BOT Summer 2012: Differences by static_abyss
Title: Differences
Author: static_abyss
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Minho/Kibum
Warnings: critique and minor bashing of both American Presidential candidates, labeling of groups for the purpose of plot and some cursing.
Summary: Hipster: *a subculture of men and women typically in their 20s and 30s that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation for art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence and witty banter.
Kibum is a hipster.
Notes: There was a prompt at the anon prompt meme, seoulfulness, that mentioned hipster Kibum (which has an awesome fill) and ever since I read the word "hipster" right before "Kibum," I haven't been able to get the idea out of my head. This is the result of too much thinking and a loose interpretation of "write what you know." Could also be mistaken as a social statement.
There are all kinds of people who ride the New York subway system. Kibum takes the five or four trains into Brooklyn every day, transferring over to the R at Pacific Avenue and getting off at 4th Avenue, walking to Park Slope. He works at one of those cafes that play music from obscure bands with real lyrics.
Kibum likes his job. It gets him enough money to buy what he needs for school and there's even a thrift store nearby where he picks out clothes. He likes the worn out skinny jeans and the plaid shirts, the oversized ones that hang off his shoulders, or the ones that are a single color but have words splayed over the middle. The shoes aren't all that bad. Most of them are usable and best of all-they're cheap.
Kibum keeps his hair short and adds multicolored streaks just because he can. He wears thick rimmed glasses and oversized sunglasses when it rains because he likes the way they look on him and, again, because he can. He carries a messenger bag over his left shoulder and eats organic. He thinks politics and politicians are stupid, but if he has to pick, then Kibum's all for progressive politics because it's about time people opened their eyes.
Kibum doesn't fit any labels, but the subway is a good place to see just how well other's fit them. There are all kinds of people on the subway, all kinds of conversations.
The business and business casuals are Kibum's favorites. He can picture them in their white offices, rejecting phone calls and making obscene amounts of money. They all probably stop by Starbucks and pick up their venti black coffees right before they clock in at 9:05-when they're supposed to be at work by 8:30. Most of them probably live in the suburbs, own cars and have 2 kids. Their marriages are going nowhere, but they're okay with that because it's part of the process of life for them. Kibum likes watching them scrolling through their blackberries, sometimes gets the urge to let them know that they don't actually have service underground.
The dropouts are another group Kibum sees on the trains. The kids have an air of exasperation, restlessness they can't seem to shake off. Sometimes, they talk loud enough for the entire subway car to hear them. Sometimes, they stare at the college kids who have their books out on their laps and are scribbling answers to yesterday's homework. Sometimes, they stand by the doors and refuse to move when they open. Sometimes, they cling to the outside of the subway doors and ride the train until they see the end of the platform right in front of them. It's as though there is nothing for them but the constant need to find something, no matter what it was.
Kibum can understand those kids.
The ones he doesn't understand are the attention seekers. They yell their answers to their friends, wear ridiculous clothing, and turn their faces so that the world sees their best side. The girls all dye their hair blond or are blond and speak in nasally accents that grate on Kibum's nerves. Their bags are worth the entirety of his wardrobe but they don't know what to do with themselves. They are perfectly lovely, but they cake their faces in makeup and dance to Madonna. They call themselves feminists, but need boyfriends to make their decisions for them.
Then, there's the group of wanna-be hipsters. Sell outs to their kind, Kibum thinks. They wear t-shirts with ironic quotes on them or t-shirts from bands they don't even know. They blast Peter Bjorn and the John from their Beats and flick through their iPods looking like they don't give a shit when they clearly do. They nod at Kibum as if he understands them. But Kibum doesn't, because he listens to The National and they don't have t-shirts. The best bands never do. He taps his shoes to Voltaire because his songs are sarcastic and Kibum likes being sarcastic. He doesn't have buttons on his bag advertising his stance on same sex marriage. Kibum doesn't need to because he doesn't give a shit about what everyone else thinks and he likes to extend the same courtesy.
Then, there’s the stay at home moms pushing around their strollers. The middle class children all listen to their mothers and sit in their strollers like future businessmen. The kids from all the others cry, yell, hit and behave the way the other classes expect them to do.
It's all pretty sad.
There are jerks that stay in their seats when pregnant women get on and others who stand and always offer their seat to older women. There are those who stare at the ads. Those who stare at their mp3 players.
And Kibum, who stares at everyone else.
Kibum has seen and talked to enough people to know that-90% of the time-people fit the labels he gives them.
Or so he thinks, until he meets Minho.
-
Kibum is flipping through the CDs in the back of the café, looking for something good to play. He's had Foster the People going on a loop for the last four hours and he's getting tired of the same five songs.
The doorbell rings while he's still looking, but Kibum catches sight of the business suit and goes back to flipping through CDs.
The guy's probably in the wrong place, Kibum assumes.
He goes back to looking through Carolina Liar's new album, deciding whether he wants to listen to it or not when someone coughs behind him.
Kibum turns and looks at the guy standing in front of the counter by the cash register. A once over and Kibum puts the man at about thirty, but it's probably just the suit. Kibum also may be biased, being twenty himself; everyone looks older to him.
The man has his blackberry in one hand and keeps looking at it, to Kibum and back.
"May I help you," Kibum asks.
The eyebrow raise from the man lets Kibum know that he came off as rude. It's a habit because the man is the business kind, probably has kids and a wife. He's good looking with his smooth face and dark hair. His eyes are large and amused as he regards Kibum. He's exactly Kibum's type, all legs and not too much muscle, but the man's probably straighter than Kibum's hair.
"Can I get a large caramel latte, but when you put the whipped cream on top drizzle it with chocolate instead of caramel."
It's Kibum's turn to raise an eyebrow. "You do know what that is, right?"
The man smiles, "Are you rude with all your customers or am I special?"
And if the man wasn't wearing a suit, Kibum would think that he was flirting.
"It's going to taste too sweet," Kibum explains.
"Your point?"
The way the man stands and talks makes Kibum angry, as though he's so much better than those around him.
Kibum wants to punch him in the face.
"You don't look like the kind of guy who drinks sweet."
It's direct, but Kibum has a nasty tendency to be too honest sometimes.
"What kind of guy do I look like?"
Kibum eyes him up and down. "Like a black coffee-venti."
The man's eyes twinkle in the low light of the coffee shop. "I'm Minho, and I never take my coffee black."
That, Kibum can't mistake for anything other than flirting.
"Is that a thing for you?" he asks.
Minho stares at Kibum. "What's a thing?"
"Flirting with teenagers?"
Minho goes bright red before his face settles into an unreadable mask. He looks down at the counter, fingers tapping against the edge of his phone. Kibum smirks, wants to see what would happen if Minho looked up now that Kibum is leaning against the counter watching him.
"Kidding," Kibum says, taking pity on Minho. "I'm twenty."
He makes Minho's drink, adds extra syrup and hands it to Minho with a smile. Kibum can see the red along Minho's ears even as the other man pulls out his wallet. Kibum expects plastic. He gets a handful of bills instead.
"Keep the change," Minho murmurs.
The change turns out to be 47 cents, but by the time Kibum wants to complain, Minho is gone.
-
He doesn't come back the next day.
It's irritating because the more Kibum tries to pretend he doesn't care, the harder it gets to keep pretending. He's not sure what it is about Minho that has got him so interested and by the end of the day, he's pushed it to just how good looking Minho is.
By the third day, Kibum's already forgotten about Minho.
On the fourth, he comes back.
"Caramel latte. Whipped cream. Chocolate syrup."
Kibum's refilling the coffee thermoses. He drops the "Moose Tracks" in place and turns to look right at Minho.
He's still in a suit, still has the blackberry and today there's a New York Times paper stuck under Minho's arm.
Kibum watches him, catches Minho's eyes. They look at each other and Kibum isn't sure if he's reading the expression in the other man's eyes correctly. It looks like defiance and there's something about the way Minho opens his paper that seems like a challenge.
"What kind of coffee," Kibum starts. "We have Jamaican Me Crazy, Witches Brew, Muddy Waters and plain espresso."
"I'll have plain espresso," Minho says. "To stay."
"Figures," Kibum rolls his eyes. "Don't know why I bothered asking."
"You know what? That attitude is probably why you don't have any customers."
Kibum glares. There are three other people in the café, but then this isn't a regular café. There are couches instead of chairs, ones that Kibum's boss bought from the thrift shop next door. The cups they serve the coffee in are actual ceramic and the spoons are silver. The art on the walls comes from independent artists who sell their things on the street. The music is mostly indie rock and whatever else Kibum wants to put on. The lights are dimmed, windows covered in signs announcing open mic nights on Saturdays.
Kibum likes it here.
"You know what," he mocks. "Your attitude is probably the reason our country is where it is at the moment."
Minho's laugh catches Kibum by surprise. He watches as Minho's shoulders shake, the frown on his face gone. He looks so much younger that way, almost approachable. It startles a laugh out of Kibum.
"I made you laugh," Minho says.
Kibum feels an odd tightening in his stomach at the serious set of Minho's jaw.
"Have coffee with me," Minho says.
"No."
The response is automatic, a reflex from years of rejecting guys like Minho. Kibum doesn't have coffee with corporate drones no matter how good looking they are.
-
It's impossible to forget Minho after that. He comes in every day to order his latte, sometimes twice.
"Caffeine can kill you." Kibum tells him.
"We're all dying slowly anyway," Minho answers from behind his New York Times.
Minho surprises Kibum like that. With random phrases that aren't really random because Kibum's shirt last week had that printed on it in black letters. But, the way Minho says it, with a smile on his face that contradicts the severity of his clothes, it gets to Kibum. He spends hours replaying that smile in his head, the way Minho's eyes lift at the corners. Kibum wants to know why Minho reads the New York Times, but memorizes quotes on Kibum's shirts.
-
Once, Minho asks Kibum what his favorite coffee is.
"Witches Brew," Kibum answers while handing the old lady waiting by the cash register her coffee.
Minho is sitting on the couch right in front of where Kibum usually stands. He's reading a book, Brave New World.
"Why?"
Minho shrugs and keeps reading.
Kibum knows this game. He's supposed to keep asking questions. He almost doesn't do it, but he's read Brave New World and he wants to know what Minho thinks.
"Good book."
Kibum expects the school answers; something about how the scare the world went through after its World Wars lead its writers to utopias. He waits, but all Minho does is shake his head.
"I don’t think Huxley was stupid enough to believe in utopia. I think he just wanted the world to know it was being too depressing."
Kibum stares.
"What," Minho grins. "Upset I'm not fitting your stereotypes?"
Kibum flips him off.
-
Minho comes in that Saturday too.
"Latte?" Kibum asks, almost bored.
Minho shakes his head. "Let me try Witches Brew."
-
On Monday when Kibum is on his way to class, he sees Minho on the train. He's standing by the train doors, fingers working on his blackberry and face pulled in concentration. Kibum is standing one door over and on the opposite side of Minho. The train pulls up to 42nd street and Kibum takes his chance as people get off to make his way over to Minho.
Minho doesn’t notice Kibum, until the people getting on press them closer than Kibum expected.
"Hi," Kibum says when Minho looks down at him.
The shade Minho turns is interesting-a soft red that starts at his ears and makes its way down to his neck. Kibum smirks, leans forward so that he can almost feel the heat from Minho's body. It makes Minho squirm against his door. He presses back as far as he can go and Kibum moves away, satisfied.
"Let me guess," Kibum says. "You had a meeting this morning."
"No," Minho shakes his head. "I missed my stop and ended up ten stops past mine."
"What were you doing?"
It's more for conversation's sake, Kibum tells himself. It's not because when Kibum turns his earnest eyes on Minho, the other man flushes and refuses to look at him. Even though, honestly, it's ego boosting to know that Kibum can intimidate a thirty-year-old Wall Street man.
"How old are you?"
Minho seems surprised. "Twenty-nine."
Kibum nods. Nine years. He's got a man nine years older than him blushing like a schoolgirl.
They say nothing for a bit as Kibum reads the ads for soap.com above Minho's head. When Kibum glances over at Minho again, Minho's busy with his blackberry.
"You know there's no signal down here, right?"
Minho looks up then, and the mischievous light in his eyes throws Kibum off balance. Minho leans down, brings his phone to Kibum's level and lets him see.
Minho's got a game of Tetris going.
"Have coffee with me," Kibum says.
The startled look in Minho's eyes makes Kibum want to kiss him.
"Yeah," Minho says. "All right."
-
Minho dresses in business casual for their coffee date.
Kibum’s wearing skinny jeans and a shirt that's too big on him. He has his Converse on and his hair has a blue streak in it, cut short because it was getting too long for him.
"You look good." Kibum laughs.
Minho's eyes rake over Kibum's shoulders, down his legs before settling on his hair.
"What?" Kibum challenges.
"Blue's your color."
Kibum goes quiet as they walk along 13th street in Brooklyn. It's Sunday and Kibum needs to finish his paper for class on Monday, but Minho said they were having lunch instead of coffee and Kibum really wasn't up to saying no.
"How many divorces have you been through," Kibum asks.
He can tell Minho's surprised, but it's not unintentional on Kibum's part anymore. He likes the way Minho works to keep the expressions off his face, how he flushes when Kibum asks a question that's too personal.
"We both know this is a date, right?"
Kibum can feel the heat working its way through his chest. He doesn't do dates.
"Why?"
Minho shrugs. "I don't think you get the fact that I don't like girls."
"So," Kibum draws out the word. "You've never been married?"
Minho rolls his eyes. "No."
-
For lunch, they go to a place in between 12th and 13th with dimmed lights and cheap beer. Kibum's almost disappointed when Minho orders beer instead of wine.
"Are you trying to impress me," Kibum ask as he watches Minho eat his steak.
"It's good," Minho shrugs downing his beer. "It's what my father used to drink."
"You are such a wannabe hipster," Kibum laughs.
He gets a halfhearted punch on the shoulder for that and an incredulous look from Minho. "If I'm a wannabe hipster then what are you?"
"I'm not a wannabe."
"Never said you were."
"Don't label me."
Minho gives Kibum a pointed look.
Kibum throws his napkin at Minho's head.
-
"There's a concert at Prospect Park tonight," Minho tells Kibum as they walk along the streets.
Kibum says yes mostly because if Minho was trying to impress him then he'd like it go on a bit longer. He also kind of likes the way Minho's hand brushes the back of Kibum's hand as they walk.
The park is two streets away when Kibum entwines their fingers together. He can feel Minho's eyes on him, but Kibum keeps walking.
-
Their conversation as they wait for the concert to start goes like this.
"I didn't think sitting on the grass was your kind of thing, rich boy," Kibum mocks.
He's got his head on Minho's lap and they're sitting on the grass just outside of the stage. The roped off area with seats opens at 7PM. They both know it's too early at 3PM to use the concert as an excuse to stay, but neither of them have made any move to leave.
"I like coming here," Minho tells Kibum. "I'm usually in sweats though."
Kibum gasps.
"Shut up. Even you can't dress like this all the time."
Kibum looks down at his jeans and shirt. "Why not?"
Minho says nothing and they're back to sitting and staring at the passing middle class men with their dogs. There's a woman passing out flyers that ask people to vote for Obama.
"Who are you voting for?" Kibum asks Minho.
"Romney."
"What the fuck? Seriously?"
"Yeah," Minho shrugs. "Why not?"
Kibum blinks, "the guy's an idiot."
"We have one Presidential candidate who closed all doors to illegal immigrants who haven't gone to school. His law makes it impossible for anyone else to have a chance. That's leaving out people who have kids here, who've been here for over twenty years and who didn't go to school because they had to support their parents in other countries."
Kibum waits because he can tell Minho's going somewhere by the frown on his face.
"We gave Obama a chance and he's going to charge everyone without health insurance extra for not having any. What if your boss is a dick?"
That's what Kibum likes most about Minho, that Minho can talk like he's an upper class businessman, but still curse in the same sentence. It makes him more approachable, much less douchebag material.
"Romney is a closet Mexican American," Kibum says.
"Where he's from is irrelevant as long as he can do something about the mess we're in," Minho stops, glances down at Kibum and smirks. "I thought you, of all people, would know that."
"Fuck off," Kibum mutters, but he feels the smile at the corner of his lips. "You're the fucking hipster."
When Minho laughs, he throws his head back and his shoulders shake. Kibum wants to paint that image on the back of his eyes, get his hands on some pencils and sketch the curve of Minho's neck.
"No," Minho says when he calms down. "I'm a businessman."
Yeah, Kibum thinks, but that's not a bad thing.
"So," Kibum says. "About Romney?"
"Wouldn't vote for him even if you paid me."
-
The National was one of the bands performing that night. Kibum and Minho have seats right up front, next to a couple of girls who are wearing sarcastic t-shirts. There's a woman whose daughter is trying to explain the meaning behind the songs to her mother.
"Do you even know who they are?" Kibum says, yanking on Minho's arm so that he can speak right into his ear.
Minho shivers underneath Kibum's hold and there's the flare of warmth again in Kibum's chest.
"Yeah." Minho answers, his eyes dragging over Kibum's lips, up his face and locking with Kibum's eyes. "Do you?"
Kibum scoffs.
"My favorite song is Slipping Husband."
"I thought you said you were single," and it's flirting on Kibum's part because, fuck it, he kind of likes Minho.
"I am."
The words drag over Kibum's skin even as the beat from the guitar drowns whatever else Minho was saying.
-
They kiss in front of Minho's apartment, all hands and teeth. Minho's hair is soft beneath Kibum's fingers and he likes the possessive grip Minho has on his hips.
Minho is good, technique perfected by the nine years he has on Kibum. But, Kibum's not bad-just eager.
"Do you want to come in?" Minho asks, voice gone hoarse.
"Yeah," Kibum nods.
He would.
Author: static_abyss
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Minho/Kibum
Warnings: critique and minor bashing of both American Presidential candidates, labeling of groups for the purpose of plot and some cursing.
Summary: Hipster: *a subculture of men and women typically in their 20s and 30s that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation for art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence and witty banter.
Kibum is a hipster.
Notes: There was a prompt at the anon prompt meme, seoulfulness, that mentioned hipster Kibum (which has an awesome fill) and ever since I read the word "hipster" right before "Kibum," I haven't been able to get the idea out of my head. This is the result of too much thinking and a loose interpretation of "write what you know." Could also be mistaken as a social statement.
There are all kinds of people who ride the New York subway system. Kibum takes the five or four trains into Brooklyn every day, transferring over to the R at Pacific Avenue and getting off at 4th Avenue, walking to Park Slope. He works at one of those cafes that play music from obscure bands with real lyrics.
Kibum likes his job. It gets him enough money to buy what he needs for school and there's even a thrift store nearby where he picks out clothes. He likes the worn out skinny jeans and the plaid shirts, the oversized ones that hang off his shoulders, or the ones that are a single color but have words splayed over the middle. The shoes aren't all that bad. Most of them are usable and best of all-they're cheap.
Kibum keeps his hair short and adds multicolored streaks just because he can. He wears thick rimmed glasses and oversized sunglasses when it rains because he likes the way they look on him and, again, because he can. He carries a messenger bag over his left shoulder and eats organic. He thinks politics and politicians are stupid, but if he has to pick, then Kibum's all for progressive politics because it's about time people opened their eyes.
Kibum doesn't fit any labels, but the subway is a good place to see just how well other's fit them. There are all kinds of people on the subway, all kinds of conversations.
The business and business casuals are Kibum's favorites. He can picture them in their white offices, rejecting phone calls and making obscene amounts of money. They all probably stop by Starbucks and pick up their venti black coffees right before they clock in at 9:05-when they're supposed to be at work by 8:30. Most of them probably live in the suburbs, own cars and have 2 kids. Their marriages are going nowhere, but they're okay with that because it's part of the process of life for them. Kibum likes watching them scrolling through their blackberries, sometimes gets the urge to let them know that they don't actually have service underground.
The dropouts are another group Kibum sees on the trains. The kids have an air of exasperation, restlessness they can't seem to shake off. Sometimes, they talk loud enough for the entire subway car to hear them. Sometimes, they stare at the college kids who have their books out on their laps and are scribbling answers to yesterday's homework. Sometimes, they stand by the doors and refuse to move when they open. Sometimes, they cling to the outside of the subway doors and ride the train until they see the end of the platform right in front of them. It's as though there is nothing for them but the constant need to find something, no matter what it was.
Kibum can understand those kids.
The ones he doesn't understand are the attention seekers. They yell their answers to their friends, wear ridiculous clothing, and turn their faces so that the world sees their best side. The girls all dye their hair blond or are blond and speak in nasally accents that grate on Kibum's nerves. Their bags are worth the entirety of his wardrobe but they don't know what to do with themselves. They are perfectly lovely, but they cake their faces in makeup and dance to Madonna. They call themselves feminists, but need boyfriends to make their decisions for them.
Then, there's the group of wanna-be hipsters. Sell outs to their kind, Kibum thinks. They wear t-shirts with ironic quotes on them or t-shirts from bands they don't even know. They blast Peter Bjorn and the John from their Beats and flick through their iPods looking like they don't give a shit when they clearly do. They nod at Kibum as if he understands them. But Kibum doesn't, because he listens to The National and they don't have t-shirts. The best bands never do. He taps his shoes to Voltaire because his songs are sarcastic and Kibum likes being sarcastic. He doesn't have buttons on his bag advertising his stance on same sex marriage. Kibum doesn't need to because he doesn't give a shit about what everyone else thinks and he likes to extend the same courtesy.
Then, there’s the stay at home moms pushing around their strollers. The middle class children all listen to their mothers and sit in their strollers like future businessmen. The kids from all the others cry, yell, hit and behave the way the other classes expect them to do.
It's all pretty sad.
There are jerks that stay in their seats when pregnant women get on and others who stand and always offer their seat to older women. There are those who stare at the ads. Those who stare at their mp3 players.
And Kibum, who stares at everyone else.
Kibum has seen and talked to enough people to know that-90% of the time-people fit the labels he gives them.
Or so he thinks, until he meets Minho.
-
Kibum is flipping through the CDs in the back of the café, looking for something good to play. He's had Foster the People going on a loop for the last four hours and he's getting tired of the same five songs.
The doorbell rings while he's still looking, but Kibum catches sight of the business suit and goes back to flipping through CDs.
The guy's probably in the wrong place, Kibum assumes.
He goes back to looking through Carolina Liar's new album, deciding whether he wants to listen to it or not when someone coughs behind him.
Kibum turns and looks at the guy standing in front of the counter by the cash register. A once over and Kibum puts the man at about thirty, but it's probably just the suit. Kibum also may be biased, being twenty himself; everyone looks older to him.
The man has his blackberry in one hand and keeps looking at it, to Kibum and back.
"May I help you," Kibum asks.
The eyebrow raise from the man lets Kibum know that he came off as rude. It's a habit because the man is the business kind, probably has kids and a wife. He's good looking with his smooth face and dark hair. His eyes are large and amused as he regards Kibum. He's exactly Kibum's type, all legs and not too much muscle, but the man's probably straighter than Kibum's hair.
"Can I get a large caramel latte, but when you put the whipped cream on top drizzle it with chocolate instead of caramel."
It's Kibum's turn to raise an eyebrow. "You do know what that is, right?"
The man smiles, "Are you rude with all your customers or am I special?"
And if the man wasn't wearing a suit, Kibum would think that he was flirting.
"It's going to taste too sweet," Kibum explains.
"Your point?"
The way the man stands and talks makes Kibum angry, as though he's so much better than those around him.
Kibum wants to punch him in the face.
"You don't look like the kind of guy who drinks sweet."
It's direct, but Kibum has a nasty tendency to be too honest sometimes.
"What kind of guy do I look like?"
Kibum eyes him up and down. "Like a black coffee-venti."
The man's eyes twinkle in the low light of the coffee shop. "I'm Minho, and I never take my coffee black."
That, Kibum can't mistake for anything other than flirting.
"Is that a thing for you?" he asks.
Minho stares at Kibum. "What's a thing?"
"Flirting with teenagers?"
Minho goes bright red before his face settles into an unreadable mask. He looks down at the counter, fingers tapping against the edge of his phone. Kibum smirks, wants to see what would happen if Minho looked up now that Kibum is leaning against the counter watching him.
"Kidding," Kibum says, taking pity on Minho. "I'm twenty."
He makes Minho's drink, adds extra syrup and hands it to Minho with a smile. Kibum can see the red along Minho's ears even as the other man pulls out his wallet. Kibum expects plastic. He gets a handful of bills instead.
"Keep the change," Minho murmurs.
The change turns out to be 47 cents, but by the time Kibum wants to complain, Minho is gone.
-
He doesn't come back the next day.
It's irritating because the more Kibum tries to pretend he doesn't care, the harder it gets to keep pretending. He's not sure what it is about Minho that has got him so interested and by the end of the day, he's pushed it to just how good looking Minho is.
By the third day, Kibum's already forgotten about Minho.
On the fourth, he comes back.
"Caramel latte. Whipped cream. Chocolate syrup."
Kibum's refilling the coffee thermoses. He drops the "Moose Tracks" in place and turns to look right at Minho.
He's still in a suit, still has the blackberry and today there's a New York Times paper stuck under Minho's arm.
Kibum watches him, catches Minho's eyes. They look at each other and Kibum isn't sure if he's reading the expression in the other man's eyes correctly. It looks like defiance and there's something about the way Minho opens his paper that seems like a challenge.
"What kind of coffee," Kibum starts. "We have Jamaican Me Crazy, Witches Brew, Muddy Waters and plain espresso."
"I'll have plain espresso," Minho says. "To stay."
"Figures," Kibum rolls his eyes. "Don't know why I bothered asking."
"You know what? That attitude is probably why you don't have any customers."
Kibum glares. There are three other people in the café, but then this isn't a regular café. There are couches instead of chairs, ones that Kibum's boss bought from the thrift shop next door. The cups they serve the coffee in are actual ceramic and the spoons are silver. The art on the walls comes from independent artists who sell their things on the street. The music is mostly indie rock and whatever else Kibum wants to put on. The lights are dimmed, windows covered in signs announcing open mic nights on Saturdays.
Kibum likes it here.
"You know what," he mocks. "Your attitude is probably the reason our country is where it is at the moment."
Minho's laugh catches Kibum by surprise. He watches as Minho's shoulders shake, the frown on his face gone. He looks so much younger that way, almost approachable. It startles a laugh out of Kibum.
"I made you laugh," Minho says.
Kibum feels an odd tightening in his stomach at the serious set of Minho's jaw.
"Have coffee with me," Minho says.
"No."
The response is automatic, a reflex from years of rejecting guys like Minho. Kibum doesn't have coffee with corporate drones no matter how good looking they are.
-
It's impossible to forget Minho after that. He comes in every day to order his latte, sometimes twice.
"Caffeine can kill you." Kibum tells him.
"We're all dying slowly anyway," Minho answers from behind his New York Times.
Minho surprises Kibum like that. With random phrases that aren't really random because Kibum's shirt last week had that printed on it in black letters. But, the way Minho says it, with a smile on his face that contradicts the severity of his clothes, it gets to Kibum. He spends hours replaying that smile in his head, the way Minho's eyes lift at the corners. Kibum wants to know why Minho reads the New York Times, but memorizes quotes on Kibum's shirts.
-
Once, Minho asks Kibum what his favorite coffee is.
"Witches Brew," Kibum answers while handing the old lady waiting by the cash register her coffee.
Minho is sitting on the couch right in front of where Kibum usually stands. He's reading a book, Brave New World.
"Why?"
Minho shrugs and keeps reading.
Kibum knows this game. He's supposed to keep asking questions. He almost doesn't do it, but he's read Brave New World and he wants to know what Minho thinks.
"Good book."
Kibum expects the school answers; something about how the scare the world went through after its World Wars lead its writers to utopias. He waits, but all Minho does is shake his head.
"I don’t think Huxley was stupid enough to believe in utopia. I think he just wanted the world to know it was being too depressing."
Kibum stares.
"What," Minho grins. "Upset I'm not fitting your stereotypes?"
Kibum flips him off.
-
Minho comes in that Saturday too.
"Latte?" Kibum asks, almost bored.
Minho shakes his head. "Let me try Witches Brew."
-
On Monday when Kibum is on his way to class, he sees Minho on the train. He's standing by the train doors, fingers working on his blackberry and face pulled in concentration. Kibum is standing one door over and on the opposite side of Minho. The train pulls up to 42nd street and Kibum takes his chance as people get off to make his way over to Minho.
Minho doesn’t notice Kibum, until the people getting on press them closer than Kibum expected.
"Hi," Kibum says when Minho looks down at him.
The shade Minho turns is interesting-a soft red that starts at his ears and makes its way down to his neck. Kibum smirks, leans forward so that he can almost feel the heat from Minho's body. It makes Minho squirm against his door. He presses back as far as he can go and Kibum moves away, satisfied.
"Let me guess," Kibum says. "You had a meeting this morning."
"No," Minho shakes his head. "I missed my stop and ended up ten stops past mine."
"What were you doing?"
It's more for conversation's sake, Kibum tells himself. It's not because when Kibum turns his earnest eyes on Minho, the other man flushes and refuses to look at him. Even though, honestly, it's ego boosting to know that Kibum can intimidate a thirty-year-old Wall Street man.
"How old are you?"
Minho seems surprised. "Twenty-nine."
Kibum nods. Nine years. He's got a man nine years older than him blushing like a schoolgirl.
They say nothing for a bit as Kibum reads the ads for soap.com above Minho's head. When Kibum glances over at Minho again, Minho's busy with his blackberry.
"You know there's no signal down here, right?"
Minho looks up then, and the mischievous light in his eyes throws Kibum off balance. Minho leans down, brings his phone to Kibum's level and lets him see.
Minho's got a game of Tetris going.
"Have coffee with me," Kibum says.
The startled look in Minho's eyes makes Kibum want to kiss him.
"Yeah," Minho says. "All right."
-
Minho dresses in business casual for their coffee date.
Kibum’s wearing skinny jeans and a shirt that's too big on him. He has his Converse on and his hair has a blue streak in it, cut short because it was getting too long for him.
"You look good." Kibum laughs.
Minho's eyes rake over Kibum's shoulders, down his legs before settling on his hair.
"What?" Kibum challenges.
"Blue's your color."
Kibum goes quiet as they walk along 13th street in Brooklyn. It's Sunday and Kibum needs to finish his paper for class on Monday, but Minho said they were having lunch instead of coffee and Kibum really wasn't up to saying no.
"How many divorces have you been through," Kibum asks.
He can tell Minho's surprised, but it's not unintentional on Kibum's part anymore. He likes the way Minho works to keep the expressions off his face, how he flushes when Kibum asks a question that's too personal.
"We both know this is a date, right?"
Kibum can feel the heat working its way through his chest. He doesn't do dates.
"Why?"
Minho shrugs. "I don't think you get the fact that I don't like girls."
"So," Kibum draws out the word. "You've never been married?"
Minho rolls his eyes. "No."
-
For lunch, they go to a place in between 12th and 13th with dimmed lights and cheap beer. Kibum's almost disappointed when Minho orders beer instead of wine.
"Are you trying to impress me," Kibum ask as he watches Minho eat his steak.
"It's good," Minho shrugs downing his beer. "It's what my father used to drink."
"You are such a wannabe hipster," Kibum laughs.
He gets a halfhearted punch on the shoulder for that and an incredulous look from Minho. "If I'm a wannabe hipster then what are you?"
"I'm not a wannabe."
"Never said you were."
"Don't label me."
Minho gives Kibum a pointed look.
Kibum throws his napkin at Minho's head.
-
"There's a concert at Prospect Park tonight," Minho tells Kibum as they walk along the streets.
Kibum says yes mostly because if Minho was trying to impress him then he'd like it go on a bit longer. He also kind of likes the way Minho's hand brushes the back of Kibum's hand as they walk.
The park is two streets away when Kibum entwines their fingers together. He can feel Minho's eyes on him, but Kibum keeps walking.
-
Their conversation as they wait for the concert to start goes like this.
"I didn't think sitting on the grass was your kind of thing, rich boy," Kibum mocks.
He's got his head on Minho's lap and they're sitting on the grass just outside of the stage. The roped off area with seats opens at 7PM. They both know it's too early at 3PM to use the concert as an excuse to stay, but neither of them have made any move to leave.
"I like coming here," Minho tells Kibum. "I'm usually in sweats though."
Kibum gasps.
"Shut up. Even you can't dress like this all the time."
Kibum looks down at his jeans and shirt. "Why not?"
Minho says nothing and they're back to sitting and staring at the passing middle class men with their dogs. There's a woman passing out flyers that ask people to vote for Obama.
"Who are you voting for?" Kibum asks Minho.
"Romney."
"What the fuck? Seriously?"
"Yeah," Minho shrugs. "Why not?"
Kibum blinks, "the guy's an idiot."
"We have one Presidential candidate who closed all doors to illegal immigrants who haven't gone to school. His law makes it impossible for anyone else to have a chance. That's leaving out people who have kids here, who've been here for over twenty years and who didn't go to school because they had to support their parents in other countries."
Kibum waits because he can tell Minho's going somewhere by the frown on his face.
"We gave Obama a chance and he's going to charge everyone without health insurance extra for not having any. What if your boss is a dick?"
That's what Kibum likes most about Minho, that Minho can talk like he's an upper class businessman, but still curse in the same sentence. It makes him more approachable, much less douchebag material.
"Romney is a closet Mexican American," Kibum says.
"Where he's from is irrelevant as long as he can do something about the mess we're in," Minho stops, glances down at Kibum and smirks. "I thought you, of all people, would know that."
"Fuck off," Kibum mutters, but he feels the smile at the corner of his lips. "You're the fucking hipster."
When Minho laughs, he throws his head back and his shoulders shake. Kibum wants to paint that image on the back of his eyes, get his hands on some pencils and sketch the curve of Minho's neck.
"No," Minho says when he calms down. "I'm a businessman."
Yeah, Kibum thinks, but that's not a bad thing.
"So," Kibum says. "About Romney?"
"Wouldn't vote for him even if you paid me."
-
The National was one of the bands performing that night. Kibum and Minho have seats right up front, next to a couple of girls who are wearing sarcastic t-shirts. There's a woman whose daughter is trying to explain the meaning behind the songs to her mother.
"Do you even know who they are?" Kibum says, yanking on Minho's arm so that he can speak right into his ear.
Minho shivers underneath Kibum's hold and there's the flare of warmth again in Kibum's chest.
"Yeah." Minho answers, his eyes dragging over Kibum's lips, up his face and locking with Kibum's eyes. "Do you?"
Kibum scoffs.
"My favorite song is Slipping Husband."
"I thought you said you were single," and it's flirting on Kibum's part because, fuck it, he kind of likes Minho.
"I am."
The words drag over Kibum's skin even as the beat from the guitar drowns whatever else Minho was saying.
-
They kiss in front of Minho's apartment, all hands and teeth. Minho's hair is soft beneath Kibum's fingers and he likes the possessive grip Minho has on his hips.
Minho is good, technique perfected by the nine years he has on Kibum. But, Kibum's not bad-just eager.
"Do you want to come in?" Minho asks, voice gone hoarse.
"Yeah," Kibum nods.
He would.