho’s hand came between them as he smiled inwardly. “Hush.” What kind of value were these paintings worth? Was the artist worth the time Minho could spend mentoring him? Was this set a fluke, or did Changbin actually have a passion for creating art?

Thoughts raced through Minho’s mind as he continued to stare between the brushstrokes nestled against the canvases. It was unexplainable, yet Minho simply felt like the artist cared, that he had the same drive and love for art that Minho had when he was the same age. Far before the cynicism and jadedness of reality bled into his mind and ruined several of his works.

“Tell me, Changbin: why did you pick the name arranged: in black for this set?”

“Do you want the fake answer, or the real one?”

Minho had practically melted on the spot as he heard the younger man speak. He sucked in some air between his teeth and gently closed his eyes. He had a wit about him, which was refreshing. It felt like Minho was being challenged somehow, something that most people that worked with him would never attempt, which likely meant that Changbin had no idea who Minho really was.

The young man explained his reasoning, and Minho was transfixed in the way that the raven-haired man casually adjusted his canvases. Every detail he took in of Changbin seemed delicate and purposeful. There was a tingle of electricity that coursed throughout Minho as Changbin compared his paintings to the shades of grey that Minho draped himself in, and that was it.

Minho had finally, after so long, found his muse.

It felt like Minho was floating on air as he drove down Fourth Avenue with Changbin in his passenger seat, elated that he finally had a renewed passion for art. If this were anything like his early twenties, he would have taken the younger man back to his apartment, studied his body for future reference as he would trace his fingers against bare flesh. He would have observed the way his olive-toned skin contrasted as it was surrounded by the black duvet of his bed. It wouldn’t intentionally be sexual, but that was the way that his previous so-called muses always interpreted it, causing the events to unfold like some sort of bad romance novel.

No, his younger days were behind him. That was the same kind of irrational thought that got him caught up with, and subsequently burned by, Jisung.

The air between them was tense. Minho felt Changbin staring him down in nervousness as he waited for Minho to speak. Without thinking, Minho prattled off the thoughts that came to his head. “Look, Changbin, I’m going to be honest.” A quick glance to his side confirmed that the younger man was painted in varying shades of unease and nervousness. “I’m not interested in dating. I don’t do…” Sweat beaded up on Minho’s palms as he quickly looked back to the road. “...relationships in general: professional, personal. I try to avoid it at all. Honestly,” he swallowed hard as he half-lied, “I just don’t like people.”

Minho didn’t like people, but he was more afraid of being ruined by another young, overzealous artist that would get emotionally close to him and then use that vulnerability to damage him down the road. Perhaps if he kept it professional, like a mentorship, he could still use Changbin as a muse, while providing him with some sort of guidance to make it through the wild world that the art industry had to offer.

So, he made a simple proposal to the younger man. “Help you out financially for a bit. Student and mentor.” The words rolled off of his tongue and instantly felt sour as they escaped him. It sounded wrong, like his intentions were somewhat sick.

“I couldn’t…” Changbin frantically muttered, tucking his chin into his chest. Surely, Minho’s proposal came off as something more predatory and sinister than he intended.

“Don’t worry,” Minho backpedaled at the first opportunity he could speak, “I’m not going to ask you for anything weird or sexual.” He continued to speak, the tension lifting between them as they continued their way into the heart of Downtown Vancouver.

That night, they discussed some of their interests and basic life details as they sat at a table in one of Chan’s restaurants. Changbin was clearly uncomfortable, probably unfamiliar with a somewhat high-class setting like this, yet it was the only place that Minho could think of going on a moment’s notice.

The conversation they shared was polite. Minho subconsciously kept up his guard as he watched Changbin awkwardly try to blend in as best as he could. The young man clearly didn’t fit: his all-black attire somehow coming off like a loud shade of electric, neon green against the muted jewel tones of the restaurant. Minho made a mental note to pick somewhere less high strung the next time that they spoke, since things were too tense to have such a serious, professional discussion.

They shared their meal, sharing casual discussion over the span of two hours. Minho drove Changbin back to his dorm, the twenty minute drive a bit more relaxed on the way out of the city centre.

“Hey,” Changbin awkwardly scratched at his forehead, making a pointed effort to not look at Minho while he spoke. “You really meant what you said about my paintings? That they were lovely or whatever?”

Minho brought his index finger between his teeth, leaning back into the seat. “To put it simply,” he said with a slight lisp, focusing in on the way the streetlamps illuminated the slow-moving car in front of them, “yes, I did mean it. I haven’t seen someone that actually puts so much unbridled passion into their artwork, not in a long time.”

“Oh.” Changbin looked down to his hands, idly scraping a fingernail against some dead skin. “You don’t see passionate projects in the artists’ works in your galleries?”

“No.” It came off curt, like a bit of a bark. Minho was tired of hanging loveless works in his galleries, seeing modern artists recycling the same tropes he had seen a thousand times over. Some of the works in his gallery in Montréal had some promise, but the artist was near the end of their contract and likely wouldn’t renew it.

They were coming up on the UBC campus, students flocking around the streets near large houses and a couple of local pubs. They idled at a crosswalk, lights illuminating them as they flashed, and a group of young adults scattered across the striped lines in the road, one pausing for a moment before violently emptying the contents of their stomach against the pavement. “Uni students don’t really have a care in the world, do they?”

Changbin nodded, reclining into his seat, turning his head away from the scene in disgust. His head was tilted towards Minho, and the brunette felt the gaze sear into his neck. “A lot of them don’t,” the younger man sighed, digging his fingers into the fabric of his slacks. “Some people have it rough, though. They grow up sooner than they have to and can’t let themselves have the full ‘make an idiot out of yourself and never regret it’ university experience.”

The statement was loaded, the undertone behind Changbin’s words heavy and obvious. “Makes sense,” Minho bit at his finger harder, lightly pressing his foot against the acceleration pedal beneath it. He wanted desperately to pry, to know what caused Changbin to create such deep works as a sophomore, but he didn’t want to push too far too soon. “Sometimes, we have to take the ugly, hideous things life gives us, then refine it into something beautiful.”

He didn’t mean to, yet Minho’s eyes rolled to look at the younger man next to him. For a brief moment, they made eye contact. It was only a moment, yet the deep, underlying meaning had been so loud: I understand you, and you’re not alone.

“You said Fulbright House, yeah?” Minho cleared his throat, pretending to focus on the street signs.

“Yeah,” Changbin softly said, accompanied by a nod. “You can just drop me off at the front.”

After a few moments, Minho parked somewhat near the entrance. “Sorry I couldn’t get you up closer,” he brought his hand to the back of his neck, digging his fingernails firmly into the flesh. “Too many house parties on a Saturday night, huh?”

“Yeah.” The tension between them was awkward, like Changbin wanted to say something more, yet bit his tongue.

Minho decided to speak up, putting on an air of professionalism as he slipped back into his cold persona. “We should meet next weekend, actually go over the guidelines of this mentor/apprenticeship. Is that okay?”

“Ah,” Changbin pulled out his mobile, tapping at his phone’s shattered screen a few times. “Let me check my schedule.”

Subconsciously, Minho tugged his brows together. He made a mental note to bring a new phone to the meeting, knowing it would make for a good investment if Changbin could actually productively function in the digital space.

“Oh,” the younger man squinted, bringing his phone up to his face. “I work Friday evening, then Saturday from five in the morning to six in the evening, and I’m stuck with the night cleaning shift on Sunday.”

Minho gritted his teeth, frustrated at how packed Changbin’s weekend was. “Do you ever sleep?”

The black-haired man locked his screen, awkwardly fumbling his phone into his back pocket. “I mean, I take a lot of naps in between shifts and classes if I can.”

“How many jobs are you working?” Irritation dripped from Minho’s words.

Changbin shifted towards the door, his eyes awkwardly shifting around as he tentatively curled his chin into his chest. “I work two jobs, then I do some work on campus because of one of my scholarships, so I guess I work three.”

Minho shook his head and leaned against the centre console. “Quit them.”

“What?”

The eye contact between them was tense, Changbin clearly terrified of the prospect Minho proposed. He opened his mouth to protest further, but Minho cut him off. “I’m serious. I’m not going to let your talent go to waste because you’re working yourself to death.”

The younger man timidly looked down, shirking away. “I can’t afford to—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Minho dug his fingernails into his hand, balling it up into a tight fist, the urge to take Changbin’s chin into his hand to force eye contact between them growing too strong. “I promise, we’ll work out the details next week.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and fished out a few green and red polymer bills, offering them out to the younger man. “Will 250 be enough to get you through the week? It’s all I’ve got on hand.”

Changbin brought his hand up, clearly taken aback by the money in front of him. “What? That’s too much.”

Minho reached a bit further. “I just asked you to quit your jobs, Changbin. Please, the sooner you can get away from jobs that don’t care about you, the better.”

“I can’t—”

“I’m not asking again.”

The younger man bit his lip, timidly grabbing the bills between his fingertips. He tried to appear somewhat stoic, but the shame he felt was apparent. “What do you want from me, Minho? This just seems too good to happen to someone like me, like there’s something more you want from me.”

“No.” Minho shook his head, pulling back a bit. “I can’t easily prove to you that my intentions are good, even though they are. Like I mentioned before dinner, I’m not interested in relationships of any sort. However, I know talent and passion when I see it. To let someone as skilled as you slip through my fingers would be a waste to both the art world and you.”

Changbin looked up at Minho through damp eyelashes, biting at his lip. “Are you sure about this?” His voice was quiet, as if he were afraid of something.

A simple nod came from Minho. “I’m positive. Now,” he sat further back, trying to soften his expression, “when you wake up tomorrow, I want you to quit your jobs. The optional ones, not the one with the university. Then, when you’ve done that, call me so we can work out a time to meet that would best work for you.”

“Okay.” Changbin folded the bills, awkwardly jamming them into his front pocket. “Are you really sure about this, Minho?”

“Yes, of course.”

Changbin looked down to his hands, his face flushing a bit. “So, next week, then.”

Minho reached out to his steering wheel and offered a gentle smile. “Yeah. And if your employers won’t let you go within the week, let me know. I have connections.”

The younger man swallowed hard, his eyes going wide at the threat.

“That’s kind of a joke,” Minho shrugged at the way Changbin tensed. He was half-correct: it was a bit of a joke, but he knew too many business owners in town and could easily sway them into letting one of their employees leave if absolutely necessary.

“Alright,” Changbin tipped his head down as he opened the door. He stepped out of the car and leaned in, meeting Minho’s gaze. “Thank you again, seriously. I can’t tell you how much it means to me for you to do something like this.”

Minho bit back a smirk as he waved his fingers in the air. “Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome. Now, go get some well-deserved sleep.”

“Goodnight, Minho.”

“Night, Changbin.” The younger man slammed the door shut and Minho nibbled at his bottom lip as he watched Changbin scurry away and duck past some other university students. Within half a minute, he was completely out of sight, and Minho sat in his car, anxiously eyeing the cars that drove by.

He couldn’t bring himself to drive away just yet, the nervousness refusing to settle in his stomach. This didn’t feel the same as normal business deals with artists. Minho wasn’t sure why exactly he suggested such an intimate, one-on-one proposal with someone ten years his junior.

“Whatever,” he muttered to himself, shaking the thoughts from his head. “One day at a time.”

The next morning, Minho woke up at five and made fresh pour-over coffee, scrolling through recent news articles on his tablet as he waited for the coffee to finish filtering. There wasn’t anything of note in the art world; he aimlessly scrolled through the articles regardless, pensively waiting for Changbin to reach out to him.

As time slowly passed, Minho made his way through two mugs of coffee, switching from news articles to a contract one of his lawyers had forwarded him for another artist to be signed on in Victoria. As he pored over the document on his laptop, his phone buzzed twice, pulling him from his thoughts.

07:40 | Changbin: i just got to work and told my boss i’m quitting 07:40 | Changbin: they said i didn’t have to come back for my shifts later this week but i don’t know how it’ll go with my other job

While Minho was relieved, he still frowned at the texts.

07:41 | sent: I’ll talk to them if you want me to. Just give me the name of the restaurant.

Minho stared at his phone, nibbling at his bottom lip as he watched the ellipses pop up on the screen, then disappear. The process repeated itself twice before there was nothing but silence. Changbin was at work, Minho rolled his eyes at the realisation, sighing at how obvious it was. He locked his phone, setting it down within eyesight next to his laptop, then continued to pore over the legal documents.

The contract was, as expected, dry and irritating. Minho added his suggestions to the document, adjusting the recommended pay and more minor stipulations before sending it back to his lawyer. He leaned against the back of his chair, running a hand through his hair as he brought his phone up to his face. An hour had passed, and there was still no word from Changbin.

Another hour passed, and Minho was stuck on a conference call with the manager of his gallery in Montréal when he saw his mobile light up. The manager spouted off some nonsense to the other directors about a proposed exhibit that would run later that summer, yet Minho paid no mind to it. His presence was merely for formality’s sake most of the time.

10:05 | Changbin: sorry, things got busy and i had to restart my phone like six times 10:05 | Changbin: i promise i don’t need you to talk to them

Minho unmuted the call, mentally shifting his thought processes from frustration back to professionalism. “I’ve had something personal come up that I need to take care of,” his French came off as callous, yet he didn’t let it bother him. “Send me an email if you need my input.” He didn’t wait for a response as he hung up the landline. His fingers tapped away at the screen as he responded to Changbin, multitasking as he walked around his apartment with purpose.

10:07 | sent: When do you get off of work?

He shuffled over to the entryway of his apartment, grabbing his wallet and keys from the display shelf next to the coat rack. Minho grabbed his grey dress jacket, buttoning it up as he stepped out of his slippers. He pulled a simple pair of black loafers from the closet, sliding his feet into the rigid leather.

Minho’s phone vibrated in his hand, causing him to pause his motions.

10:10 | Changbin: in a couple hours 10:11 | Changbin: wait why? 10:12 | sent: Curiosity about an investment. I’ve got something to take care of in that area anyways and was hoping to bring you something that’ll help with our arrangement.

He didn’t wait for a response before he left his apartment, making his way down to his car.

Minho leaned up against his car, parked outside the front of Changbin’s dorm. He mindlessly made his way through his Twitter feed, frowning as he saw someone interact with one of Jisung’s posts. A scoff came from his lips as he condescendingly rolled his eyes, annoyed that his ex was still weaseling his way into Minho’s life.

“Minho?”

The familiar voice caught his attention, and the brunette looked up. “Changbin.”

The younger man’s face was red as he shook his head a couple of times, eyes wide with disbelief. “Why are you here?”

“I told you I was coming. Besides, it’s nothing serious, and I’ll be gone in just a bit anyways,” Minho pushed himself off of the hood of his car, digging through his pocket as he approached Changbin. “I noticed last night that your phone was falling apart, and if we can’t be in contact, well, that would hinder our arrangement, and I’m not one to be bothered with barricades.” From his pocket, he pulled out a sealed box, holding a new phone inside of it.

“Is this…?”

“Please don’t protest.” Minho passed the box off to Changbin. “Like I said, it’s for our arrangement. I’d like to think this is a wise business investment.”

Alas, the younger man huffed in frustration, shaking his head. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” the elder countered with a sneer. “Have you gotten in touch with your other employer yet?”

Changbin shook his head, his eyes downcast as he sheepishly took the box into his hand. “I texted my manager, but she hasn’t gotten back to me yet. She probably won’t let me go for at least a month, since the owner hasn’t hired anyone in a while. Rumour has it, they haven’t hired anyone since business has been slow and might shut down.”

Minho bit the inside of his cheek, running a hand through his hair. He couldn’t help the business side of him begging to intervene, yet he managed to keep it stuffed down just enough. He was going to scare Changbin away with his tendencies if he wasn’t careful, which would have been unwise. “Look,” he turned his head away, staring at a cyclist on the sidewalk opposite them, “I don’t want to overstep, but I’ll help if you need it. I know it’s uncomfortable to ask for help, but I’m here.”

The air between them was cold with tension and discomfort as they stood in silence for a few moments. “Thanks,” Changbin’s voice was defeated and quiet, the word nearly missable as he spoke. Minho turned to look at him, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. “I really do appreciate all of this. Nobody’s ever been this nice to me.”

It was a business deal. Minho was about to verbally remind the both of them, yet his heart sank a bit when he made eye contact with the younger man in front of him. For a brief moment, he saw himself in Changbin when he was that age: lost and confused by the complexities of the future ahead of him; uncomfortable with the uncertainty of the future.

While Minho’s parents had a small empire of art galleries across Canada, they frowned upon him for choosing to go into art instead of business when he was in university. He made the argument that it would help with finding talented artists and signing deals with them, yet it still didn’t please his parents. Minho worked hard in the years following university to prove that it wasn’t a waste of time, spending many sleepless nights finalising contracts with new and renown artists, yet it was still never enough.

Nothing was ever enough for his parents, even when they agreed to let him run their empire only two years prior.

“Hey,” Minho’s voice was soft as he took a half-step closer to Changbin, “you know how you can thank me for this eventually?”

The timid younger man curled into himself a bit, eyes wide with nervousness.

“Pour your heart out in something. Paint something with more passion than ever. All of the conflicting emotions you’ve got running inside of you, let them flow out through your arms and let your canvas reflect what you feel.” Minho tugged the corner of his lips up gently, offering a soft smile. “While I’ll appreciate seeing what you create, I think it’s something you need to do for yourself, too. When was the last time you created something specifically for you?”

Changbin’s eyes darted from side to side as he chewed on his bottom lip. After a brief moment, he shook his head. “I don’t know, really. Grade eleven?”

“Then it’s time, yeah?”

The younger man nodded once, his expressions still tense, but somewhat relaxed.

Minho took a step backwards, digging into his pocket for his key fob. “Perfect. Now all you need to do is quit your other job. It won’t matter five years from now, so don’t worry about it for more than five minutes.” The brunette turned and took two steps towards his car before halting, then turning his head over his shoulder. “Also, be sure to get a phone case and screen protector for that one. I’d have picked something out, but I didn’t want to get something you wouldn’t like.”

Changbin smiled. “I can do that.”

“Perfect,” Minho smiled back, taking in the younger man’s genuine smile for a moment longer than necessary. “Let me know when you’re free from the shackles of modern-day capitalism, and we can arrange for a time to meet and iron out our arrangement.”

“Minho!” Changbin shouted as the brunette made his way towards the car. “Thank you, really. I honestly appreciate this.”

“Yeah, sure thing,” Minho tipped his head before opening his car door. He sat down and stared at the steering wheel as he closed the door. “It’s just business, after all.”

They had agreed to meet on Saturday night. Changbin completed his last shift with the restaurant he was working at, and Minho sent a driver to pick him up from his dorm, since he was going to be running a bit behind schedule thanks to an unforeseen incident with a wealthy client arguing over the supposed value of a piece created by one of Minho’s long-term artists.

“You really sure about this, Min?” Chan tilted his head to the side as he handed Minho an uncorked bottle of red wine. “He’s nineteen, man.”

Minho took the bottle, pouring his glass beyond half-full while he frowned at the older man. “It’s a professional arrangement, Chan. This isn’t some stupid hookup, it’s just another business deal.”

Chan rested his hand on his hip, checking the watch on his other wrist. “I mean, I believe you, I just don’t want you to get in over your head.”

The brunette glowered at the older man as he took a quick sip of wine from his glass. “I’m not ready for another relationship, even if things started to get blurry between us. I’ve made that clear every time I’ve spoken to him.”

“Whatever you say, man.” Chan shrugged, then patted the younger man on the shoulder before he took his leave. “Anyway, I’m gonna get back into the kitchen. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks, man.” Minho tapped the screen of his phone as Chan walked away. 19:31 stared back at him in bright, white text. They had agreed on meeting at half-past seven, and Minho anxiously tapped his fingers against the bottom of his wine glass as he stared at the entrance of the restaurant. The black tie around his neck felt someone restrictive while he waited, the fabric of his dress shirt collar digging into his neck. He was used to overdressing for the smallest of things, but still wanted to appear respectful and presentable and wasn’t sure how to casually do that without underdressing.

Perhaps it was a bit overkill. Changbin likely would look awkward and a bit dishevelled in contrast to Minho, and the thought of that made him nervous. It was a professional meeting, yet he found himself conflicted with feelings that had no right being involved in a business meeting. He would never worry about the comfort of potential clients nor artists — why was this arrangement so different?

The glass doors to the restaurant slid open, and the shy art student Minho had been expecting stepped into the lobby. He wore the same black button-up shirt and black slacks he had worn for his exhibit. It was the same outfit, yet he looked so different, likely since Minho wasn’t looking at him like he was some starved art student. No, now he was more than that — even if the ‘more’ was yet to be defined.

Minho stood up, buttoning his grey blazer before he lifted a hand into the air. Changbin looked around for a brief second before locking eyes with the older man. He blinked rapidly, then looked down to the floor as he made his way towards Minho. The younger man nervously reached for the cuffs of his dress shirt, haphazardly adjusting them around his wrists.

“I’m glad you made it,” Minho said with a faint smile as Changbin approached. “You, um, look nice.”

Changbin looked up, his face turning a bit red as his lips parted. “Uh,” he stuck his hand out, his fingertips trembling, “thanks?”

“Of course.” Minho shook Changbin’s hand once, then pointed towards the empty booth across from him. “Have a seat. We’ll get something for dinner, then talk about the details. Is that alright with you?”

“Sure.”

There was idle conversation over an experimental pasta dish that Chan had created, excited about releasing it in the coming weeks on a limited menu. Changbin had tried the wine that Minho had at the table, wincing over it at first, then appreciating it over the next few sips he took.

“People really pair wine with food, huh?” His voice was low as he swirled the wine in his glass, eyes following the liquid as it circled the crystal. “I always thought it was pretentious, but I kinda see why.”

Minho patted his lips with his napkin before folding it and placing it on his plate. “I spent a lot of time drinking boxed wine during university, but now I really enjoy pairing it with whatever Chan comes up with.”

Changbin lifted his head, cocking an eyebrow at the name. “Who’s Chan?”

“Oh,” Minho folded his hands, then rested them against the table, leaning in a bit closer. “Chan’s my best friend. He and I were classmates during university, but he eventually went down the culinary route while I worked in my parents’ galleries. Chan’s the owner of this place, along with a few other restaurants across town.”

“Huh.” Changbin sighed, folding his arms as he sat back against the rigid booth seat. He stared off to the side, his lips tugging down into a scowl. “I don’t understand how people can own so many things when they’re so young.”

“Well, technically, I won’t actually own my parents’ galleries until they die.” Minho looked down to the way the light shimmered against the deep maroon liquid in his wine glass. “They’ve just made me the owner in nothing but title. As for Chan, I helped him fund his first restaurant, which really blew up after he hired a top-class chef from America. He got featured in a few articles — which I may or may not have helped get published — and that was history.”

Changbin’s lower eyelids squinted upwards as he stared down Minho. “You say it like it’s just normal to have that kind of money to throw around.”

“It’s normal for me.” Minho lifted his eyebrow as he reached for his wine glass. “It’s also not thrown around wantonly; there’s a certain calculus applied when you invest in something. Every advisor I’ve spoken to suggested against investing in my best friend, that my judgement was clouded.” He took a sip from his glass, not breaking eye contact with Changbin. “I didn’t listen to them. Some risks are worth it. That’s why I initially went into art, not business. There’s no soul, nor any passion in business, which is a waste of my time.”

“Tch,” Changbin scoffed, then smirked. He leaned into the table and grabbed his glass, taking a sip that was a bit less coordinated and graceful compared to Minho’s. “So, you’re taking a risk on me, for what — a whim?”

There was a rush of arrogance that washed over Minho as he leaned in slightly further. He was enjoying how much the younger man challenged him. Nobody had ever been so pushy and confident towards him when they discussed business, likely because they believed that any possible opposition would cause them to lose money. Minho peeled his lips back and nodded softly as he watched Changbin. “Yes.”

A server came up to the table, grabbing the plates away from the men and unintentionally easing the strange tension that was between them. “Would you like another bottle of—”

“No,” Minho smiled, not breaking his gaze from Changbin. “A bottle of champagne seems more fitting. Whatever Chan’s got in the reserves. I’m feeling celebratory, aren’t you?”

The younger man finished off the wine that was in his glass and bit his bottom lip, studying Minho’s expression. “I suppose so.”

“Alright, so you’ve quit your jobs,” Minho scribbled some notes on his pad of paper, then looked up at Changbin. “How much were you making a month?”

The younger man flushed, clearly embarrassed by discussing his salary. He reached up to the collar of his shirt, undoing the top button. “I mean, I was making enough to survive.”

“I need a number.”

Changbin rested his elbow against the table and tucked his cheek into the ball of his palm. “On average, 1200, maybe?”

Minho wrote down the number, along with some other things. “How much are your monthly expenses? Do your parents help you out with anything?”

The younger man’s expression fell for a brief moment. “No, my parents are out of the picture; I only rely on myself. As for my expenses, well,” Changbin’s lips fluttered together as he sighed, staring at the bubbles rising in his champagne. “I’ve got my phone plan and basic things like food expenses, but most of my paycheques go towards art supplies. Canvases, paint, charcoal… you know.”

“Hmm.” Minho brought the end of his pen to his lips for a moment, making some mental calculations based on what he presumed that could have cost. “Okay.” He took a moment, then scribbled some notes onto the paper. “Just going off of the information you’ve given me,” his pen scratched loudly against the lined sheet for another moment, then he stopped, set his pen down on the table and spun the pad over to Changbin, pointing at a circled amount on the paper, “I think this seems reasonable.”

Changbin blinked rapidly, then leaned his face into the paper, acting as if he was seeing double. “That’s a mistake.”

“It’s not.”

“It’s too much.”

Minho leaned back into his seat and folded his arms. “Let me explain before you panic. This is a business deal, after all.”

The younger man ran a hand through his hair, his mouth hanging agape as he stared at the paper. “You’re not asking me for anything physical with this amount? Are you insane?”

The brunette shrugged nonchalantly, rolling his eyes upward. “All artists are somewhat insane, but I know what I’m doing. Are you going to finally shut up and listen to me?”

A moment passed before Changbin sat back, bringing his thumbnail to his teeth as he continued to stare at the paper. “Yeah, yeah, I guess.”

“Good.” Minho adjusted his posture, keeping his arms folded. “I’m investing in you as an artist, which means that you need to focus on your health as well as your art. That being said, picking up a hobby that’s not related to art might be beneficial for your mental wellbeing. I don’t care what it is, and you don’t need to pick something right away.”

“Alright, I guess.”

“Next,” the brunette reached out to grab the pad, bringing it back in front of him, “I need something from you, too. I said this wouldn’t get physical or anything, but having someone act as my partner for public things — like gallery operations, exhibit showings, and the like — would be beneficial for both of us. For you, you’d get to travel across Canada, make connections with artists, get your work displayed.”

There was tension in the air as the second part of Minho’s claim went unmentioned.

“And what do you get out of it?” Changbin caught on, reaching out to grab his glass, bringing it to his lips as he frowned at the elder, scribbling out some notes.

Minho took a moment, his pen freezing in his hand for a second, then he quickly resumed writing. “A chance to repair my reputation.”

Changbin took a long drink from his glass, longer than any drink prior, tipping the glass completely upwards, emptying the last of its contents into his mouth. He set the crystal down onto the table and licked his lips. “Jesus, that’s gotta be bad. What the hell did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Minho said without thinking, “but maybe, actually, I didn’t do enough. Regardless, that rumour about me being heartless? I want to try and change it, unless I actually get enough motivation to get back into creating worthwhile pieces.” He lifted his head, making eye contact with Changbin. “I was hoping I could draw inspiration from you, too.” He casually left out the fact that he already saw the younger man as his muse, that little things in the world were starting to bring him inspiration again, but that sounded creepy and awkward no matter which way he arranged the words in his mind.

“Interesting.”

“There’s still some champagne in the bottle,” Minho kept his eyes on the younger man, his eyes caught on the way he dragged his tongue against his bottom lip. “You can have more, you know.”

Changbin said nothing, moving to undo the buttons on the cuffs of his sleeves, pushing the fabric up to his elbows. Every movement caused the nerves against the back of Minho’s neck to spring to life, in a way he hadn’t felt in months. He desperately tried to avoid staring, knowing that his eyes were catching on the motions for too long while he studied the way that the fabric bunched up at the crook of the younger man’s elbows.

“Maybe I will,” Changbin’s voice caused Minho to be relinquished from his thoughts. The raven-haired man reached out towards the bottle, carefully filling up his own glass. “Do you want more?”

Minho grit his teeth together, moving to bring the glass up to his lips and finishing the contents within it against his better judgement. He set the glass down in front of Changbin, dancing his fingertips against the tablecloth as he made careful eye contact with the younger man. His breath hitched in his throat, his mouth going dry as he nodded. “I’ll always take more.”

Changbin luckily didn’t catch on to the double entendre stitched into Minho’s words, and the older man was grateful for it. He didn’t want more of the champagne, he wanted to rip the cheap fabric of Changbin’s shirt apart and mark up the delicate skin that lay beneath it.

This was a professional arrangement, however. Minho politely coughed into his hand before taking his overfilled flute of champagne from the younger man. “Shall we continue?”

The memory of Minho’s first real, authentic interaction with Changbin was painful, like it was a stark contrast to the proposal he was going to awkwardly make. It was visceral and raw, unlike most interactions he had prior. It was raw, like an open wound, as it seared across Minho’s mind. Everything seemed so painfully real, unlike anything he had experienced so far before.

He explained everything in great detail to his friend, his hands feeling clammy and sticky as they pressed against the quartz of his countertop. Minho aimlessly bit his lip and nervously drummed his fingers against the cool material. Chan said nothing, simply staring down at the brown jewellery box in his hands, fiddling it open and shut a couple of times before he stared up at him. The older man bit his lip a few times as he tried to start and stop a coherent thought from leaving his lips.

Minho’s mind raced as he studied Chan’s expressionless face. His memory was flooded with recollections of the night he made the arrangement with Changbin, along with the year and a half they had spent together. His heart pounded with such fervence, he thought his jugular vein would pop out from his neck and explode like a smattering of red salvia flowers blooming against the white tiling of his kitchen wall.

Perhaps this was going to be a stupid decision. The longer Chan stared in silence, the more Minho’s heart fell into his stomach.

“Rose gold?” Chan eventually spat out as he held the box with a diamond-studded ring within it. “And you spent five and a half thousand on this? Dude, alright, I gotta ask.” He gently put the box down on the counter and folded his arms against the quartz, leaning in and frowning at his friend. “What in the absolute fuck are you doing?”

Minho leaned in further against his countertop, avoiding eye contact with Chan, feeling like his judgemental gaze was searing holes into his head. “Nothing else I looked at felt like Changbin, not until I saw this. I looked for hours, nothing seemed right. Everything was too pretentious and overblown.”

Chan tutted as he leaned back with a sigh. “Minho, I don’t want you to—”

“Don’t, Chan.”

“Admit it. You’re falling for him, and you’re falling hard.”

“For fuck’s sake, shut up!” Tears budded in the corner of his eyes as Minho stood up. He brought his index finger to his mouth, scoffing against it as he tried to come up with a reasonable response. “I’m gonna scare him off. I’m sure the shit with Jisung is going to creep up and Changbin won’t know what to think of me.”

“It’s not true, though. Not to mention,” Chan sighed heavily before he walked over to Minho and put a comforting hand on his shoulder, “he’ll have known you for almost two years by the time you bring this up. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I really think he’s falling for you, too, Minho.”

There was a heavy pause as Minho darted his eyes away. “He’s twenty-one.”

“And?”

“You know how stupid we were at twenty-one?”

Chan scoffed. “Yeah, remember the night we got drunk and you rolled around in paint and painted a canvas sheet with yourself?”

“Man,” Minho sighed and flipped his middle finger in Chan’s face, “fuck you. That piece turned out to be great, by the way, even if I still kind of hate it.”

They laughed for a few moments, before Chan pulled his friend into his chest for a warm hug. “Min, I’ve known you for over a decade now. Just be you. If he wants you, he’ll come for you. If he’s in it for the money, I’m sure he’ll have enough respect for you by now to tell you.”

Minho rested his forehead against Chan’s shoulder and let out an exasperated sigh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Only time will tell.”

“Exactly.” Chan patted Minho’s head, gently stroking the brown locks. “You gonna tell him you love him, too, or…?”

A thick swallow came from Minho as he processed Chan’s question. His first instinct wasn’t to protest at his suggestion that he was in love with Changbin, which concerned him. “I guess it depends on how he takes the faux proposal.”

Chan grabbed Minho’s shoulders, gently pushing him back a bit to make eye contact. “So, you do love him.”

Minho averted his gaze and felt his face flush. “I guess I do, huh? Man, I really hope I don’t fuck this up.” He sighed heavily, bringing a hand to the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him.”

“Do you love me, Minho?”

The words were so simple, yet so loud as they echoed around inside Minho’s head. It’s all he could hear, all he could think about as he blankly stared into the distance.

“I really do think I love you, Minho.” Changbin looked so nervous, so uneasy. “I don’t know where to go from here, and I don’t know if you can understand how terrified I am.”

Minho understood how terrified Changbin was, because he was equally as anxious, if not moreso, to admit the feelings he had burning in his heart. The potential future they had felt so tangible as they brushed their lips against each other. He had fallen in love with Changbin, and the younger man had the confidence to admit it before him.

Thick, heavy snow in Vancouver was rare, especially the kind of snow that actually stuck to the ground and caused the city to collapse into itself. Rain was far, far more common this time of year: the type of torrential rainfall that would sound like pebbles pelleted against tin, accompanied by gusts that blew rubbish along for an impromptu journey that spanned tens of kilometres.

Minho watched the flakes fall in front of him, falling to the ground at the same cadence that tears slipped down from his eyes. He remembered playfully arguing with Chan several times about the paltry amount of snow that Vancouver got, comparing it to the snow in Toronto. It felt so surreal that it was falling all around him, like his world was falling to pieces as soon as Changbin ran off, leaving him alone in the freezing cold and taking all of the warmth with him.

This was what Minho had feared the most before he proposed a false engagement: one of them would have developed real feelings for the other, and that would have rendered their arrangement null and void. What he didn’t expect, however, was how much it would hurt when he came crashing down to reality. He had underestimated just how deeply he had fallen for Changbin, unsure of when exactly things had blended from the stark white of professionalism to the deep black of love — the shades of grey had slowly turned more and more saturated over time, yet Minho never consciously noticed.

It hurt. Being in love always hurt, because it always led to pain. This pain, however, was deep and visceral, much akin to a deep wound that needed surgery to fix. The love he felt for Changbin was so foreign in its depth, like nothing he had ever subjected himself to before. It was ironic, really, that he had started this arrangement as a professional agreement with no feelings, and now he was stuck feeling more shattered and devastated than he ever thought he could be, gutted beyond repair.

arranged: in black was the project that caused Minho to fall so fast for Changbin, and now he found himself oscillating between the incomprehensible deep shades of grey and the stark blackness of being so painfully in love, yet so alone. All from an arrangement he had proposed two years ago.

Snow slowly, quietly continued to fall to the ground, entrancing Minho as he tried to grasp the loss of warmth on his lips as Changbin ran off. His thoughts were reeling and contradictory: run after him, don’t follow him; he loves you, he hates you; you love him, you can’t stand him. Slowly, ambient sounds from the building behind him pulled Minho back to reality, the sensation of tears rapidly cooling on his face being the final shock to his system to get moving.

If only temporarily, he needed to shift himself back to that stark shade of white as fast as possible, as white as the snow around him.

With haste, he spun on his heel, wiping his face and tried to compose himself as he walked back towards the kitchen door. He had to make an announcement that his fiancé was suddenly ill, and he would task Seungmin to search for Changbin. Organise now, panic later.

“Crowd control,” he said to himself in a quiet voice. If he verbalised it, that would make it come to fruition; that was his priority, it had to be. Minho couldn’t afford to lose his reserved, emotionless demeanour. He was The Heartless, after all.

He was always going to be The Heartless.

As Minho flung the heavy metal door open, his persona shifted; he sharply inhaled and made his way to the front of the restaurant. His words and expression were mindless, distant and reserved as he spouted off some bullshit with a fake smile to appease the crowd of people he barely knew. Chan, casually conversing with Seungmin, squinted in concern as he watched Minho speak.

Everything he said blurred together in a haze. It was over in moments, some people still pulling him aside to congratulate him again, but Minho brushed them off as he walked towards Seungmin and Chan. “Changbin’s run off,” he said in a hushed voice, walking past them towards the back area of the restaurant, the spot that had been cordoned off specifically for the four of them.

“What do you mean?” Chan’s voice spoke up before Seungmin, the younger too distracted by tapping away on his phone to speak.

Minho shakily carded his hands through his hair, staring at the back wall as his composure started to slip, cracks in the masquerade starting to show. “He loves me,” his voice trembled as he shook his head. “He told me he loves me. I couldn’t say it back, I was so shocked.”

A heavy sigh fluttered between Chan’s lips as he leaned against the table. “I told you. How on earth did you fuck this up?”

“Chan, for the love of… please, not now.” Minho snapped, his voice stern, yet quiet, as he glared at the older man. “Seungmin,” he turned a bit further, barely glancing over his shoulder, “can you help me find him? You’re his best friend and I don’t know if he wants to see me.”

Seungmin nodded once, biting his lip as he held his phone to his head. “He’s not answering, but I’ll keep trying.”

“Where do you think he went?” Chan questioned, leaning further into the table.

Minho shook his head, closing his eyes tightly as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He thought for a moment, memories of all the time they had spent downtown and in West End rushing through his head. “There are so many places, but so few of them make sense.”

“Canada Place?” Chan offered.

“It’s closed off,” Seungmin quipped before Minho could speak. “Saw something about maintenance this morning. There’s Portal Park?”

Again, Minho shook his head. “Too many people at this time of night. Changbin wouldn’t let himself collapse around people. At least,” there was a heavy sigh that came from Minho as he curled into his shoulders, dropping his head down, “I don’t think he would. What the hell do I know, though? I didn’t even notice he was in love with me until…”

The men stood around the table, tension embracing them as nothing happened. The busy tone from Seungmin’s phone started to fill the empty air, slowly becoming as loud as the fountain in the restaurant’s lobby. The ringing and the echoing of the fountain clashed in Minho’s ears, the sounds so loud, nearly overtaking his thoughts.

Minho’s eyes went wide at a sudden realisation, tears building up in the corners of his eyes at the memories that surfaced.

“The fountains are going to spray you,” he remembered playfully shouting at Changbin as the younger man carefully walked around the wet concrete. “Then you’re going to catch a cold and you’re going to need someone to nurse you back to health. And what will happen to my muse, then?”

The younger man spun around, revealing a large smile on his face as he stuck his tongue out in playful protest. “Maybe that’s my main objective. Get sick, force you to take some time off and shower me in attention.”

Changbin hadn’t explored much of Harbour Green Park, except for the time he used the skyscrapers painting the horizon of Vancouver for a still life class. Minho wanted to help him explore more of the popular and less-popular spots that the city had to offer, so many adventures left to uncover for both of them.

Vancouver was busy and so full of people, but the thought of exploring it without Changbin caused the pang of solitude to burn in Minho’s chest.

“I should go after him,” Minho dragged his fingernails into the table before he pushed away from it. “I need to tell him that I do love him.” He patted his pockets, eyes nervously scanning around for his keys. “Tell him that I was a fucking idiot for not realizing it sooner.” His shallow breaths started to accelerate and devolved into hyperventilating as tears spilled from his eyes. “I need to apologise to him, to tell him—”

“No,” Chan grabbed Minho’s shoulder and got in his line of sight. “One, you’ve had too much to drink.”

“I’ll get you or Seungmin—”

“Two,” Chan cut him off, “you’re too emotional.”

“That’s exactly why I—”

“Minho, I know Changbin,” Seungmin took his chance to interrupt, shrugging his shoulders. “He’s taking this ten times harder than you’d expect. He’s the type to bottle shit up and then completely implode once the smallest thing sets him off. No offence, but he would say unkind shit and absolutely devastate you, even if what he says is emotionally-charged and wrong.”

Minho shook his head, his expression changing from confused, to hurt, to angry, and back. “What do I do, then?”

Chan sighed, looking up towards the ceiling for a moment. “Let him panic and break down in front of someone he loves and trusts unconditionally.” He rolled his head towards Seungmin and nodded.

The redhead closed his eyes and nodded in response. “I’ll let him yell at me. You both need to cool off in your own ways.” He looked down to his phone and tapped away again, bringing the mobile up to his ear. His eyes went wide as Changbin’s voice came through the line.

“Where the fuck are you?”

Minho tried to speak up as Seungmin walked towards the entrance, but Chan held him back. “You need to let him do this alone. You missed your chance to run after him, now let him be for a bit.”

The younger man shook his head frantically before colliding it against the older man’s shoulder. “How did I end up fucking this up so badly?”

“You’ve never been good at emotions,” Chan wrapped his arms around Minho’s back and sighed. “I love you, man. I’m sorry it’s blown up like this.”

Minho pulled away from Chan, then grabbed his phone from the table.

“Don’t text him.”

“Shut up,” Minho countered, taking his left hand and bringing it into Chan’s face as he tapped away on his phone.

“Alright, but I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“I don’t care.”

Again, unsurprisingly, Chan was correct. Minho woke up the next morning, his head throbbing from the slight hangover and from crying too hard the night prior. He scrolled through his text messages to Changbin from the night prior and sighed heavily in shame. The phone call where Seungmin scolded the both of them for several minutes played in the back of Minho’s head as he roused to his feet.

He felt numb as he tossed his phone back onto his bed and sulked his way towards the kitchen. It was Sunday morning, a day that would usually warm his heart as he followed his weekly routine. He measured out enough coffee for a little more than two cups, pausing halfway through pouring the grounds into the filter of his pour-over.

Minho’s eyes got lost in between the granules of coffee, his hand completely frozen over the glass. Everything reminded him of Changbin, but the smell of the coffee broke Minho completely. He dropped the metal measuring spoon, causing the remaining grounds to scatter across the cupboard and all over the floor, and he stumbled backwards. He brought his hands to his hair and shouted in anguish as he sank to the floor.

The tears spilled, staining his shirt temporarily as Minho curled up into himself. He wrapped his arms around his legs and dropped his head to his knees and let the agonising tears wash over him.

Sundays were just another day to Minho before Changbin. He would get caught up on his weekly news, get lost in useless contracts that all said the same bullshit with different names and stipulations, and he would breath a sigh of relief as the world relaxed around him for twenty-four hours.

After Changbin, however, Minho had something positive to look forward to on Sundays. He didn’t remember when exactly Changbin started staying over on Saturday nights, but it quickly became tradition. Minho would smile to himself as he watched Changbin sleep with his mouth partially open, arm slung over his forehead and knee kicked up into the air. His chest would rise and fall rhythmically, and Minho felt a bit awkward just staring, yet he never pulled himself away.

There would be mornings that he would wake up, and Changbin would be resting his forehead against Minho’s shoulder, arm lazily slung over his chest. The younger man would hold him closely, like Minho was some sort of stuffed animal that would comfort him while he slept.

Tears continued to spill down Minho’s face, the salty liquid burning against his skin. He wondered how Changbin would feel when he woke up in his own bed, cold and alone. Minho hoped, silently praying to himself that the man he loved would wake up and forget everything about them for just a few moments, just so he didn’t feel as alone as Minho did.

The week passed, and there was nothing but radio silence between the two of them. Minho had typed out several lengthy apologies, yet none of them felt right. He found himself staring down at his phone, hoping to gather the courage to just fucking call Changbin, yet he never brought himself to do so.

Chan had told him to just let Changbin decompress, wait until the younger man reached out to him when he was ready. He had promised that he would keep in contact with Seungmin and keep Minho in the loop if anything changed.

So, Minho laid in bed alone, unable to sleep as the minutes blended into hours. He stared at his bedside clock, watching the time and date shift from 23:59 on Friday to 00:00 on Saturday. He and Changbin would usually spend their Fridays and Saturdays together. It had been routine at this point, causing the pain to ache that much greater as the realisation sank into Minho’s chest.

A cold sweat washed over him, feeling like something bad was happening, but Minho tried to brush it off as nothing more than guilt and regret as he closed his teary eyes and sank into his pillow. His room was warm, and his duvet felt warm around him, yet Minho felt nothing but an overwhelming coldness as he slowly, painfully drifted into sleep.

Minho’s piercing ringtone startled him awake. His eyelids were sticky as he blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the darkness of his room. He pulled his hand out from underneath the covers, hastily reaching around for his phone to silence the damn thing. Minho only wanted to hear from one person, yet his heart sank into his stomach when he looked at his phone.

“Chan?” His voice was heavy as he answered his phone, eyeing the time on his clock. It was half-six, far too early for this to be a casual conversation. “Are you alright?”

A heavy, tinny sigh came through the speaker of Minho’s phone. “Did you just wake up?”

Minho’s head thudded against his pillow as he melted into his bed. “Yeah. I’m used to sleeping in a bit on Saturdays now.”

“Have you seen the news yet?” Chan’s voice wasn’t urgent, but it did seem concerned, like there was something deeply wrong.

“What are you talking about?” He pulled his phone away from his head, putting Chan on speakerphone before he tried to make heads or tails of the mass of notifications on his phone.

“God,” Chan sighed heavily. “Okay, you’re gonna be furious. It ain’t good. Check The Coastal Daily or The Toronto Chronicles.”

An overwhelming sense of dread washed over Minho, draping him in that familiar cold sweat that he fell asleep to just hours prior. “I mean,” he tried to calmly compose himself, “it’s a tabloid, Chan. Is it ever good?”

Minho scrolled down just enough and he saw Changbin’s name alongside his in the titles of the tabloids, the sense of dread blossoming into nausea. “Oh my god,” he shook as he sat up, opening the article from The Coastal Daily. Minho skimmed through it just enough to see photos of Changbin with a face he never hoped to see again in his life. “No. There’s no way.”

Chan sighed languidly. “Yeah, it’s exactly who you think it is.”

“If this is Jeongin…”

“It is.”

Minho felt sick to his stomach as he dropped his phone, nervously bringing his head into his hands. “It’s Jisung, it has to be. He’s been waiting for me to fuck up, but I never thought he’d go after Changbin. Not like this.”

“You know the depths Jisung would sink to better than anyone else.” Chan paused, an audible, deep inhale coming through the speaker. “He’s not gonna let you go, Minho. You need to do something about this.”

Minho shook his head, his thoughts reeling as a myriad of emotions washed over him. “I have to make up with Changbin. Let him know that I’m not mad at him, that this is just—”

“You need to make up with him because you care about him, or,” Chan abruptly cut Minho off, his voice stern, “because you want to get back at Jisung?”

The silence bouncing off of the walls of Minho’s room was deafening. Of course he needed to make up with Changbin, because he loved him and they both fucked up. The fact that Jisung was involved, bringing his brother into this mess, however, complicated things. Minho wanted to get back at the younger man for causing him so much agony over the past several years, yet he had no idea where to start. All he was certain of was the fact that he was beyond furious that Changbin got hurt because of Jisung.

He got hurt because of Minho, which was unforgivable.

“I’ve got to head to Montréal in a few days,” Minho sighed heavily as he brought his phone back up to his face. “I’m going to be gone for two months, I’ve got to talk to Changbin and tell him—”

“Tell him what, Minho? You’re going to give him a half-assed apology because you’re scared of your ex? You know he deserves better than that.”

An email popped up on screen from an unknown sender as Chan spoke. The title grabbed his attention, causing his rage and agony to bubble over. “I have to go, Chan.”

“Don’t fuck this up, Minho. I don’t want you to lose your one chance at happiness with someone else because you’re angry at Jisung of all people.”

“Trust me. I’ll talk to you later, I promise.” Minho hung up, then tapped on the email titled ‘i know what your fiancé did last night’ and nearly threw his phone at the wall as soon as he opened it up.

There were photos attached to the email, sent from a burner account. The body of the message was simple:

> break off the engagement or the photos get leaked > i have more than these > video, too > you have until june > xoxo

Minho didn’t want to open the photos, because he knew it wasn’t going to be good. He went against his better judgement, opening the attachments, which proved to be a mistake instantly. He saw blurry photos of Changbin in varying states of undress, in an unfamiliar room, likely a hotel room or some rented temporary apartment.

His blood was boiling. If there was a state of rage beyond the fury Minho felt, he was rapidly approaching it.

As much as he wanted to, Minho refused to reach out to Changbin, far too emotional for what the younger man needed right now. Instead, he made his way to his laptop as he called Chan, who picked up after two rings.

“What’s up?”

Minho didn’t bother with pleasantries. “I’m forwarding you an email. Don’t open it. Just keep it for future reference.”

“Shit. Jisung?”

“Yeah,” Minho spat through his teeth, seething and shaking in anger. “I’m leaving for Montréal tonight and making a stop in Toronto on the way.”

The line went silent for a moment. “Just don’t do anything too irrational. You know the Hans have got resources all over Toronto.”

“I’ll be fine. That grimy motherfucker will get what’s coming to him, but I’m not gonna kill him. Probably."

Minho was lucky to catch a flight to Toronto that same day. He felt guilty for not reaching out to Changbin before he left, but he knew that he had to be going through an impossible array of wildly varying emotions. As much as he didn’t want to, Minho resigned himself to just waiting until Changbin was ready to talk.

The 747 made its descent into Toronto, and Minho’s stomach turned as he saw the familiar skyline from the air. This city had so many negative memories for him, and very few positive moments. Somewhere on the outskirts of the city were the aging parents he hated, and Jisung was likely somewhere in the city centre, probably in the same penthouse apartment his parents had bought for him when he graduated university.

As manipulative as Jisung was, Minho was thankful that he was arrogant and stupid.

The tires of the aircraft screeched throughout the cabin as they made aggressive contact with the tarmac, and Minho turned his phone on before the pilots cleared it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at Toronto-Pearson International Airport. The local time is...” Minho’s phone came to life, and he impatiently waited for it to connect to a local tower. “If this is your final destination, we hope you enjoy your stay.” A message popped up from Chan. “If Toronto is where you call home, then welcome home.”

Minho’s lips parted as he read over the message from Chan, confirming his suspicions about Jisung’s address and his blatant stupidity.

“Welcome home, indeed. I’m coming for you, Jisung.”

It was the early evening when Minho arrived at the familiar complex he used to share with Jisung. He handed a few bills to his cab driver, then walked up to the building, punching in the same code he used to use to gain access. Luckily, somehow, the old code still worked, and he took in a deep breath as he opened the unlocked door and stepped into the lobby.

The concierge behind the desk cocked his head as he watched Minho walk through the vestibule with arrogance. He likely didn’t recognise the man, yet didn’t stop him as the heels of his dress shoes clattered against the marble floor. Minho cracked the knuckles of his fingers casually as he approached the elevator bay.

He stared at his tired reflection in the frosted metal doors, knowing he was probably falling for a trap that Jisung was setting, getting right back into his hands. What Jisung wouldn’t expect, however, would be Minho on his doorstep so soon, the same day that he had brazenly threatened him.

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding and a gentle announcement from the AI. He stepped in, pressing the top floor button. He entered in the last four digits of Jisung’s phone number, the keypad lighting up green, then he pressed the top button again. The elevator softly glided up the floors, the display dinging with each floor it passed.

Years ago, Minho would have never stood up to Jisung like this, but now he had a reason to fight against him. He had a reason to fight at all.

Changbin. Jisung hurt him, and he needed to pay for it.

The elevator stopped at the top floor, the doors gliding open to reveal a single door at the end of a long hallway. Minho sucked in a breath through his teeth and quickly stepped out of the elevator and walked down the hallway. He approached the door and brought his knuckle to the cool wood and rapped against it twice, hoping that Jisung was home.

Something clattered and profanity was uttered, a voice getting closer to the door. “How the fuck…? Who is it?”

Minho said nothing, tucking his hands into his pockets as the door opened to a familiar face that he hated to see. The blonde that opened the door stared in confusion, then surprise.

“Wow,” the younger man drawled out, a wide, arrogant smile growing on his face. “Heya, babe. You finally miss me enough to come crawling back to me, huh?”

“Don’t play that cutesy shit with me.” Minho shook his head, trying to bite back his fury. “What’s with you and that shitty fucking brother of yours setting my fiancé up like that? The photos you’ve sent?”

Jisung leaned against his door and continued to smile. He lowered his voice as he dipped his head into Minho’s space just a bit. “C’mon, baby, don’t be like that. I got you back home, yeah? Who cares how we got here? You’re back home, where you deserve to be.”

Minho took a step closer, practically tearing the fabric of his pockets apart to keep himself from strangling the man in front of him. “What’s your aim, Jisung? What the fuck else do you want from me? Why’d you drag Changbin into this just to get to me?”

“You know what I want.” Jisung purred, leaning in and boldly grabbing the older man’s hip, getting dangerously close.

Minho shook his head, relinquishing his grip from his pockets as he shoved the blonde back into his apartment. “Stay out of my fucking life, you goddamned coward.”

Despite being shoved backwards, the younger man seemed unfazed, merely shrugging his shoulders and closing the distance between them again. “Awfully bold of you, the man on my doorstep.”

“On the doorstep of the man that nearly ruined my career and almost bankrupted me and my family.” Minho spat through his teeth. “How fucking dare you do this?”

Jisung condescendingly cooed as he brought his face in so close to Minho’s space that the older man could feel his warm breath against his skin. The younger man rolled his eyes as he leaned into Minho’s ear. “It’s cute that you think that pretty little whore attached to you isn’t gonna try to do the same thing when he gets bored of you.”

That was too much, the verbal blow causing Minho’s blood to boil and nearly spill over. He reached up to Jisung’s collar, pushing him backwards into the wall behind his door. He desperately wanted to violently wipe the grin on the younger man’s face, yet managed to stay composed as the door slammed behind him. “That pretty little whore of mine, or whatever the fuck you wanna call him — you know what? He actually legitimately loves me. That’s something you and I both know you’re incapable of ever expressing, unless it’s masqueraded as some sort of emotional manipulation.”

“Aww,” Jisung scoffed. “Aren’t you so cute, huh? Are you actually growing a heart, Minho? Are you no longer The Heartless?”

Minho shook his head, the familiar sense of anger that came with the initial rumour creeping its way under his skin. “Don’t give me that bullshit, you worthless sack of shit. How fucking dare you try and drag Changbin into this? You should have kept this between the two of us.”

“Wanna know why I did all this for you, baby?” Jisung’s voice was heavy with something Minho couldn’t quite pick up on. “I knew it’d get you back to me, sure, but in all honesty? I was bored.”

Minho gritted his teeth, painfully seething now. He tightly gripped Jisung’s collar and slammed him against the wall again, causing a painting on the wall to dislodge. “You hurt my fiancé because you were fucking bored?”

“Ha!” Jisung loudly chortled, throwing his head up against the wall. “Fiancé? Oh, baby, please, that’s the cutest shit I’ve heard all week. He doesn’t mean that much to you; you and I both know that. Wanna know how I know?” Jisung leaned in closer, his breath hot and laden with venom. “He’ll never have what you and I had, baby. He ain’t me. Nobody will ever love you or fuck you as well as I did.”

Minho couldn’t control his rage for a second longer. He let go of Jisung’s collar, then connected his right fist to Jisung’s cheek with an audible thwack, knocking the younger man off balance. “I swear to god,” he spat, “if you ever try and interject your grimy fucking hands into my life ever again, I will destroy you. Tear down whatever bullshit career your parents bought you. Leave me alone. Leave Changbin alone. Or else.”

Jisung brought his hand up to his face as Minho took a step backwards. “Wow, I never thought I’d see the day where you actually stepped up to me.” His voice was calm, yet all of the arrogance on his face had been wiped away, replaced with disdain. “Awfully bold of you, don’t you think?”

Minho shook his head, making his way towards Jisung’s apartment door. “Leave us the fuck alone and go back to being miserable by yourself. Do something productive with your life instead of withering away in this shitty fucking city.”

As he opened the door, he heard Jisung speak up one last time. “Best be careful and watch your back, then, baby. Hate to see something happen to you or that pretty little whore of yours.”

Minho refused to think about Jisung or Jeongin for the rest of the night he spent in Toronto. He was up early again after yet another sleepless night, with no word from Changbin, navigating the large terminals inside Toronto-Pearson. He slung his backpack over his shoulder as he made his way from Starbucks to the gate his flight would be departing from.

As he sat in one of the rubbery airport seats, he kept tapping away on the message he had worked on the night before. A lengthy apology of sorts, and also a letter of forgiveness. Even if Changbin was mad at Minho for the entire debacle around their engagement party, he knew the younger man too well, sure that he was probably kicking himself over what had happened with Jeongin.

Forty-five minutes passed before boarding began for his flight to Montréal. Minho managed to send off the lengthy email to Changbin and he finished his cup of blonde roast before he made his way down the metal tunnel that connected to the aircraft. He tucked his phone into his back pocket, sighing with a hint of relief for the first time all week.

Minho didn’t hear from Changbin for the rest of February, nor did he hear from him all of March. Time passed slowly as he scrolled aimlessly through his social network feeds, waiting to see updates from Changbin. The only thing he had really seen in months was a post from Chan on Instagram where he was with Seungmin — something his best friend was casually not discussing with him during his absence.

Seungmin was Chan’s type. They had slowly been getting more familiar with each other at various social events that the four of them attended, but Minho had no idea that they were talking to each other, much less seeing each other privately. He couldn’t help but wonder if Chan was politely hiding it all from Minho so he didn’t have to think about Changbin.

Over the near-two month span that passed while he was in Montréal, things were quiet. Sure, Minho was busy and drowning in contracts and arrangements, but he would still lay awake for hours, thoughts of Changbin dancing across his mind every time he closed his eyes. The laughter of the younger man was so loud, albeit being so distant. It had been ages since Minho felt so alone, longing just to be comforted by the man that he loved.

One night, towards the end of April, he found himself near the bottom of a bottle of red wine, working on a last-minute proposal that needed to be ironed out before it was sent off to an artist that was considering signing on to the gallery in Montréal. If Minho could sign this artist, it would bring in considerable revenue, and he desperately wanted it to go right. Sure, it would please his parents, but it would reaffirm that all of his work over the years hadn’t been for naught.

It was three in the morning as Minho started to go cross-eyed staring at the legal document until it morphed from French to some unintelligible script. He hated French. He was bad enough with English, worse with Korean, and even worse with French, even though he was fluent in all three languages. Nobody spoke French outside of Québec, except for a couple of times he was in Toronto and some familiar clients stopped at some of his exhibits.

So, when his phone went off, Minho wasn’t quite sure if it was the overload of French combined with the bottle of wine playing tricks on him as the messages popped up on screen.

03:14 | Changbin: mnho 03:14 | Changbin: im still mad at you 03:15 | Changbin: wait fuck i think youre mad at me 03:16 | Changbin: yeah thats right i forgot my bad

The texts didn’t fully register as Minho stared at them, a bit flabbergasted that Changbin was texting him, much less texting him at midnight his time. It didn’t feel right after a few months of not speaking with each other, but he couldn’t bring himself to ignore the messages. Did he read the email? What was he doing up at a time like this, more incoherent than normal?

03:18 | sent: You should be asleep.

It was stupid, and he shouldn’t have texted Changbin back, but Minho truly, desperately wanted to talk to him again, even if it hurt. They had both been at fault for the problems that came between them, but Minho missed Changbin more than he was mad at him. Hell, he wasn’t even mad at him, he just wanted to know that Changbin was alright.

03:19 | Changbin: how dare you tell me what to do 03:20 | Changbin: you think youre soooo much better than me huh 03:21 | sent: Have you been drinking? 03:22 | Changbin: mayhaps i have 03:22 | Changbin: whats it to you 03:23 | Changbin: dont worry im stuck at home so im not gonna sleep with someone this time

Minho rolled his eyes at the text, still furious at Jisung and Jeongin for the stunt they had pulled. He had been a bit upset with Changbin, but that boiled over and passed relatively quickly.

03:25 | sent: So why did you text me?

He wasn’t sure why he asked that specific question, or even what kind of answer he wanted or expected from Changbin. All that Minho could think of was every time they got a little bit too tipsy, Changbin started to get handsy. The touching was never explicit, just a bit more bolder than casual skinship. Lingering touches on Minho’s stomach, nuzzling in a bit too close to his neck, legs tangling up into his, the firmness that rutted up against his thigh in the middle of the night as they slept.

It was always innocent enough, but Minho let his mind stray once or twice when he was alone. He wondered what Changbin looked like totally naked, how much pressure his fingertips would apply as they danced across Minho’s body, the sounds he would make as he—

A buzz ripped him from his thoughts.

03:27 | Changbin: idk i was bored 03:28 | Changbin: was thinking you might be up

Minho rubbed his tired eyes a few times as he turned his desk lamp off, standing up and stretching. He grabbed his phone, ready to text Changbin to tell him that no, he wouldn’t be up for much longer, and that he should go to bed too, but the response on his screen had him concerned he was seeing double.

03:30 | Changbin: maybe i meant that in more ways than one 03:30 | Changbin: my bed is cold and lonely and all i want right now is to be curled up in your arms 03:31 | Changbin: fuck you know? i miss you a lot 03:31 | Changbin: idk call me selfish but maybe i want a little more than just cuddling too

The fluttering in Minho’s stomach refused to cease. He quickly swallowed the remnants in the half-drunk glass of wine on the desk, swearing he would deal with the dish tomorrow. He mechanically made his way to the bed, typing away on his phone while he hastily disrobed.

03:32 | sent: More ways than one? Elaborate.

His heart was pounding, his palms starting to sweat from the excitement coursing through his veins. Truthfully, he wanted Changbin for a while. Minho always said their relationship would never turn sexual, but he did secretly hope that there would be one slip up between them eventually, especially as their relationship started to blossom into something more serious, resembling something far more real. With the way that the knot knitted inside of Minho’s stomach, it felt like that moment was finally here. It wasn’t in person, but he would still accept it.

03:33 | Changbin: you and your fucking words 03:34 | Changbin: you’re awake, guess you’re up that way

Minho bit his lip, carefully lowering himself onto the bed without looking away from his phone. Changbin wasn’t exactly tactful with his words, but that was yet another reason why Minho found him interesting. They didn’t need to be wordsy and emotional right now, not with tensions still flying around. He chewed on his lip as he stared at the screen, trying to figure out how exactly he should respond, but there was an image that popped up on screen that caused him to drop his phone directly down onto his nose.

“Fuck,” Minho exclaimed, wrapping his nose in his hands. He turned to look at the screen of his phone, and the image he saw was exactly what he anticipated. Changbin was leaning up against the wall of his washroom, phone in hand, aimed at his reflection in his mirror. His hair was slicked back and wet, his skin dewy and slick, like he had just gotten done showering.

He was shirtless. That was the first thing that Minho noticed. He was shirtless, and he had clearly been keeping up with his gym routines.

03:37 | sent: You… 03:38 | Changbin: you done picking your jaw off the floor? 03:38 | sent: You’d better feel lucky that I’m not there right now. 03:39 | Changbin: why?

Minho felt like he was going to explode. Usually, he loved the slow, drawn out chase that sexting had. There was an appeal that wasn’t the same with physical desire. The fact that Minho couldn’t just get in his car and show up at Changbin’s apartment in twenty minutes made him all the more frustrated. He wanted to throw the younger man up onto his bed, right into the spot just left of the middle where it dipped further, and keep him there all night. Minho wanted to kiss every square inch of Changbin’s skin, run his tongue up from his hip bones to his collar bones, then bite a path up his neck, all the way up to his lips.

03:41 | sent: Your classmates would notice. You’d walk funny the next day, your neck would be covered in shades of purple and green in the shape of my teeth. 03:42 | Changbin: so you wanna fuck me, huh?

God, this was fucking torture. Minho let out a sharp, excruciating exhale as he carded a hand through his hair, trying to catch his breath. He decided he’d fuck Changbin first, offer apologies later.

03:44 | sent: More than just that. I want to ruin you in such a way you’d never have a satisfying lay from anyone else but me again.

That was too assertive. It had to have been, but Minho couldn’t stop his fingers from tapping away at his phone.

There was a small sigh of relief that escaped Minho’s lips, but he was still tense. He should have apologised profusely and properly to Changbin before going through with this, but he couldn’t stop. He was too enraptured in the thought of taking in Changbin, taking him over, finding and kissing all of the sensitive spots from his clavicles to behind his ears. Whisper affirmations, praise, love — all the things Changbin deserved to hear from him.

All of the words he needed to hear.

03:49 | sent: Can I call you or is that too much right now?

Minho stared at his phone, waiting for a response. He watched the numbers change: 03:50 to 03:51. 03:51 to 03:52. Was it too much too soon?

Then, Changbin’s contact photo replaced the blank screen Minho had been staring at, and he accepted the call without hesitation.

“Changbin,” Minho tried to sound smooth, but something caught in his throat as he spoke as he verbally tripped over his nervousness.

“Minho,” the younger man sleepily breathed, a bit of an underlying slur to his voice. “Wanted to tell me what the sunrise in Montréal is like, or are you gonna put your money where your mouth is?”

“If you keep talking like that, I’m going to have to put your mouth somewhere it would prove to be more useful.” A lot of lapses in thinking were happening. Unlike with texting, Minho didn’t have the luxury of thinking something out entirely before he sent it off; words just casually slipped out without judgement.

“I’ll have you know,” Changbin’s voice was lower now, more breathy than before, “I don’t disappoint. I walk the talk.”

“What, you’re gonna tell me you’d give me a mind-blowing experience?”

“Absolutely, but don’t put words in my fucking mouth.” Changbin playfully retorted, then let out a noise that was somewhere between a moan and a whine, which caused Minho’s nerves to tingle from head to toe. “I wanna make you watch me ride you nice and slow. Feel your fingers dig into my thighs while I’m riding your—”

“Changbin, I don’t know if—”

“Do you want to do this or not, Minho?” The younger man huffed in frustration. “I just… I wanna forget about everything for a little bit, and I fucking miss you. God, I’ve missed you for so long. I keep reading over your email and I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep quiet and not talk to you.”

It felt like Minho’s heart skipped a beat while it thrummed loudly against his chest. “I miss you, too, love.”

Changbin paused for a moment, shuffling around on the other line. “So, can we do this or not? I don’t wanna think about the emotional stuff right now. Not really, uh, thinking with the right head for that.”

Minho wanted their first sexual experience together to go perfectly, for it to be wonderful and romantic, but he was too overcome with elation with Changbin’s excitement over the line to say no. “Honestly,” he sighed into the phone, letting his free hand creep down to the front of his underwear, “I don’t really wanna think about it right now, either. Not after that photo you sent me. Dropped my phone and nearly broke my nose when I saw it.”

A muffled sigh came from the phone. “I was thinking about you when I took it. You should see me now, though. I haven’t bothered putting clothes on after my shower and I just slathered myself in lotion.”

Minho swallowed hard, nearly choking on his saliva. “Did you use the one I got you? The one that smells like vanilla?”

“Yeah,” the vowel was drawn out, breathy and elongated as Changbin spoke. “Wanted to get as close to having you all over me as I could.”

“Fuck.” Minho’s eyelids fluttered shut as he subconsciously gripped at the firming erection under his hand. “I didn’t know you had a mouth like that on you.”

A polite laugh came from Changbin. “If you’re surprised by that,” it sounded like he was starting to pant, “you’d be surprised at all of the filthy things my mouth can do.”

This should have been awkward for both of them, but the alcohol coursing through their veins made everything come off so naturally, like they were already acquainted with each other so intimately. “You’d be surprised at the thoughts I’ve had about your mouth.” Minho mentally cursed himself for not having lube on hand, sucking in some air through his teeth as his somewhat dry hand slipped his cock out of his briefs and tugged at it. “The way I’ve imagined you on your knees under my desk while I’m on a conference call.”

“I think you’d wanna hear about the way I’ve imagined riding you in the back seat of that stupid fucking Tesla of yours after one of your stupid, pointless fucking meetings,” Changbin countered, his voice airy. “Or the times I’ve wanted you to take me in the studio, getting paint all over ourselves because you can’t contain yourself, like you couldn’t wait until we got home.”

Minho tried to swallow, his throat and his mouth dry at the images playing in his head. “You know what I’d do? I’d pull your hair so hard, everyone would hear you cry out, get you covered in a mess of paint. I’d lean down and bite your ear, make you scream who you belong to before I kept fucking you.”

“Minho,” Changbin whined, and Minho imagined him grinding his hips into his hand against the comforter of his bed. “I’d want you to mark up my neck, leave bruises all over. Let everyone know that I’m yours, through and through.”

The mental image of causing Changbin’s neck to be covered in bite marks and bruises caused Minho to reel. “Fuck, Changbin. I had no idea you were so…” He took in a shaky breath, pausing his motions for a bit as he hastily pumped some lotion off of the bedside table into his hand, “that you had this kind of mouth on you. That you liked to be taken like this.”

“More than like it,” the younger man scoffed, “I expect to be taken like that. But, if you think I’m some sort of pillow princess or someone that puts in no effort at all, you’re dead wrong.”

“Ah,” Minho blinked rapidly, overwhelmed with the mental image of Changbin grabbing a fistful of his hair and fucking him up against the shower tiles in his apartment. “Sometimes I like it when I’m not the one that has to put in all of the effort. Take me in the shower, up against that large window in the living room… you could do whatever you wanted to me, and I’d let you.”

Changbin must have liked the idea of that, because there was a shudder and a quick moan that came through the phone. “Sounds like I’ve got, ah, my work cut out for me when you — fuck — get back to Vancouver.”

“What do you wanna do first?”

“That kitchen counter of yours,” Changbin breathed out, panting out each vowel with haste, “bend you over it and see how pretty you are up against the black marble.”

Minho shook his head, his nerves quivering at the thought. “It’s quartz, but who fucking cares.”

The younger man huffed. “I don’t. So, your turn. What do you wanna do to me?”

“Easy,” the brunette dragged his teeth over his bottom lip as he recalled the thought that frequently danced around his head during the week when Changbin was gone, counting down the days until Friday arrived. “Something lazy on Sunday morning. Kiss you, nibble at your neck a bit as you woke up, let my hands wander all over your body…”

“I keep forgetting you’re a morning person.”

Minho smirked. “Yeah, but I’d happily put in all the effort while you woke up. You’d get to benefit, have me do whatever you wanted.”

Changbin’s breath got audibly caught in his throat. “Suck me off,” he panted, “that’s what I’d want you to do first. You’d look, ah, so pretty in between my legs first thing in the morning.”

“Anything you want.”

“I want my cum all over your face right now.” It was a bold demand, yet Minho felt like he was getting close to coming just by Changbin’s words and a few familiar strokes of his cock.

“I, ah, I’m close, Changbin.” It was a bit embarrassing to admit, but he couldn’t hold back for much longer. “Where do you want it?”

A quick whine came from the younger man. “Me too, Minho. I want it — I want you in my mouth.”

“Fuck,” Minho curled inward a bit, his pace accelerating as he panted into the phone. His motions were becoming more erratic as his heartbeat pounded in his ears. “Changbin, I’m gonna—”

“Minho, I—”

Both of them were loud and breathy as they came, uttering varying strings of profanity along with the other man’s name. It took moments to come back down to reality, Minho nearly dropping his phone from his hand as he stared up at the ceiling, rapidly blinking as he slowed his breathing.

Changbin was the first to break the silence. “That was… unexpected.”

Emotions started bubbling up within Minho, yet he kept them bit back as best as he could. “Was it alright? I’ve never been good at this kinda thing.”

“Yeah,” Changbin breathed out carefully. “This was the first time I tried anything like that and I didn’t know what to expect.”

Minho reached over to the nightstand, grabbing some tissues from the box to clean off the cum on his stomach. “Can I be honest, Changbin?”

A tense moment passed in silence over the line, Minho briefly concerned that the call had been terminated. “Yeah,” the younger man sighed, sounding fatigued. “I kinda had a feeling we needed to talk, I just… didn’t know where to start.”

“I miss you. It’s been a long, quiet few months without you.”

“I’m sorry,” Changbin started. “For everything. For running off, for never reaching out, for the shit with Jeongin and it getting leaked to the press.”

Minho sat up, rubbing his temple with his index and middle fingers. “Changbin, love, don’t apologise for that. Fuck, please don’t apologise for that. We were both at emotional lows, and you had gotten set up.”

“God,” the younger man’s voice was shaky, “I should have told you the moment Jisung reached out to me. I had no idea it would ever get so bad. Can you forgive me for being an absolute idiot over—”

“I just asked you to not apologise.” Minho fluttered his lips and tucked his chin into his hand. “I know I apologised a thousand times in that email to you, but it’s all in the past. As long as you’re willing to keep going and give me a shot, we can work our way back to normal together.”

Changbin softly chuckled once. “That sounds fine to me. How long are you stuck in Montréal for, anyways?”

Minho pulled his phone away from his head, humming as he tapped away at the screen. “It’s the 27th today, which means…” his voice trailed off as he stared at his calendar. He was stuck in Montréal for another week, his return ticket to Vancouver booked for the fourth. His heart sank into his stomach as he realised he was going to be stuck on the other side of the country until the day of Changbin’s senior capstone. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“Your capstone exhibit…” Minho trailed off, mentally beating himself up over not carefully checking his schedule when he booked his return flight. He thought he had booked his last meeting for the third, but he couldn’t possibly squeeze it back for one more day.

Changbin audibly swallowed. “It’s not a big deal if you can’t—”

“I’ll be there.” Minho confidently cut the younger man off. “Changbin, love, I’m not missing something as important as this. I’ll have to rearrange a couple of things, but that’s nothing, I promise. The world can wait.”

“Well,” the younger man sighed, “it would mean a lot to me if you came. All things considered, it might look bad for the press if my fake fiancé doesn’t show up to see the key piece I have planned specifically inspired by him.”

“You finally finished that large canvas you were working on?” Minho vaguely recalled the piece Changbin had spent months on, something that was large and greyscale, like many of his other paintings before.

“It’s finally finished, yeah. I got inspired by that email you sent me, like it was the final push that the piece really needed. I really think you’re going to love it.”

A warmth blossomed in Minho’s chest at the thought of seeing another one of Changbin’s passion-filled paintings on display. “Did you decide on a title for it?”

“I did.” Changbin was confident, his voice light, as if he were smiling on the other line. “I really think you’ll find it amusing, but I’m not telling you what it is until you see it yourself. It’ll make sense then.”

Minho rested onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, setting his free hand against his chest, feeling his heartbeat pound firmly against the ribcage. “The fourth at seven, right? Same cursed gallery at UBC?”

“I wouldn’t say cursed, not necessarily. Sure, it’s got a lot of hellish things going for it, but it’s where we met, after all.”

The quip caused Minho to laugh. “Such an optimist.”

“There’s always something pleasant amidst chaos, or something like that.”

Minho closed his eyes and smiled as Changbin spoke. “I really missed hearing your voice. I haven’t been able to sleep comfortably since the night that I gave you the ring.”

“That…” Changbin yawned, shuffling around on the other line. “That was the last time we slept in the same bed, huh?”

“Yeah. I was hoping we could’ve gone back to normal after the engagement party, but...”

A heavy sigh came from Changbin. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Changbin,” Minho cut him off again, clamping his eyes shut as he took in a deep breath. He was going to plead for the younger man to stop apologising, yet he could only muster a simple phrase. “I love you.”

Silence.

“I…” the younger man stuttered for a moment, causing Minho to worry that this was the worst time to bring love up, until Changbin spoke again. “I love you too. I never thought I’d fall in love with someone again, yet you’ve proven me wrong.”

“Life is full of surprises. I guess that’s the ‘whatever the hell is next’ fate had in store for us.” Minho’s eyes started to feel heavy as he finally felt like he was able to relax a bit for the first time in months.

Changbin sighed with content. “I can’t believe you remembered that cheesy line. You really are the romantic type, huh?”

Minho rolled his head to the side, letting his phone balance on the side of his face as he got comfortable. “You just now noticed? After all the ‘love’s and the other sappy things I’ve done? And here I thought I was a bit traditional.”

“No,” the younger man muttered, “I really shouldn’t be surprised. It’s nice, though, so I won’t complain. Call me all the nice things you want.”

“Mhmm,” Minho weakly affirmed as he started to drift off. “Hey, Binnie, love?”

“What?”

“I love you. I can’t wait to see you soon.”

There was a quiet laugh on the other line as Minho started to slip further into sleep. “I love you too, Minho. It’ll be nice to see you again and tell you in person.”

“Just a week until…” Minho tried to finish his sentence, unsure if he actually said the last few words before completely slipping off into sleep.

The fourth of May approached rapidly. Minho panicked as he left his last meeting a bit later than he had expected. He hailed the first cab he could catch as he checked his watch. It was just after 11:00, which gave him just enough time to get to the airport from downtown Montréal.

“Where are you headed?” The cab driver was impartial and unenthusiastic, staring off into the distance as Minho haphazardly threw his luggage against the seat next to him.

“Montréal-Trudeau. Think we’ll get there within the half-hour?”

The driver tutted, merging into traffic. “Probably. Everyone’s trying to get out of town on Fridays, though. Hope you’re not in too tight of a schedule.”

Minho anxiously checked his watch for the nth time as he pulled his phone out of his back pocket. “I guess we’ll see.” His flight left at 13:00, yet he was stuck catching a layover from Toronto to Vancouver, as if fate couldn’t get its ugly talons out of his back. Toronto would never leave him be, it seemed. He sent off a quick text to Changbin, knowing he was going to be busy prepping for his capstone exhibit all afternoon.

11:07 | sent: I’m on my way to the airport. I’ve got a layover, but I’m hopeful I’ll make it in time. Should be in Vancouver just after 18:30, but you know how long it takes to get back into town from YVR.

Minho anxiously drummed his fingertips against his leg, fatigue starting to settle in as he watched the buildings of downtown Montréal fly past the car. Nerves rushed through him as an idea hit him. He tapped at his phone a couple of times, sending off a quick text message to Chan.

11:09 | sent: Hey, can you do me a favour? I’m coming into town tonight, should be landing at 18:30. Can you pick me up from the airport and bring me a change of clothes?

He hadn’t expected Chan to be up so early, much less sending off a response so soon.

Minho rolled his eyes, biting back a smirk as he typed a response back to Chan. He was happy to see that Chan was so close to Seungmin, although he wasn’t surprised at all. Chan was the type to not build relationships, not even friendships, easily, and Seungmin seemed guarded. They had started hitting it off well at the engagement party, and he was eager to hear about what all they had gotten up to while Minho was halfway across the country.

As Minho sent off his text to Chan, Changbin had sent him a message.

11:12 | Changbin: sorry, I’m really busy right now, but I can’t wait to see you tonight 11:13 | Changbin: I know I’ll kind of be the main feature, but here’s what I’ll look like

A photo message came through, Changbin wearing a fitted, pinstriped suit that Minho hadn’t recognised.

11:14 | sent: I like that. You look quite astounding and will definitely deserve to have all eyes on you.

Montréal traffic wasn’t as hectic as Minho anticipated. He passed off a few bills to the cab driver, then grabbed his suitcase and backpack out of the car with him. He looked at the airport entrance and took in a deep breath, nervous for what the next several hours had in store for him. He took a few confident steps towards the airport and nodded once.

“I’m coming, Changbin.”

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