"special"
special ; g ; minho/key ; one shot.
written for a friend. minho's likes and dislikes in regards to kibum.
→ ☆ ☆ ☆
Minho hated the way Kibum's breath hit him when he fell asleep.
On the rare occasion that the other boy wasn't smashed in between Jinki or Jonghyun or hadn't gone off to pester Taemin about his homework, Kibum would end up next to him on the bus home. Minho used to like it. Kibum would always have something to say; comments to add, perspectives to share, so much so that Minho usually keep his tongue in his cheek and his eyes directed out the window to avoid saying something that would spoil Kibum's particular views. But Kibum would usually take the silence as tacit compliance to continue on until his words drifted off into quiet murmurs and his eyes, so focused on Minho's profile, fell and drooped beneath heavy lashes. Kibum's head always felt so light against his shoulder. His breath tickled.
He hated that.
Minho also hated the way Kibum's clothes always looked infinitely better than his own. It wasn't even a matter of style--they all tended to wear things that stuck within their genre; they all didn't have the luxury of picking everything out separately. Yet whenever Kibum showed up at the studio or met up with them after practice, Minho's eyes would cast down his figure and think, when did he ever get those jeans? He'd catch Kibum rolling up his sleeves and wonder, how did he ever get that sweatshirt on? There wasn't any part of him that sought to replicate the looks--rather, he found himself jealous of the fact that Kibum simply looked good all the time, enough to ease compliments out of passerbys like a cat coaxing milk out of its masters.
For some stupid reason, he hated that.
In particular, Minho hated how long Kibum's fingers were, how nice his lips looked, how his hair shifted and pushed out of his eyes and how that one time Kibum had backed him up into the wall of his bedroom when Jonghyun hadn't been home he'd actually liked the attention and the secrecy. How he hadn't hated Kibum's hands under his shirt and how he hadn't hated the kisses and how he'd wanted to keep returning them despite the nerves that caused butterflies to sprout and beat frantic wings against the inside of his stomach.
"Don't think you're anything special," Kibum had slurred at him. Minho knew he was drunk. He'd wrapped his arms around that body, that bundle of heat that crawled over him and wrapped itself tightly around his neck. He'd let the kisses fade out until they became nothing but Kibum's stupid breath again, against his neck, and Kibum's jeans and another one of those stupid shirts that fit just the way it should. He'd held him until the morning came and Kibum's eyes cracked open and there was embarrassment and a distinct shyness and then he'd crawled away and Minho had said he had to go to schedule even though he had nowhere to go that day and they both knew it. So he tried to forget about it.
Minho knew he was nothing special. He hated that too.
written for a friend. minho's likes and dislikes in regards to kibum.
→ ☆ ☆ ☆
Minho hated the way Kibum's breath hit him when he fell asleep.
On the rare occasion that the other boy wasn't smashed in between Jinki or Jonghyun or hadn't gone off to pester Taemin about his homework, Kibum would end up next to him on the bus home. Minho used to like it. Kibum would always have something to say; comments to add, perspectives to share, so much so that Minho usually keep his tongue in his cheek and his eyes directed out the window to avoid saying something that would spoil Kibum's particular views. But Kibum would usually take the silence as tacit compliance to continue on until his words drifted off into quiet murmurs and his eyes, so focused on Minho's profile, fell and drooped beneath heavy lashes. Kibum's head always felt so light against his shoulder. His breath tickled.
He hated that.
Minho also hated the way Kibum's clothes always looked infinitely better than his own. It wasn't even a matter of style--they all tended to wear things that stuck within their genre; they all didn't have the luxury of picking everything out separately. Yet whenever Kibum showed up at the studio or met up with them after practice, Minho's eyes would cast down his figure and think, when did he ever get those jeans? He'd catch Kibum rolling up his sleeves and wonder, how did he ever get that sweatshirt on? There wasn't any part of him that sought to replicate the looks--rather, he found himself jealous of the fact that Kibum simply looked good all the time, enough to ease compliments out of passerbys like a cat coaxing milk out of its masters.
For some stupid reason, he hated that.
In particular, Minho hated how long Kibum's fingers were, how nice his lips looked, how his hair shifted and pushed out of his eyes and how that one time Kibum had backed him up into the wall of his bedroom when Jonghyun hadn't been home he'd actually liked the attention and the secrecy. How he hadn't hated Kibum's hands under his shirt and how he hadn't hated the kisses and how he'd wanted to keep returning them despite the nerves that caused butterflies to sprout and beat frantic wings against the inside of his stomach.
"Don't think you're anything special," Kibum had slurred at him. Minho knew he was drunk. He'd wrapped his arms around that body, that bundle of heat that crawled over him and wrapped itself tightly around his neck. He'd let the kisses fade out until they became nothing but Kibum's stupid breath again, against his neck, and Kibum's jeans and another one of those stupid shirts that fit just the way it should. He'd held him until the morning came and Kibum's eyes cracked open and there was embarrassment and a distinct shyness and then he'd crawled away and Minho had said he had to go to schedule even though he had nowhere to go that day and they both knew it. So he tried to forget about it.
Minho knew he was nothing special. He hated that too.