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If Minho doesn't shut up within the next few seconds, Kibum won't hesitate in smashing his glass over the asshole's head.
He woke up barely five minutes ago from one of the worst hangovers of his life, head pounding, eyes and limbs heavy and mouth parched, bile permanently sticking to the base of his throat. The scent of dog food still wafting in his nose isn't helping, and neither is the water he's slowly sipping, trying and failing to wash away the consequences of his actions. His and Minho's, and their manager's, to be exact. Kibum did not buy all of the alcohol, now strewn in the form of empty and crumbled bottles and cans over every surface of his living room—just some.
He did help drink all of it though. Apparently. It's not like he remembers much.
He remembers tipping back shot after shot of soju, can after can of beer, passing them back and forth between himself and Minho while their manager sat to the side sipping from his own personal bottle. He remembers the burning of his throat, then his blood, then his skin, his face heating up almost as fast as he could drink. He remembers the swell of music from the TV, the cold of the tiles under his feet as he went about some dissonant dance in front of the table, and—Minho.
"You didn't stop me from dancing yesterday," Kibum forces out. His voice is still gravelly from dehydration and the water he sips again still does nothing. Minho just laughs. Bitch. "It's your fault."
He'd stayed and slept on Kibum's sofa of all places, when he could've easily taken the guest room or even joined Kibum in his own bed. He wouldn't care all that much, not just because he was knackered drunk but also, they've shared beds a million times. It's really not that deep, despite how much Kibum feels his insides burn at the thought of it, and he can't even blame the feeling on his hangover.
"You had a concert yesterday," Minho grins. It's not that Kibum is looking at him, eyes fixed on some point that he can't see on the floor. He just knows.
Instead of cussing him out, Kibum falls back on the cushions, frustration making its way onto his face as scrunched-up laughter. He knows he danced. He doesn't know what he danced to. He doesn't know what he did, just flashes of drunken memory, fuzzy in his sleep-addled mind.
"Yesterday," Minho continues, and Kibum buries his head in one of the pillows beside him, still holding his mug. He needs to drown out his loud-ass voice, but it's redundant, the words booming into his head. "You danced to like, twenty songs. There wasn't even enough storage on my phone!"
Storage? On his phone?
"I was filming you."
Oh, fuck. Fuckity fuck. Kibum uses all the strength he has left in his worn-out limbs, pushing himself to sit up again, taking another sip of water. His throat feels even drier than before.
Minho filmed him. God fucking damnit. Kibum would prefer the memories stay gone. He doesn't want to know.
Minho isn't one for caring what he wants though, tapping at something while Kibum doesn't meet his eyes before flipping the screen to him. It takes Kibum a moment to make out what he's seeing, vision still bleary from his awful sleep, before his eyes widen and his mouth drops open.
It's a dumb, blurry video, of him dancing to Step Back by GOT the beat in front of the TV. His pyjamas are the same as the ones he's wearing now and his hair is less messy, and he doesn't look all that red at all. He wouldn't know that it's an alcohol-infused shot if the bottles hadn't been in frame and Minho's camerawork wasn't so shaky.
He looks ridiculous. Minho is never going to let him live this down. He has half a mind to snatch his phone and delete the video, but he's in his thirties and Minho will make fun of him for acting like a teenager, again, and Kibum's head is still swimming and every noise hurts and god, he needs a shower and not Minho's nagging right now.
Maybe he should kick him out. Maybe he should call their manager to kick him out. Manager-nim is probably wiped right now though, depending on how much he drank. Kibum only woke up because of the alarm for his dogs and the dog sitting next to him, still on his phone, except now he's fallen back onto the cushions like Kibum did in embarassment earlier, letting out a choked "wait," and a laugh that Kibum knows isn't real.
Kibum is disgustingly versed in Minho-ology. He knows the look he makes when he's teasing and the way his eyes pop when he's actually mad. He knows how to rile him up until he crashes and how to soothe him when he's crashed out. He knows when he lies and when he doesn't, when the joke has gone too far and it's time to back down, when to leave him alone and when to nag until he begs for Kibum to leave him alone. He knows his looks of disbelief and sounds of disappointment and happiness and anger and embarassment and astonishment, and he knows the laugh he's just let out is both fake and a mix of the latter two adjectives.
Kibum knows to set down his cup when Minho finally sits up again, hand faltering between covering his face and fumbling with the fabric of his trousers. He doesn't really understand though until Minho turns the screen towards him again, asking "Is this okay?", and all the blood in his body rushes to his face and neck.
It's a selfie of the two of them.
Kibum forces out the fakest laugh he's ever made. It's worse than his acting for their 2009 skits.
It's a selfie of the two of them kissing.
Kibum's hands in Minho's hair, Minho's hand free peeking out from around his waist, their lips pressed together like it's the first and the last time. Their faces pink, flushed, and it's not just because of the alcohol. Their eyes squeezed shut and their noses pressing together, overhead light changing the colour of their hair and the shadows of their faces, everything so messy and sloppy and so incredibly like and unlike them.
Kibum doesn't ask why Minho took this picture, the lines of their faces blurred by his drunken hand, and he doesn't ask him to delete it. He doesn't ask why Minho is showing it to him. He doesn't make fun of him, doesn't curse or yell, he just stares for the few moments that Minho shows him the image, then forces out a laugh when he flicks his finger to the next one, a frame where it looks like Kibum is falling over, face screwed into a ridiculous but real smile, shirt half-off and bare arm in the air.
His lips are slightly swollen.
Why did we kiss? Why aren't you saying anything? Why show me, then switch to the next like it's nothing? Why can't I look at your face? Are you feeling the same way I am? Does this look real to you?
Dumbfounded, Kibum can only manage, "Am I crazy?" before Minho begins to laugh again, this time softer, more real, and when he finally looks at his face, Minho is as as flushed as Kibum imagines himself to be. The apples of his cheeks are tinged pink and his ears are even worse, slowly becoming a brighter and brighter shade of red. He's not looking at Kibum either, except he kind of is, still flicking through his phone.
Kibum and Minho have always been the best at deflection. From when they were chosen to debut in SHINee, they'd quickly grasped the art of it, blowing up at each other and going back to their normal (if you could even call it that) lives before the hyungs could stage an intervention. It's normal. Them.
So why does it feel so wrong when Minho moves on, cackling as he shows Kibum an image seemingly taken moments after the last, where he's flexing his arm now, and why does it feel so wrong when Kibum reaches for Minho just to tackle him? Why does it feel like he should be doing more than shoving him, pretending to headbutt him, as Minho laughs and laughs, and then just as quickly, asks if they should clean up?
Kibum's head hurts. The headbutt didn't help.
The heat doesn't leave his face. They clean. Minho nags him. About the bottles (like he wasn't drinking), the dishwasher, Kibum's fridge. Kibum cleans. He thinks of the picture of them kissing, he tries to remember. He comes up with nothing. Minho nags about the fried chicken on the table, and it's normal and not when Kibum says, "honey, stop it."
Honey. Baby. Babe. They've used pet names for years, it's completely normal. It means nothing.
Except the look Minho is giving him is anything but, and Kibum is having thoughts he shouldn't.
He keeps finding himself staring at Minho's lips.
You'd think, after spending more time with him than with his own family since 2008, Kibum would be over it. Nah. Minho has k-drama visuals; he was chosen as the visual of Shinee for a reason. He's been casted in multiple shows for a reason.
Kibum kissed him last night for a reason. Maybe a few. Kibum could list them, but that would mean complimenting Minho, and—
They eat some of the leftover chicken. Kibum has this weird compelling to lick Minho's lips clean.
He needs to stop.
At least Minho makes it easy for Kibum to switch between this new, unbidden desire and complete and utter irritation. It's like he can't do one nice thing—finding that there are in fact hangover pills left in one of the stray bags—without pissing Kibum off.
And it's not like the pills work instantly. Kibum's head is still pounding and Minho's voice is too loud and maybe he should quiet him with his lips. That would work. That would work quite well.
Kibum fumbles with the packaging and Minho cleans. He does this every time he comes over—nags while he turns Kibum's house upside down, aka the right way up, leaving everything pristine and organised. Does Minho even feel the hangover? He doubts he drank more than Minho. Minho doesn't drink until he can't, he drinks until there's nothing left to drink. Yet he moves and cleans like his body isn't full of coal like Kibum's and his head isn't swimming like Kibum's and his throat isn't a scratchy mess like Kibum's.
He doesn't do this for his own damn house, for crying out loud, just Kibum's, and it's so painfully domestic, watching him complain as he reorganises Kibum's fridge of all things while his phone lays face-down on the table where Kibum is sat, the image of them still somewhere in its drive.
Kibum doesn't think much as he reaches over and picks up Minho's phone as his back is turned. He doesn't think much at all until the screen lights up at his touch and the lockscreen is burning into his heavy eyes, and now he's not thinking at all, because he must be hallucinating, seeing the image of the two of them kissing right there.
He takes Minho's phone and locks himself in his bathroom, because he can. He knows Minho's password—he knows everything about him—so it's not hard to get into his photos app and investigate. Call him curious, yeah. His eyes burn and his head pounds but he has to do this, because. Because.
Minho wasn't exaggerating when he said last night took up all of his phone's storage. There's row after row of images that all look the same, dozens of videos of Kibum dancing and tipping back one shot of soju after another, and then.
Then there's the kiss. Six consecutive images, all with a lightly different tilt of their heads, placement of their hands, shadows on their cheeks. All of Kibum and Minho kissing.
His face burns. His body burns. He can't remember this happening, and yet, it's there, it's real, and Kibum can't think of anything more than how much he wants to feel it happen. Happen again.
He's probably kissed Minho before this, before last night. They've known each other for almost two decades, how could they not? But he needs to feel it. For it to be real.
Kibum's head hurts.
It hurts even more when Minho starts flicking the lights from the outside, like the child he is. There's still daylight, but really, he can't even catch a break in the bathroom? It's not like he's actually peeing, but Minho doesn't know that. Fucker.
He's not in front of the door anymore when Kibum steps out, but it's not hard to find him, whining again from the kitchen. Kibum stands with Minho's phone in his hand, unsure what he's doing until Minho turns to him, probably to insult the placement of his cheese or something, and he holds out Minho's phone.
"What—"
The screen lights up. He knows, not because the phone is facing him, but because the light hits the planes of Minho's face in a way that makes him look both real and not, domestic and artistically sculpted, and damn Kibum and his stupid lungs for his breath being taken away by Choi Fucking Minho.
The actor, the singer, the idol and his best friend clears his throat, eyes darting to his feet. Shy? "Hm," Minho says, or doesn't, shutting the doors of the fridge and leaning his shoulder against it. "Hm."
Kibum's blood boils. "That's all you have to say? Hm?"
"I was going to ask if you're mad," Minho says finally, "But you're kind of obvious." Before Kibum can protest, Minho takes the phone from his hand, his fingers brushing Kibum's with a weird gentleness that sends sparks flying through him. "Do… do you want me to delete them?"
He's acting weird, he's acting so weird, and yet Kibum can't find it in himself to make fun of him. His mouth moves before his brain can catch up. "No,"
"No?"
The look Minho gives him is dark, his eyes not leaving Kibum's as he sets his phone on the kitchen counter. It spurs Kibum on. He walks forwards. "No."
Their noses are almost touching, bodies barely inches apart, when Minho says, "What do you want then?", his voice all deep and sultry, and… fuck.
Fucking hell.
Kibum has enough pride not to answer. Minho is enough of a bitch to grin, teasing and wicked. "Go on," he breathes, hot air on Kibum's philtrum as he tilts his head, lips tantalisingly close. "Tell flaming charisma Minho what you want."
Way to bust the mood, bitch. Kibum punches him, and Minho doesn't even flinch, still smirking in that stupidly hot way and no, no, Kibum has had enough. He lifts a hand and tugs on Minho's hair, grinning as Minho's eyes dilate and his breath noticably hitches.
"I want to kiss you," Kibum grits out, tilting his head as he leans in. "I'm going to kiss you."
In a satisfying turn of events, Minho lets out the most embarassing please of his life, and Kibum finally, finally presses their lips together.
Things escalate quickly after that. Minho's hands wrap around his waist. His head tilts, Kibum deepens the kiss, and Minho tightens his arms, pressing his fingers into Kibum's hips, and Kibum's fist tightens at his scalp. Minho groans.
Crazy. He feels crazy. It's the only way to describe the sparks where their skin meets, the rush of blood to his head, the sudden lack of hangover symptoms taken over fully by the desire crashing through every part of his body.
Then Minho shoves him, and everything comes crashing down. The git has the audacity to laugh at him, with his lips swollen and face flushed a deep red from kissing. His hands are still on Kibum's waist.
"Do you really want to do this on your fridge?" Minho murmurs with another laugh, light and annoying and... insanely maddening.
No. Not at all. Kibum doesn't have to answer for Minho to begin pushing him, pushing him until the backs of his knees hit the frame of his bed and the protest at the tip of his tongue dies when Minho's mouth covers his own again.
Minho pushes him onto the bed.
—
Kibum lays on his bed, legs tangled in the sheets, body slightly aching and exhausted. At the very least, his head doesn't hurt anymore.
He doubts it'll stay that way for long. Minho is up already, and Kibum doesn't point out that his shirt is on backwards, because he's too busy trying not to throw a lamp at his head.
"Why are you like this?" Minho asks, holding up a pair of Kibum's jeans. He's pulled the pile of clothes out from the bottom of his closet and onto the bed, folding them one by one and piling them back inside. It's considerate as it is infuriating, because Minho can't do one nice thing without annoying Kibum to hell and back about it as payment.
"Just leave it," Kibum groans, reaching for his phone. Or Minho's. Who cares. "It's okay, let's just eat."
Minho ignores him, continuing to fold until there's nothing left and he pulls out more to fix. "You should wash up first, then we'll eat."
Kibum ignores him as well, opening Minho's browser to search for fast food. He's petty like that and proud of it, too.
He finds a place as Minho finally finishes with his cupboards, flopping onto the bed beside him with a loud groan. Kibum wishes he was mad, but his face just flushes instead.
Until they're arguing again. Minho wants spicy food. Kibum wants oily. Who eats spicy food after a hangover? But Minho likes it, so he offers for them each to get their own thing, and Minho argues that too, wanting to eat together.
He's so fucking annoying. Why did Kibum want to kiss him again? Seriously.
As soon as the food is ordered, Minho turns back to Kibum's closet.
He might just crash out.
"We're not moving in together," he asserts, eyes trained on Minho's back. "I'll go insane."
Minho turns to him, picking up one of his laptops. "Who else is going to fix this shithole for you, hm? Why did you put this here? Why—"
Kibum crashes out.