Maybe, Maybe Not
Title: Maybe, Maybe Not
Pairing: 2min
Rating: pg
Genre: au, fluff
Words: 984
They met at a museum on the day that there was a showing for Outer Space: The Science Behind Black Holes and Coral Reefs.
Minho wasn't working. Well, he was, but he wasn’t really working; he could sit inside the theater and enjoy the back to back movies just as well as everyone else could once he'd gotten the audiences seated and made sure that they knew that their phones had to be off.
Usually he wouldn't bother to watch these, but this time it was about coral reefs and it was a known fact that when it came to the oceans and seas Minho simply can't resist. So there he was, preparing to sit through forty minutes of outer space to indulge his fascination with the darting colors and sweeping movements of the undersea on the big screen.
He'd finished his monologue from the front left and was heading to the upper middle-the seats that everyone knew were the best-when he found himself being caught by the sleeve and pulled into a seat significantly closer to the screen than he would have liked.
Had he been prepared for this Minho would have yanked his arm away; however, he hadn't ever had a reason to. He left the audience alone and they, in turn, did the same for him. He'd never once been dragged into a seat like this, thus he had no way to ready himself for the sudden sway of balance that had him collapsing onto the swinging chair to his left.
“What the--”
“Sorry!” came the whisper, interrupting his expostulation. “I, just, will you sit with me?”
Minho straightened himself, squinting to make out the appearance of the offender in the dim light of the black screen. It was a he, from what he could tell, small, fragile, dark-haired boy with a voice so soft Minho had to lean closer to hear what he was saying.
“It's just that I can't handle outer space by myself. I start to leak-I mean, not literally, I just feel like I do, like it sucks me in and I...will you? Please?”
Minho was reeled in by the sweep of the boy's eyelashes in the flicker of light, caught by the smooth, genuine curve of his face. “Alright,” he mumbled, folding himself into the seat next to him. “I guess.”
There was a breath, relief tangible. “Thanks. Um, I'm Taemin. Just so you know.”
The film started then, a rush of starts pinpointed across the screen, and before Minho could do anything Taemin was clutching onto his hand, fingers lacing tightly together. His skin was smooth, cold, a contrast to Minho's, still warm from the microphone he'd been holding not a minute before.
“Taemin,” Minho said, the foreign name feeling strange in his mouth, “uh, if you're not feeling okay you can--”
“No!” his voice was sharp, eyes glued to the screen and too loud in the still theater. “I mean, no. No, I'm okay. As long as you're here I'm okay.”
The jump in his stomach had nothing to do with the sudden shift of music.
//
It was only fair, Minho thought as he resolutely held onto Taemin's hand when the boy started trying to stand up at the end of the first film, that he would stick out the whole eighty minute deal.
“Uh-uh,” he told him, tugging him to sit back down. “I sat with you for yours, you sit with me for mine.”
“But,” Taemin said, and just a silhouette against the bright white light of the credits screen. “I don't even know your name!”
The white dimmed to a rich blue. “It's Minho. Now sit.” His persistence, Minho told himself, had absolutely nothing to do with that fact that his hand felt disturbingly empty for the brief moment Taemin's hadn't been in it and everything to do with the fact that he wanted to cop a hand massage off of the boy who'd no doubt given him deep-tissue bruises from the strength with which he'd squeezed his fingers.
Taemin faltered, then sat. “Okay. Fine.”
//
Minho didn't get much watching done. It was really difficult to since Taemin, bless his heart, couldn't sit still for the life of him through something that wasn't about black holes. He spent the majority of the film on the great coral reef alternately bouncing his legs and tracing the veins on the back on Minho's hand.
(Needless to say, the atmosphere was more conducive to heart-wrenching, gut-churning, stomach-flipping jitters than experiencing underwater beauty.)
//
Minho didn't know what was expected when he got back to the row that he and Taemin had sat in. Whatever it was, though, it certainly wasn't an empty seat.
He shouldn't have expected him to stay, he realized when he felt the disappointment threading through him. All he knew about him was that his name was Taemin, that his hands were small but his grip was strong, and that he preferred outer space to the depths of the ocean (something that Minho simply didn't understand).
The fact remained, though, that they were strangers, and expectations of any sort were simply not an intelligent idea.
Doing his best to squash the regret down to a corner of his stomach that he didn't care about, Minho reached down to pick up a scrap of paper from the floor at the seat of the chair he'd been sitting on. He'd just forget about Taemin and his fine eyes and the shadow of his eyelashes, of his antsy behavior and smooth fingertips and stumbling way of speaking. He could do that.
There was a moment where Minho was absolutely positive sure his heart stopped beating for a moment, because on the back of the paper-an empty gum wrapper-was his name and a scrawled number.
Oh, he thought, heart accelerating into overtime to make up for its falter. Or maybe not.
Pairing: 2min
Rating: pg
Genre: au, fluff
Words: 984
They met at a museum on the day that there was a showing for Outer Space: The Science Behind Black Holes and Coral Reefs.
Minho wasn't working. Well, he was, but he wasn’t really working; he could sit inside the theater and enjoy the back to back movies just as well as everyone else could once he'd gotten the audiences seated and made sure that they knew that their phones had to be off.
Usually he wouldn't bother to watch these, but this time it was about coral reefs and it was a known fact that when it came to the oceans and seas Minho simply can't resist. So there he was, preparing to sit through forty minutes of outer space to indulge his fascination with the darting colors and sweeping movements of the undersea on the big screen.
He'd finished his monologue from the front left and was heading to the upper middle-the seats that everyone knew were the best-when he found himself being caught by the sleeve and pulled into a seat significantly closer to the screen than he would have liked.
Had he been prepared for this Minho would have yanked his arm away; however, he hadn't ever had a reason to. He left the audience alone and they, in turn, did the same for him. He'd never once been dragged into a seat like this, thus he had no way to ready himself for the sudden sway of balance that had him collapsing onto the swinging chair to his left.
“What the--”
“Sorry!” came the whisper, interrupting his expostulation. “I, just, will you sit with me?”
Minho straightened himself, squinting to make out the appearance of the offender in the dim light of the black screen. It was a he, from what he could tell, small, fragile, dark-haired boy with a voice so soft Minho had to lean closer to hear what he was saying.
“It's just that I can't handle outer space by myself. I start to leak-I mean, not literally, I just feel like I do, like it sucks me in and I...will you? Please?”
Minho was reeled in by the sweep of the boy's eyelashes in the flicker of light, caught by the smooth, genuine curve of his face. “Alright,” he mumbled, folding himself into the seat next to him. “I guess.”
There was a breath, relief tangible. “Thanks. Um, I'm Taemin. Just so you know.”
The film started then, a rush of starts pinpointed across the screen, and before Minho could do anything Taemin was clutching onto his hand, fingers lacing tightly together. His skin was smooth, cold, a contrast to Minho's, still warm from the microphone he'd been holding not a minute before.
“Taemin,” Minho said, the foreign name feeling strange in his mouth, “uh, if you're not feeling okay you can--”
“No!” his voice was sharp, eyes glued to the screen and too loud in the still theater. “I mean, no. No, I'm okay. As long as you're here I'm okay.”
The jump in his stomach had nothing to do with the sudden shift of music.
//
It was only fair, Minho thought as he resolutely held onto Taemin's hand when the boy started trying to stand up at the end of the first film, that he would stick out the whole eighty minute deal.
“Uh-uh,” he told him, tugging him to sit back down. “I sat with you for yours, you sit with me for mine.”
“But,” Taemin said, and just a silhouette against the bright white light of the credits screen. “I don't even know your name!”
The white dimmed to a rich blue. “It's Minho. Now sit.” His persistence, Minho told himself, had absolutely nothing to do with that fact that his hand felt disturbingly empty for the brief moment Taemin's hadn't been in it and everything to do with the fact that he wanted to cop a hand massage off of the boy who'd no doubt given him deep-tissue bruises from the strength with which he'd squeezed his fingers.
Taemin faltered, then sat. “Okay. Fine.”
//
Minho didn't get much watching done. It was really difficult to since Taemin, bless his heart, couldn't sit still for the life of him through something that wasn't about black holes. He spent the majority of the film on the great coral reef alternately bouncing his legs and tracing the veins on the back on Minho's hand.
(Needless to say, the atmosphere was more conducive to heart-wrenching, gut-churning, stomach-flipping jitters than experiencing underwater beauty.)
//
Minho didn't know what was expected when he got back to the row that he and Taemin had sat in. Whatever it was, though, it certainly wasn't an empty seat.
He shouldn't have expected him to stay, he realized when he felt the disappointment threading through him. All he knew about him was that his name was Taemin, that his hands were small but his grip was strong, and that he preferred outer space to the depths of the ocean (something that Minho simply didn't understand).
The fact remained, though, that they were strangers, and expectations of any sort were simply not an intelligent idea.
Doing his best to squash the regret down to a corner of his stomach that he didn't care about, Minho reached down to pick up a scrap of paper from the floor at the seat of the chair he'd been sitting on. He'd just forget about Taemin and his fine eyes and the shadow of his eyelashes, of his antsy behavior and smooth fingertips and stumbling way of speaking. He could do that.
There was a moment where Minho was absolutely positive sure his heart stopped beating for a moment, because on the back of the paper-an empty gum wrapper-was his name and a scrawled number.
Oh, he thought, heart accelerating into overtime to make up for its falter. Or maybe not.