SBB 2016 ENTRY #19: Ace (1/3)
Title: Ace
Pairing: Minho/Key
Rating: PG
Genre: Slice of Life
Warnings: None
Final Word Count: 16,500+ words
I
The Prince
Aces pass like bolts of condensed light, powerful and fast. They awake bewilderment and wonder that soon transform into silent and horrified fascination. They take their opponent’s breath away; show, for a few seconds, the extent of their shooter’s will and strength.
Every time Minho sees Kibum on the tennis court, his heart never fails to skip a beat when the smaller young man hits one of those bold serves that cut the air like a bullet to leave an incontestable mark on the ground, all a statement of his power.
“Game, set, and match to Kim Kibum, three sets to love.”
Minho raises from his seat along with the roars and cheers favoring Kibum’s win. The tennis player turns to look at the audience, bowing to them with the flourish of a gentleman. There’s a grin on his features, blinding bright like the energy from his aces. Minho's eyes follow Kibum’s slender figure even after the latter disappears from the court.
It has been 9 years since they played tennis for the first time, three years since they played the last time. Now, Minho knows he is ready to face him.
* * * * * * *
Youth was supposed to be easy. Minho grew up to become athletic, well-mannered and smart, just like his older brother did before him. Through elementary school, they were known as the “Sports brothers”. By the time middle school was finishing for Minseok and starting for Minho, both brothers had acquired several championship titles in basketball and soccer.
One day, Minseok had arrived home with a racquet, and Minho’s interest had been peaked. His brother handed it to him, and the younger boy felt curious about its composition. It was heavy, and the tension and strength in the strings was enough to let Minho imagine breaking them couldn’t be an easy task.
“I’m going to start playing tennis,” Minseok had said, smiling widely. “I saw some upperclassmen playing today in the Prefectural Tournament and it was amazing. Dad used to play it, you know? He even was a national level player.”
Minho had seen the pictures here and there from his father during those days along with the medals he had received for his victories. Yet his father never brought up the topic of his times of glory or asked them if they would like to learn how to play it. He trained tennis players at the club near his house, and never insisted on his boys learning the sport.
“You could play too. What do you think?” Minseok asked.
Minho didn’t need much coaxing to accept. Once that had been settled, they told their father about their desire to play tennis and he invested some money on their backyard. After a month, Minseok and Minho enjoyed of trainings during the afternoons on their own tennis court. Most days, Minseok and Minho had matches in it. Sometimes, their dad took a seat on the verandah and watched them play while taking some tea. Time passed. Soon, both boys got lost in the delight of playing a long rally rather than holding actual matches.
As weeks passed by, tennis became a more appealing sport to Minho's preferences. He liked chasing the neon colored balls and hit them back to his brother until the elder was cornered. That didn’t happen often enough though. Minseok was physically stronger than Minho was, and he had decided to take advantage of this feature to become a baseliner player rather than the all-rounder player Minho seemed to be turning into. No matter how fast Minho was, day after day he tried to come up with ideas to return the powerful shots his brother hit while not losing too many points in the process.
“Minho! Pay attention to the ball!” Minseok alerted.
The younger boy tried to move to the side, but it was too late. The ball bounced backwards with the backspin his brother had added to it. It aimed at his body and hit him square in the chest. Losing his balance, Minho fell on his ass, eyes wide, the spot hit already aching.
Minseok rushed over, worry visible as he knelt before his little brother.
“I’m sorry, I thought you were ready for those,” Minseok apologized, checking Minho’s wrists for any possible damage after cushioning his fall.
Minho didn’t flinch, but he did pout as he looked up at his older brother.
“I am ready! I was just thinking about a way to counterattack,” he explained, frowning.
“Do that when you aren’t playing on the court,” Minseok sighed in relief. “What does dad tell you every time we go training at the club? The important thing for you to practice right now is to get the ball passing the net. To do that, you must focus on being ready to hit it, feeling its weight before you release it, and not allowing your body to tense up. The rest will come with time.”
Minho sighed, nodding softly.
“I will beat you one day though.” Minho had said, determined. "For now, I’m happy being the brother of the undefeated tennis champion.”
Minseok had laughed then.
On that summer, Minseok met a boy Minho’s age who was nothing like his adorable little brother. That year, the undefeated champion tasted the flavor of loss under the hands of a cocky 12-year-old boy. Minho’s awakening process as a tennis player started then too.
* * * * * * *
When Minho decided to become a professional tennis player, he had been certain only about one thing: he would do anything to become stronger and then take victory after victory until he got the one he wanted the most. His declared aspirations had been received with some interest by the media after his debut performance at the Sub-17 Tennis World Cup. What had rekindled the significance of his presence in the tennis world though had been Kibum's comments on the news of Minho's debut as a pro.
“There has been a growing interest in the potential Choi Minho, your fellow countryman, has displayed upon his debut in the pro circuit. What are your thoughts on it?” Minho had seen the reporter ask, not missing the little snort Kibum let out before smirking.
“I think this is not the right place for him,” Kibum had answered, shrugging. “That’s nothing new of course. Anyone who knows him is aware he has the awful habit of taking bad decisions.”
Minho is tempted to pinch the bridge of his nose at the sudden memory. Kibum and he are being bombarded by almost an endless series of questions regarding a past he doesn't want to discuss right now. He knows of course this is all Kibum’s doing. After his declaration that one day, things became a nightmare with the media. This is how Kibum welcomes him to Wimbledon, of course.
Kibum had debuted at 17 in the pro circuit. His arrival had meant the continuation of an era that kept the world fascinated. Every time he played, most eyes were on him, eager to see his wicked style and be left wishing his games could last forever. Once he took the pro circuit like a storm, Kibum gathers more than enough attention on his own. His extravagance, the shameless defiance he shows both in and out the court earned him fans and opposers. What had sealed his position as the rising prince however had been taking a Grand Slam right from the three top tennis players in the world at his 20 years.
From then on, almost by default, everything he says or does matters to the headlines. After he had commented on Minho’s debut the previous year to his Grand Slam winning, the media hadn't lost time digging into their past. They and the rest of the world learned Kibum and he had attended the same high school for three years -even knew they had been in rival middle schools for other three years. With this, the ‘Korean Wave’ that had begun with the former captain and vice-captain of their high school team, became the sports coverage's cash cow.
And here they are.
“Kibum,” a reporter says, the gleam in his eyes far too calculating to Minho’s taste. “We know in all the official matches you have held against Minho, he has never been victorious. Do you think there’s anything that could change this result this year?”
Minho feels the urge to look back at Kibum. Still, he decides to keep his gaze ahead, fingers laced together tightly.
“I think you are getting too ahead of yourself with that question,” Kibum answers, chuckling. “He hasn’t made it through the second round.”
Minho’s lips twitch. The muttering around them increases, but it doesn’t stop him from turning to see Kibum in spite of his manager’s advice. He doesn’t regret it the moment Kibum’s dark brown orbs meet his, amusement dancing in the tilt of his smile.
“Neither have you,” Minho laughs softly, already imagining the headlines of the sports sections tomorrow morning.
Kibum smiles back though. The unspoken challenge is there, heavy and enticing. But Minho’s veins don’t burn with anger anymore. Anticipation is all there is now and it's making him dizzy.
* * * * * * *
The first time Minho met Kibum, it had been a few days prior to the clubs’ ranking matches for boys under 17 years old. Minseok participated in the advanced category, along with most of the high schoolers while Minho had enrolled in the intermediate one.
By the time the youngest Choi reached the practice courts of his level in the hopes of finding a partner to warm-up, he stopped when he took notice of the large crowd gathered around a court. When the sound of a tennis ball being hit registered in his senses, curiosity woke up after seeing everyone paying attention to the match. Without thinking, he pushed his way to the front. Once there, he saw a small boy -way smaller than he was- playing against a high schooler-looking boy.
Minho feared for the boy's thin wrists, but as soon as said boy hit the ball and added an incredible spin to the ball, his concerns were brushed to the side. Minho’s eyes widened more and more as the seconds passed. They kid was fast and had no troubles balancing his body. In a minute, he was as bewildered as the rest of the audience.
Ten more minutes passed and the younger boy snorted, eyes closing for a moment as he returned to a straight position, head tilting to the side.
“Game, set and match for me. Six games to love,” he announced, looking back at his opponent with a smirk.
Minho frowned, hand curling tighter around his racquet’s handle.
“So who is next? I still have 15 minutes before my first match,” the boy’s young voice resounded in the court. The shaft of his black and white racket rested on his shoulder. Feline-dark eyes roamed over the awestruck tennis players, a challenging glint shining from within. “Hmph, I thought some of you would be grown-up enough to not be so afraid of playing against me.”
And that was it. Minho, tall and determined, stepped forward.
“I want to play with you if it’s okay,” Minho said, though the polite tone was contradicted by the fire burning in his eyes. “I can’t guarantee you though that you will make it on time for your match.”
The angular features of the troublemaker showed major amusement. The smaller boy raised an eyebrow at the challenge, pink lips curling into a lopsided smile.
“If I were in your place, I’d worry more about myself than my opponent,” the smaller boy say taking a ball from his pockets. “Do you mind if I start?”
Minho bit the inside of his cheek at the presumptuousness the younger displayed, but didn’t say anything about it and shook his head. “It’s fine.”
Minho was going to humble him down, he decided as he got in position to receive the serve. He had already seen the extent of the boy’s top-spin and while he was willing to admit the boy's technique was pretty neat, Minho was confident in his own skills.
The shorter boy bounced the ball a few times. Minho found himself glued to the ground when he saw the boy tossing the ball way too high up. In a matter of seconds, the swing of the boy's racquet connected it with the ball after it came down. In a nano-second, the boy’s wrist flicked and instead of hitting the ball with the center of the gut, he angled the racquet to hit a sliced serve.
Minho had seen his brother hit sliced serves before, but none of them had been like that one. The spin the smaller kid gave to the ball was so sharp it bounced backwards and darted out of the courts so lowly Minho couldn’t even react on time to reach it. The fence around the courts rattled when the ball hit it. To his astonishment, the ball's spin was enough to return near Minho’s feet.
The boy scoffed as he took out another ball from his shorts' pocket, ready to continue. The crowd gathered around the courts was dead silent. Minho’s heart, usually calm and collected during the beginning of a match, was beating loudly against his ribcage. The arrogance in his opponent’s demeanor had the technique to back it all up, and now Minho was aware of this. Each of the smaller boy’s serves ended the way they began: unbelievable spin and speed that made them almost impossible to return. Minho felt both fascinated and horrified after seeing the boy's shoulder and arm hadn't give out even after hitting those serves one after another.
“What’s up? Did the cat get your tongue, newbie?” the smaller boy asked from across the court. “Being the hero and saving the day was all a bluff, wasn’t it?”
Minho wanted to wince at his words, but was able to conceal his shame. He tried to focus back on the task at hand. By the time he concentrated again, the shorter boy had an advantage point for the first game.
With relief, Minho was able to figure out the trajectory of the serve as it was hit. Just as a little smile was settling on his features after getting into position to return it once he correctly predicted the point of bouncing, round eyes became wider as he saw the smaller boy already close to the net to seal any possible return.
The muscle memory and reflexes kicked into action. Split-stepping, Minho returned the ball with all his might. He thought the smaller boy’s wrists could never be able to stop such a shot with a volley, there was no way he could have a strong grip for his size. Contrary to his expectations, the shorter boy didn’t back out from the challenge. He adopted a half-closed position, and without waiting for the ball to bounce on the ground first, he hit it mid-air. To Minho’s astonishment, the power and spin he had added to the ball darted beside him with the speed of an arrow. The shot pinned him to the ground, and chocolate orbs took in the mark the ball had left behind him.
“Game for me. One game to love,” Kibum smirked, juggling his racket around.
Twelve minutes later, the cocky short boy reached the match point for an overwhelming win. Minho was sweating profusely. The bangs of his dark hair were damp and flat against his forehead; the muscles of his legs burned with the effort of keeping him up.
Kibum then adopted the same stance of the shot Minho found himself unable to even see. Sharp eyes never left the ball, Minho noticed as he moved backwards, anticipating the ball he thought the other boy was aiming for. Those bow-shaped lips curled into a devious smile then. Just like that, the illusive stance of a strong and deep forehand swing became the stance of a drop shot.
Minho stared at the ball as it fell on his side of the court with no major bounce.
The murmuring and whispering became louder. Minho’s ears though were buzzing with the flow of his blood and the wild beat of his heart. The smaller boy stood straight soon after, racquet behind his back while both arms kept it up.
“You are a hundred years too young to try being my opponent. Better luck next life,” Kibum said with a grin as he turned around with a laugh, one hand raised as he waved Minho goodbye.
In spite of the exertion, Minho’s blood burned with a fire he had never known. He was crowned the championship of the junior tournament later that day. His brother on the other side lost the first place to the same boy that had trashed the youngest Choi in the morning: a boy named Kim Kibum.
* * * * * * *
The spectators are silent. Minho can hear some hushed voices, but all they say is background noise. None of their words registers his mind. All that exists in his field of vision is the opponent standing on the other side and the neon ball being tossed up high, so high this whole scene feels like a déjà vu.
He springs into action the moment his ears catch the sound of the ball being hit. His eyes don’t fail to take notice of the place where the racquet's head is aiming to. He is right there, in position to receive the serve with what should be an awkward backhand that turns into a flawless motion a second later. The crowd is breathless when Minho’s shot darts across the net. What will be an unbelievable rally finally begins.
“Fifteen, love,” the referee calls.
Every single spectator bursts into claps. Minho’s heart is on fire. He can see Kibum next to his dad, a mop of pink hair that keeps his arms crossed against his chest as he pretends to be nonchalant about the whole affair. Minho can feel the weight of his stare though and it tells him all he needs to know. Kibum's interest has been caught, there must be a particular gleam in his eyes and he’s also probably even leaning forwards to take a better look.
Minho allows himself to smile softly as his opponent tosses the ball once more.
There is nothing he cannot do anymore, Minho thinks and moves as if he's walking on thin air.
* * * * * * *
Minho’s first impression of Kibum clearly had been everything but pleasant. All about him rubbed Minho the wrong way and so their infamous rivalry was born. Kibum never acknowledged the rivalry though, always saying Minho was far below him to be taken seriously as a tennis player, let alone his nemesis.
Time continued to pass and no matter how much Minho trained every day under the guidance of his father, he was never able to take a match from Kibum’s grasp during the whole 3 years of middle school they spent in different schools. Sometimes his team fell short before standing against Kibum’s team, and in the times they advanced to the finals, Minho hadn’t been allowed to play against him.
Minseok, on the other hand, forgot about tennis during that time to prepare for university. Minho believed this had been the result of a broken spirit, and so his spite against Kibum only grew more and more.
“Minho? Dad called to say he won’t be able to pick you up for training today. It seems there’s some sort of a reunion between all the coaches from the club so activities will be suspended for the day,” Minseok said from the verandah while the youngest hit a ball repeatedly against a wall.
“Oh…” Minho frowned.
The prefectural tournament of middle school was close, and this year he was the captain of his school’s team. He needed to practice. “I guess I will go to use the machines. Maybe add some speed to them.”
Minseok took a moment to look at his little brother. Minho was tightening his grip around his blue racquet, the worry visible on his young features.
“You really want to win against that brat, don’t you?” Minseok asked, catching Minho’s attention to return it back to the present.
“I have to defeat him. He’s a disgrace to sportsmanship,” the younger boy stated.
Minseok sighed, closing the door behind him to then walk into the court. Surrounding Minho’s shoulders with an arm, he ruffled his hair thoroughly.
“Minseok!”
“Minho!” Minseok exclaimed, laughing at the ruffled expression on his brother’s face. “Don’t overwork the brats under your care. Tennis is supposed to be fun after all, isn’t it?”
“It would be even more fun if we got to actually beat that guy’s ass along with his team once and for all.”
“One thing at the time, Minho. Remember what dad always tells you,” the eldest frowned.
Minho scowled.
“During the three years I have been playing tennis, my school has always been the champion of our zone. But then when it’s the Prefectural Tournament and then the Nationals, we lose have lost every game held against him and his team. This year will be different though. I will finally have a say in the order of the matches, and after I defeat him, the rest of his team will crumble.”
Minseok was used to listening to Minho talking like this ever since that day almost three years ago. Usually, his brother was a silent and prudent young boy. But when it came to that Kim Kibum boy, it was like Minho became an entirely different person. At some point, Minseok understood where the anger of his younger brother came from; the Kim boy was insufferable, terribly arrogant and always picking on people.
“You know there are stronger opponents out there, don’t you, Minho?” Minseok asked, the frown easing some.
Minho sighed, shoulders slumping as he nodded.
“You are one of them,” his little brother muttered, making Minseok chuckle.
“I’m not anymore, but I’m glad you think so highly of your hyung. What I meant to say is that you have yet to see the world. Next year you will be attending Seoul High School. You know who you are going to meet there?” Minseok inquired, hands on Minho’s shoulders to shake him around a bit. “Jung Yunho and Kim Jaejoong have been unbeatable since they entered high school. They will be quite a challenge for you along with the team they are shaping. And after that? There’s still the entire world, Minho. Don’t be so fixated on that brat. He will probably not stand a chance against Yunho-hyung if they are pitted together at some point. Enjoy your time, enjoy your tennis.”
“I will,” Minho said, but his senses were set on his racket. “First though, I have some pending things I need to solve at once.”
Minho pretended not to see Minseok pinching the bridge of his nose, eyebrows knitted together.
* * * * * * *
“So I can tell you have been training pretty hard in the past three years,” Kibum says as they walk.
The grass under their feet is damp and soft. Droplets of water fall over them, but they are so light Minho knows Kibum doesn’t mind. The smaller man is burrowed in an oversized black jumper and tight grey jeans, his hot pink hair ruffled by the wind and curling up around his ears. He’s not wearing the usual dark kohl to sharpen his eyes. Kibum looks softer like this, Minho thinks, but he knows better than saying it out loud.
“I had to do something. Three years are a long time,” Minho shrugs, hands in his pockets.
He looks over at Kibum, noticing the smile toying with the corner of his lips. The sight sends a flutter to his heart which he ignores promptly.
“You have changed,” Minho comments, chocolate eyes turning to the front.
“Is that an insult?” Kibum quirks an eyebrow.
Minho snickers.
“Who knows?”
This earns him Kibum’s infamous roll of eyes. While that might have riled him up in no time at fifteen, right now it’s a welcomed gesture. Their arms brush together as they keep walking. England’s classic mist rises from the ground to cover everything in white and grey. Nightfall is getting near, but they keep walking across the fields of the hotel’s gardens without a care for time.
“If you lose tomorrow, I will not forgive you,” Kibum says suddenly. Serenity is gone from his expression. Minho is familiar with this particular glare, all defined angles.
“Wow. Tomorrow I’m facing Wimbledon’s sub-champion. What a way to cheer me up,” Minho teases. “You know me so well.”
“Who said anything about cheering you up?” Kibum bites back, and he cannot hide his amusement. He pushes Minho away a heartbeat later. “You are all mine to destroy. I hope you are aware of this.”
Minho laughs, heartily and loud. He nods at last and reaches to pinch Kibum’s cheek, getting a swat in return.
“I’m aware.”
* * * * * * *
“I hope your brother is doing well,” Kibum said, the mocking tone impossible to ignore.
Minho fought to not grind his teeth together, but he did tighten his grip on Kibum’s hand as they shook hands over the net.
“I remember telling you it was too early for you to even try playing with me,” Kibum tilted his head, not showing any discomfort at Minho’s action. “Guess I will have to help you learn what that means.”
With this said, Kibum turned around to take a position at the baseline. Minho followed suit, racket in hand and a ball bouncing on the floor before him as he took a deep breath and exhaled. He was ready to fight and finally erase the annoying smirk from the -still- smaller boy's lips.
[ “Where is your head?” his father would ask. “And where is it supposed to be?” ]
Minho took a deep breath and the match began.
*
*
The summer sun was leaving the sky for the day after a warm day. The breeze of the late afternoon carried a natural salty smell that refreshed damp, hot skin.
Kibum took one last look at Minho before he tossed the ball so high up in the air there was a collective exclaim of admiration at the unusual throw for such a small boy.
Minho knew better than being fooled by Kibum’s physique by now. There was no point in denying the kid’s outstanding technique and the innate talent running in his blood. He was ahead from normal middle-schoolers, Minho knew, and he was also aware if you wanted to win against him, you needed more than power and speed.
By the time the sliced serve hit the ground, Minho had already seen the way Kibum’s racquet had cut the air before hitting the ball. He ran to the corner of the doubles line, ready to get in position to return the ball. Kibum's shot bounced backwards like Minho expected it to do. Before the shot diverted out of reach, Minho hit it adding a top-spin effect to return it.
He couldn't hide the joy that filled his heart after seeing Kibum's shocked expression once Minho's return didn't hit the net. The murmurs around them grew and the cheers from both teams became louder and louder.
*
*
Summer nights were Minho’s favorite. Minho’s skin tingled with the caress of the chilly evening breeze. The smell of his mother’s plants and flowers were a pleasant comfort just like the noises the evasive crickets made.
The inner door opened and Minseok walked out, taking a seat next to him on the verandah.
“I bet it was satisfying to see him all shocked when you started your counterattack and caught up with him,” Minseok said, looking at him.
Droplets of water were running down Minho’s temples and neck, quickly cooling down. The youngest Choi chortled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“I still lost, you know?” Stubbornly, Minho maintained his eyes on the ball bouncing on top of his racquet.
“Yeah, but you got a few games from him. Not many have accomplished that. The question is, why did you start to fail in your game so suddenly?” Minseok asked, lightly nudging Minho’s arm with his elbow.
Minho didn’t want to say out loud that Kibum was better, that his technique was flawless and deadly; that Kibum was far more of a player than Minho could ever aspire to be. It was one thing to be aware of this fact inwardly and another to talk about it. He kept silent instead.
“He is winning because you let him get to you, Minho,” Minseok said. “Just remember next time you play him what dad asks us when we are doing stupid shit and end up fumbling around like newbies.”
After patting his brother’s head, Minseok returned to the living room.
Minho stayed out another hour. The balls he hit against the wall after that conversation made a heavy sound. In another time, this had brought him some comfort and peace of mind, but that night none of it helped him feel better. All he was able to see in his dreams were those familiar feline-like eyes staring down at him with the blurred emotion that always drove Minho up the wall.
“Better luck next life.”
* * * * * * *
When the experienced Swedish Wimbledon sub-champion gets another point and the game with it, Minho can feel his muscles starting to protest. He can also hear the way blood is pumping through his veins like war-drums, the sound resounding in every fiber of his being. He has lost the first set and is already losing the second one five games to love.
He could lose this match.
As they walk towards their respective bench for a break, Minho falls down heavily on his. The cold towel around his neck is a pleasant relief as he drinks water. There is no sun today and while the breeze is heavy with humidity, it’s still cool enough against his skin.
Looking up, he distinguishes Kibum’s bright pink hair easily. The tennis player looks so serious Minho wants to laugh. He’s leaning against the wall inside the tunnel, and Minho doesn’t really take notice of the entirety of his expression.
He remembers high schooler Kibum for a moment, the scandalous blue hair and the dark waterproof kohl he started using from then on. He also remembers undefeated Captain Jung Yunho and his match against freshman Kim Kibum. He remembers Kibum soaked in sweat just like he himself is right now. Was the exhaustion he felt then the same as the one he's experiencing right now? Kibum was resplendent that day, he remembers too. Kibum was beautiful even after he had been beaten.
“This is going to get good now,” he can hear Jaejoong’s honey voice saying beside him.
“This is going to get good now indeed,” he repeats, chuckling as he tilts his head back.
His heart is fire.
* * * * * * *
“It doesn’t seem like this is the first time that freshman has been pushed this far. Am I the only one who finds that strange?” Jonghyun commented. “Wasn’t he supposed to be an undefeated champion to this day?”
Minho was unable to look away from the court. Kibum didn’t look upset. He looked as if he was enjoying himself immensely, but he hadn't lost a single ounce of determination. Fifteen minutos into the game and Kibum had already lost the first set six games to love. In spite of all his efforts, even now captain Yunho didn’t seem fazed by his opponent’s skills. Minho thought Kibum ought to have shown anger or irritation already, but it was as if he was welcoming the whole experience with open arms. Envy and jealousy stirred inside his chest like a burn, but he didn't linger on the reason; Did not dare to.
During the second set, Yunho was ahead 4 games to love. Minho was sure there was no way Kibum would be able to stand on his own feet for a third and fourth set even if he somehow managed to win this one. But how could he even achieve such thing with the deadly combination of Jung Yunho’s speed, stamina, power and technique? It was the first time too Minho had seen anyone like him.
“This is going to get good now,” Jaejoong’s melodious voice commented.
Minho frowned.
“That first year seems like an interesting addition to our club,” Changmin said. “You think his mental capacity could ever pair up with that of the captain?”
“Guess you will get your answer soon enough,” Junsu singsonged, both arms behind his head as he smiled softly.
“But he is already exhausted-” Minho interrupted, his frown more visible as he turned to look at Changmin.
The taller young man pointed back at the match with a tilt of his head.
Kibum was moving with all his might put into the focus to hit a smash after Yunho’s calculated lob.
“He's being reckless with the use of his energy. He could pass out at any minute,” Minho said, fingers curling more around the fence.
“That won’t happen.” Jinki said as he took place beside Jonghyun, his doubles partner.
“When you have a determination that strong, the body won’t fail you until you are finished with what you want to do,” Changmin added.
“Is their desire to win that strong?” Minho asked, looking over at the elders.
Jaejoong stopped looking at the match to turn his attention to Minho. The funny look he gave the younger confused him, especially when he cracked that enigmatic lopsided-grin that reminded him so much of Kibum’s own special smiles.
“No, I don’t believe that’s how it is." Jaejoong responded. “Their mental strength comes from different places perhaps, but the striving to the greatest heights they can reach? Well, they are curious by nature. Victory is not something their minds process like most people's minds do.”
Junsu pointed upwards, lips curled into a wide smile. “The extent of their imagination is what drives them to the top.”
Minho turned back to watch Kibum returning the powerful top-spin of the captain with a wicked backhand. Yunho received the slice with a skillful volley and Kibum dashed to the net in time to hit the ball just before it bounced out of reach. With this play, he finally got the point for his first game. Yunho seemed like a powerful warrior standing there, but Kibum didn't look intimidated in the slightest. Even then, Minho saw he was like a feline waiting to pounce on his prey with sharp claws and vicious fangs.
“4 to 1! Change of court!”
* * * * * * *
“Why did you leave so suddenly?” Minho asks, feigning nonchalance as he reaches for Kibum’s slice of pizza from his plate.
Kibum listened to the question, Minho knows, but he still takes his time to give him an answer. In the meanwhile, the shorter young man scrunches up his nose, trying to get back his slice until Minho munches on it.
“You are disgusting.” The pink-haired man says, sticking his tongue out to the taller one. Then he takes a deep breath. “There was nothing left for me in high school after we got the final championship title from the senior year season. I can’t stay at places where there’s nothing else left for me to do, you know that.”
Minho looks at the way the ends of Kibum’s hair curl up at his nape; the way the warm, low light of the restaurant bathes his features delicately, softening the angles as a result. He also notices the way those pretty lips close to take a sip from his beer. Minho doesn’t tell him how much he has missed him.
“I looked at you and your wildness and I couldn’t help but wonder if one day you would take the world at once by force until it yielded under your grasp,” he says instead, the munched slice of pizza in hand. “Do you remember our last match?”
Kibum chortles, but he cannot fool Minho. He is thoughtful, remembering more than he will ever be willing to admit.
“I want to feel that burn telling me if I push harder I will break, that if I stretch those limits around me, I will be able to do anything. I’m here now, so do look at me, Kibum.”
Minho is facing him. The tips of Kibum’s ears are red and the sight is so mesmerizing it makes him feel giddy with happiness, like the lovesick fool he is.
“I will absolutely not let you win this time around,” Minho adds.
Kibum seems startled as he looks back at him, like he can’t believe what he is witnessing. A heartbeat later he regains the control of his actions, and he pushes Minho by the shoulder in retaliation.
“Just watch me,” Kibum threatens.
But what hangs between both of them is a promise; a future.
* * * * * * *
Practices during the freshman year had been near insane. However, practices during the second-year, made Minho feel he was either going to become the strongest man alive or die trying, no in-between.
After running the series of exercises he had been assigned to with the rest of the second-years, he made his way to the main court where everyone else seemed to be gathering like bees to the honey. It was then that he saw Kibum playing simultaneously against Taemin and Jongin, this year's super rookies.
Jongin and Taemin had played before in doubles, and Minho had witnessed their power of destruction. After Jinki and Jonghyun, their current National Golden Pair, the combination between Taemin and Jongin left nothing to wish for.
“This is suicide, Jongin and Taemin combined can’t be tamed,” he heard someone say. “Kibum is going to injure himself.”
Minho agreed with his teammate. The Prefectural Tournament was close, overworking Kibum like this was not advisable.
“That kid is going to win against those two, don’t worry,” Jonghyun said, arms behind his head.
“I agree,” Kyungsoo, their new regular addition commented.
“Yup, same here.” Sehun chirped in, clinging onto Kyungsoo’s small frame. “Kibum-hyung looks like a predator right there. Someone about to be defeated doesn’t look at their opponent the way Kibum-hyung is looking at those two.”
“Your observations are all good,” Jinki remarked as he joined them, arms crossed against his chest.
“Kibum wins because he risks things in order to win. He’s a natural as an offensive player. The only thing he has on his mind is passing the shots to the other side of the net. To get the game going for his body, his feet are quick and his swing is initially soft. When his body is loose enough, he has found a rhythm. That means he can get a comfortable position anywhere in the court and so his hits become dangerous.” Jinki explained, almond-shaped eyes fixed on the match before them. "What's his rhythm's advantage, Minho?"
“That his speed and technique are his best weapons,” Minho said, glancing over at the vice-captain.
“You are half-right. Take a closer look at him. What’s happening with his legs right now?”
Minho saw Jongin swinging a perfectly balanced backhand that added a fast top-spin to the ball. Kibum moved backwards to find the shot mid-air, returning it with a strong forehand. Immediately after, Taemin was right at the net with an ingenious volley. Kibum’s split-step allowed him to dash for the ball, finding it on time and balanced to return it with a laser shot. To the freshmen's awe, the ball darted right between them. Kibum didn't waste time to move back to the baseline to serve after earning the game with that point. Then Minho saw what Jinki talked about.
“He practices in the mornings and then comes here during breaks to play a bit more. He never misses the afternoon practice. By the end of the day, he is exhausted. It shows right now, but what’s what is keeping him in shape against our two good rookies?”
Minho took another look at Kibum as they changed sides once he had taken a game with ace after ace. Taemin and Jongin were breathing hard and they were soaked in sweat just like Kibum himself was. The eldest though didn’t look as exhausted as he must have felt right then. Those dark brown eyes were shining with a fire that sent a shudder through Minho's spine.
“A will of steel,” he whispered.
“I don’t know if there is anything in particular that motivates him to push himself forwards no matter the cost, but it makes of his focus something from another planet. His tenacity and persistence make up for his stamina,” Jonghyun said, grinning widely.
“Our former captain covered the five points of any good tennis player in an outstanding way; he had the power, the speed, the technique and the stamina. But all that came into harmony because of the strongest factor in this sport: the mental strength. Kibum doesn’t have the same stamina or power as he does, but do you remember their match the last time they played?” Jinki looked back at Minho.
“I don’t think that kid only thinks about victory,” Jonghyun said as Kibum got another game from the Taemin-Jongin duet.
Minho recalled the blazing fire in his rival’s eyes every time he played, the cocky smile and the firm resolve put into every shot. Kibum didn’t aim for winning points with any shot. They became winning shorts because Minho couldn’t reach them, because he wasn’t fast enough, because he wasn’t concentrating only on the ball. When he managed to return them, Kibum was there, as if he had been expecting this development all along.
From then on, it was like his gaze gravitated permanently around Kibum's whereabouts.
Minho gasped as a realization hit him square in the face.
* * * * * * *
They can be equals now, Minho realizes when Kibum takes a seat on the grass of the hotel garden. The elder has his phone in hand and he pours his attention in the endless list of messages awaiting for his answer.
Both of them have made it through each round. The semi finals are the day after tomorrow, and here they are, relaxing in each other’s company like the friends they have never been.
“How is Taemin?” Minho asks, throwing a rock to the lake before them. The rock bounces three times to then end submerged into the water.
“He will be here for the finals,” Kibum answers without looking away from his phone as he types. “His injury has healed finally, so he will be joining us in the circuit next year.”
“Those are great news.” And Minho is sincere.
Kibum and he are 21 years old. Taemin should have debuted a year ago, at sweet 18. One wrong move had almost ended with all his dreams instead, but willpower wasn’t something the younger man lacked . Taemin had proved himself, rising up victorious in the end.
“Maybe not that great for you,” Kibum smiles, finally looking back at Minho. “He’s determined to beat your ass. Whatever did you do to him during the last Sub-17 Cup?”
Minho is glad he decided to wear a cap today. That and the sun setting ahead camouflage the impeding blush taking over his cheeks.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Except he does.
* * * * * * *
Minho was frustrated. All the time he spent into training, into strengthening his body to be faster and more powerful, it all seemed pointless by now. He had lost to the power nobody had ever witnessed in Jinki-hyung’s playing style. There was also the point that even though Kibum wasn’t as physically strong and resistant as Minho was, the elder one still trashed Minho around every time they played.
Minho’s hand curled tightly around the handle of his racket, ready to throw it to the ground. He stopped at the last second with a shaking hand and a racing heart.
“I can’t quit,” he said, eyes scrunched.
The sound of rustled leaves reached his ears. He turned around while trying to wipe away the tears in the corners of his eyes. Soon, Taemin’s heart-shaped face came into view. He was carrying his white racket, pitch black hair moving with the chilling breeze of the end of November.
“Taemin? What are you doing in here?” the elder asked, frowning.
Minho wasn’t sure about Taemin’s personality. From what he had seen at school, the boy wasn’t an extrovert. It seemed Taemin only allowed himself to smile and be playful around Kibum and the other freshmen that tagged along with him when the elder wasn’t near. Minho had also noticed that sometimes Taemin looked at him like one would look at a future rival: light brown eyes seemed to measure him up sometimes. Minho had waited patiently for the kid to come around to ask him for a match, but that hadn’t happened yet.
Right then Taemin’s features seemed placid, but there was something about him that made Minho feel wary.
“Hi hyung,” the younger greeted him with a smile. “I’m waiting for Kibum-hyung. We have a match each week at the same hour and time.”
Minho’s heart stuttered inside his ribcage. He knew Taemin must have taken notice of the shift of his expression.
“Wanna come and tag along?” Taemin asked, head cocking a bit to the side in feigned innocence. As if he didn't know Kibum abhorred Minho as much as Minho abhorred him.
“No, thanks, I have to get home now. But thank you. Enjoy your match with him,” the elder said after clearing his throat. Then he took his tennis bag and went away. Pretended to do so.
Contrary to what his common sense dictated, Minho stayed back. He hid between the trees where he had the perfect view to watch the match that happened right after.
The sun-kissed young boy didn’t want to linger onto why he was becoming more and more enraptured by Kibum’s playing style. He ignored the uneasiness being there caused him.
It was this choice what changed everything for him from then on.
*
*
When Minho received his invitation to the Sub-17 Tennis World Cup training camp, he had been elated. Trainings there were always tough and more than half of the boys and girls invited dropped out after a few weeks, but those that stayed made everything worthy.
That year, Lee Taemin had also been invited. The confrontation Minho had expected after two years happened then.
“I will not lose to you a second time, do you understand, hyung?” Taemin said, the head of his racquet pointing at Minho’s chest from across the net.
Taemin’s caramel eyes weren’t bright with naivety like always. Something dark had curled up inside and it demanded respect.
Kibum was there too, hair blond and with an extravagant fashionable pair of sunglasses covering his eyes. He was frowning, oblivious to the reason why Taemin seemed more determined and fired up than ever.
Minho knew and wished he didn’t.
* * * * * * *
The silence of the spectators feels almost eerie in its gravity. Minho’s hands are curled into tight fists as chocolate orbs remain glued to the front. The sound of the neon tennis ball being hit back and forth echoes in the grass court. With it, the adrenaline inside Minho’s veins pumps louder and louder.
Kibum returns to the center of the baseline to receives a strong top-spin aiming for the line. He doesn't miss it and instead sends it back while letting out an exclamation. Minho is terrified when he sees him almost slipping on the grass. The accident barely registers Kibum's mind; he doesn’t lose his focus nor his balance. Instead, he springs to the side like a cat, eyes fixed on the ball as he moves backwards to hit a powerful smash.
Minho’s heart is frantic. He watches the breathtaking spin of the ball as it falls, deciding, on the opposite corner of the court, and it is over.
The uproar is so loud Minho’s ears buzz with it. He’s trembling with excitement as he sees Kibum clenching his fist before he flops down on the grass. His hot pink hair is no more now it has adopted a sakura shade. Kibum’s impeccable white outfit will be stained by the green and the soil under his body, but Minho knows he won’t care.
Kibum’s chest heaves up and down harshly; his arms shield his face, and it’s such an intimate picture Minho’s heart beats louder, stronger. Then the pink-haired beauty raises an arm, hand still curled into a fist, and the court is filled with another explosion of cheers and claps, every single spectator standing on their feet.
He just made it to the semifinals of Wimbledon for the first time.
Pairing: Minho/Key
Rating: PG
Genre: Slice of Life
Warnings: None
Final Word Count: 16,500+ words
I
The Prince
Aces pass like bolts of condensed light, powerful and fast. They awake bewilderment and wonder that soon transform into silent and horrified fascination. They take their opponent’s breath away; show, for a few seconds, the extent of their shooter’s will and strength.
Every time Minho sees Kibum on the tennis court, his heart never fails to skip a beat when the smaller young man hits one of those bold serves that cut the air like a bullet to leave an incontestable mark on the ground, all a statement of his power.
“Game, set, and match to Kim Kibum, three sets to love.”
Minho raises from his seat along with the roars and cheers favoring Kibum’s win. The tennis player turns to look at the audience, bowing to them with the flourish of a gentleman. There’s a grin on his features, blinding bright like the energy from his aces. Minho's eyes follow Kibum’s slender figure even after the latter disappears from the court.
It has been 9 years since they played tennis for the first time, three years since they played the last time. Now, Minho knows he is ready to face him.
* * * * * * *
Youth was supposed to be easy. Minho grew up to become athletic, well-mannered and smart, just like his older brother did before him. Through elementary school, they were known as the “Sports brothers”. By the time middle school was finishing for Minseok and starting for Minho, both brothers had acquired several championship titles in basketball and soccer.
One day, Minseok had arrived home with a racquet, and Minho’s interest had been peaked. His brother handed it to him, and the younger boy felt curious about its composition. It was heavy, and the tension and strength in the strings was enough to let Minho imagine breaking them couldn’t be an easy task.
“I’m going to start playing tennis,” Minseok had said, smiling widely. “I saw some upperclassmen playing today in the Prefectural Tournament and it was amazing. Dad used to play it, you know? He even was a national level player.”
Minho had seen the pictures here and there from his father during those days along with the medals he had received for his victories. Yet his father never brought up the topic of his times of glory or asked them if they would like to learn how to play it. He trained tennis players at the club near his house, and never insisted on his boys learning the sport.
“You could play too. What do you think?” Minseok asked.
Minho didn’t need much coaxing to accept. Once that had been settled, they told their father about their desire to play tennis and he invested some money on their backyard. After a month, Minseok and Minho enjoyed of trainings during the afternoons on their own tennis court. Most days, Minseok and Minho had matches in it. Sometimes, their dad took a seat on the verandah and watched them play while taking some tea. Time passed. Soon, both boys got lost in the delight of playing a long rally rather than holding actual matches.
As weeks passed by, tennis became a more appealing sport to Minho's preferences. He liked chasing the neon colored balls and hit them back to his brother until the elder was cornered. That didn’t happen often enough though. Minseok was physically stronger than Minho was, and he had decided to take advantage of this feature to become a baseliner player rather than the all-rounder player Minho seemed to be turning into. No matter how fast Minho was, day after day he tried to come up with ideas to return the powerful shots his brother hit while not losing too many points in the process.
“Minho! Pay attention to the ball!” Minseok alerted.
The younger boy tried to move to the side, but it was too late. The ball bounced backwards with the backspin his brother had added to it. It aimed at his body and hit him square in the chest. Losing his balance, Minho fell on his ass, eyes wide, the spot hit already aching.
Minseok rushed over, worry visible as he knelt before his little brother.
“I’m sorry, I thought you were ready for those,” Minseok apologized, checking Minho’s wrists for any possible damage after cushioning his fall.
Minho didn’t flinch, but he did pout as he looked up at his older brother.
“I am ready! I was just thinking about a way to counterattack,” he explained, frowning.
“Do that when you aren’t playing on the court,” Minseok sighed in relief. “What does dad tell you every time we go training at the club? The important thing for you to practice right now is to get the ball passing the net. To do that, you must focus on being ready to hit it, feeling its weight before you release it, and not allowing your body to tense up. The rest will come with time.”
Minho sighed, nodding softly.
“I will beat you one day though.” Minho had said, determined. "For now, I’m happy being the brother of the undefeated tennis champion.”
Minseok had laughed then.
On that summer, Minseok met a boy Minho’s age who was nothing like his adorable little brother. That year, the undefeated champion tasted the flavor of loss under the hands of a cocky 12-year-old boy. Minho’s awakening process as a tennis player started then too.
* * * * * * *
When Minho decided to become a professional tennis player, he had been certain only about one thing: he would do anything to become stronger and then take victory after victory until he got the one he wanted the most. His declared aspirations had been received with some interest by the media after his debut performance at the Sub-17 Tennis World Cup. What had rekindled the significance of his presence in the tennis world though had been Kibum's comments on the news of Minho's debut as a pro.
“There has been a growing interest in the potential Choi Minho, your fellow countryman, has displayed upon his debut in the pro circuit. What are your thoughts on it?” Minho had seen the reporter ask, not missing the little snort Kibum let out before smirking.
“I think this is not the right place for him,” Kibum had answered, shrugging. “That’s nothing new of course. Anyone who knows him is aware he has the awful habit of taking bad decisions.”
Minho is tempted to pinch the bridge of his nose at the sudden memory. Kibum and he are being bombarded by almost an endless series of questions regarding a past he doesn't want to discuss right now. He knows of course this is all Kibum’s doing. After his declaration that one day, things became a nightmare with the media. This is how Kibum welcomes him to Wimbledon, of course.
Kibum had debuted at 17 in the pro circuit. His arrival had meant the continuation of an era that kept the world fascinated. Every time he played, most eyes were on him, eager to see his wicked style and be left wishing his games could last forever. Once he took the pro circuit like a storm, Kibum gathers more than enough attention on his own. His extravagance, the shameless defiance he shows both in and out the court earned him fans and opposers. What had sealed his position as the rising prince however had been taking a Grand Slam right from the three top tennis players in the world at his 20 years.
From then on, almost by default, everything he says or does matters to the headlines. After he had commented on Minho’s debut the previous year to his Grand Slam winning, the media hadn't lost time digging into their past. They and the rest of the world learned Kibum and he had attended the same high school for three years -even knew they had been in rival middle schools for other three years. With this, the ‘Korean Wave’ that had begun with the former captain and vice-captain of their high school team, became the sports coverage's cash cow.
And here they are.
“Kibum,” a reporter says, the gleam in his eyes far too calculating to Minho’s taste. “We know in all the official matches you have held against Minho, he has never been victorious. Do you think there’s anything that could change this result this year?”
Minho feels the urge to look back at Kibum. Still, he decides to keep his gaze ahead, fingers laced together tightly.
“I think you are getting too ahead of yourself with that question,” Kibum answers, chuckling. “He hasn’t made it through the second round.”
Minho’s lips twitch. The muttering around them increases, but it doesn’t stop him from turning to see Kibum in spite of his manager’s advice. He doesn’t regret it the moment Kibum’s dark brown orbs meet his, amusement dancing in the tilt of his smile.
“Neither have you,” Minho laughs softly, already imagining the headlines of the sports sections tomorrow morning.
Kibum smiles back though. The unspoken challenge is there, heavy and enticing. But Minho’s veins don’t burn with anger anymore. Anticipation is all there is now and it's making him dizzy.
* * * * * * *
The first time Minho met Kibum, it had been a few days prior to the clubs’ ranking matches for boys under 17 years old. Minseok participated in the advanced category, along with most of the high schoolers while Minho had enrolled in the intermediate one.
By the time the youngest Choi reached the practice courts of his level in the hopes of finding a partner to warm-up, he stopped when he took notice of the large crowd gathered around a court. When the sound of a tennis ball being hit registered in his senses, curiosity woke up after seeing everyone paying attention to the match. Without thinking, he pushed his way to the front. Once there, he saw a small boy -way smaller than he was- playing against a high schooler-looking boy.
Minho feared for the boy's thin wrists, but as soon as said boy hit the ball and added an incredible spin to the ball, his concerns were brushed to the side. Minho’s eyes widened more and more as the seconds passed. They kid was fast and had no troubles balancing his body. In a minute, he was as bewildered as the rest of the audience.
Ten more minutes passed and the younger boy snorted, eyes closing for a moment as he returned to a straight position, head tilting to the side.
“Game, set and match for me. Six games to love,” he announced, looking back at his opponent with a smirk.
Minho frowned, hand curling tighter around his racquet’s handle.
“So who is next? I still have 15 minutes before my first match,” the boy’s young voice resounded in the court. The shaft of his black and white racket rested on his shoulder. Feline-dark eyes roamed over the awestruck tennis players, a challenging glint shining from within. “Hmph, I thought some of you would be grown-up enough to not be so afraid of playing against me.”
And that was it. Minho, tall and determined, stepped forward.
“I want to play with you if it’s okay,” Minho said, though the polite tone was contradicted by the fire burning in his eyes. “I can’t guarantee you though that you will make it on time for your match.”
The angular features of the troublemaker showed major amusement. The smaller boy raised an eyebrow at the challenge, pink lips curling into a lopsided smile.
“If I were in your place, I’d worry more about myself than my opponent,” the smaller boy say taking a ball from his pockets. “Do you mind if I start?”
Minho bit the inside of his cheek at the presumptuousness the younger displayed, but didn’t say anything about it and shook his head. “It’s fine.”
Minho was going to humble him down, he decided as he got in position to receive the serve. He had already seen the extent of the boy’s top-spin and while he was willing to admit the boy's technique was pretty neat, Minho was confident in his own skills.
The shorter boy bounced the ball a few times. Minho found himself glued to the ground when he saw the boy tossing the ball way too high up. In a matter of seconds, the swing of the boy's racquet connected it with the ball after it came down. In a nano-second, the boy’s wrist flicked and instead of hitting the ball with the center of the gut, he angled the racquet to hit a sliced serve.
Minho had seen his brother hit sliced serves before, but none of them had been like that one. The spin the smaller kid gave to the ball was so sharp it bounced backwards and darted out of the courts so lowly Minho couldn’t even react on time to reach it. The fence around the courts rattled when the ball hit it. To his astonishment, the ball's spin was enough to return near Minho’s feet.
The boy scoffed as he took out another ball from his shorts' pocket, ready to continue. The crowd gathered around the courts was dead silent. Minho’s heart, usually calm and collected during the beginning of a match, was beating loudly against his ribcage. The arrogance in his opponent’s demeanor had the technique to back it all up, and now Minho was aware of this. Each of the smaller boy’s serves ended the way they began: unbelievable spin and speed that made them almost impossible to return. Minho felt both fascinated and horrified after seeing the boy's shoulder and arm hadn't give out even after hitting those serves one after another.
“What’s up? Did the cat get your tongue, newbie?” the smaller boy asked from across the court. “Being the hero and saving the day was all a bluff, wasn’t it?”
Minho wanted to wince at his words, but was able to conceal his shame. He tried to focus back on the task at hand. By the time he concentrated again, the shorter boy had an advantage point for the first game.
With relief, Minho was able to figure out the trajectory of the serve as it was hit. Just as a little smile was settling on his features after getting into position to return it once he correctly predicted the point of bouncing, round eyes became wider as he saw the smaller boy already close to the net to seal any possible return.
The muscle memory and reflexes kicked into action. Split-stepping, Minho returned the ball with all his might. He thought the smaller boy’s wrists could never be able to stop such a shot with a volley, there was no way he could have a strong grip for his size. Contrary to his expectations, the shorter boy didn’t back out from the challenge. He adopted a half-closed position, and without waiting for the ball to bounce on the ground first, he hit it mid-air. To Minho’s astonishment, the power and spin he had added to the ball darted beside him with the speed of an arrow. The shot pinned him to the ground, and chocolate orbs took in the mark the ball had left behind him.
“Game for me. One game to love,” Kibum smirked, juggling his racket around.
Twelve minutes later, the cocky short boy reached the match point for an overwhelming win. Minho was sweating profusely. The bangs of his dark hair were damp and flat against his forehead; the muscles of his legs burned with the effort of keeping him up.
Kibum then adopted the same stance of the shot Minho found himself unable to even see. Sharp eyes never left the ball, Minho noticed as he moved backwards, anticipating the ball he thought the other boy was aiming for. Those bow-shaped lips curled into a devious smile then. Just like that, the illusive stance of a strong and deep forehand swing became the stance of a drop shot.
Minho stared at the ball as it fell on his side of the court with no major bounce.
The murmuring and whispering became louder. Minho’s ears though were buzzing with the flow of his blood and the wild beat of his heart. The smaller boy stood straight soon after, racquet behind his back while both arms kept it up.
“You are a hundred years too young to try being my opponent. Better luck next life,” Kibum said with a grin as he turned around with a laugh, one hand raised as he waved Minho goodbye.
In spite of the exertion, Minho’s blood burned with a fire he had never known. He was crowned the championship of the junior tournament later that day. His brother on the other side lost the first place to the same boy that had trashed the youngest Choi in the morning: a boy named Kim Kibum.
* * * * * * *
The spectators are silent. Minho can hear some hushed voices, but all they say is background noise. None of their words registers his mind. All that exists in his field of vision is the opponent standing on the other side and the neon ball being tossed up high, so high this whole scene feels like a déjà vu.
He springs into action the moment his ears catch the sound of the ball being hit. His eyes don’t fail to take notice of the place where the racquet's head is aiming to. He is right there, in position to receive the serve with what should be an awkward backhand that turns into a flawless motion a second later. The crowd is breathless when Minho’s shot darts across the net. What will be an unbelievable rally finally begins.
“Fifteen, love,” the referee calls.
Every single spectator bursts into claps. Minho’s heart is on fire. He can see Kibum next to his dad, a mop of pink hair that keeps his arms crossed against his chest as he pretends to be nonchalant about the whole affair. Minho can feel the weight of his stare though and it tells him all he needs to know. Kibum's interest has been caught, there must be a particular gleam in his eyes and he’s also probably even leaning forwards to take a better look.
Minho allows himself to smile softly as his opponent tosses the ball once more.
There is nothing he cannot do anymore, Minho thinks and moves as if he's walking on thin air.
* * * * * * *
Minho’s first impression of Kibum clearly had been everything but pleasant. All about him rubbed Minho the wrong way and so their infamous rivalry was born. Kibum never acknowledged the rivalry though, always saying Minho was far below him to be taken seriously as a tennis player, let alone his nemesis.
Time continued to pass and no matter how much Minho trained every day under the guidance of his father, he was never able to take a match from Kibum’s grasp during the whole 3 years of middle school they spent in different schools. Sometimes his team fell short before standing against Kibum’s team, and in the times they advanced to the finals, Minho hadn’t been allowed to play against him.
Minseok, on the other hand, forgot about tennis during that time to prepare for university. Minho believed this had been the result of a broken spirit, and so his spite against Kibum only grew more and more.
“Minho? Dad called to say he won’t be able to pick you up for training today. It seems there’s some sort of a reunion between all the coaches from the club so activities will be suspended for the day,” Minseok said from the verandah while the youngest hit a ball repeatedly against a wall.
“Oh…” Minho frowned.
The prefectural tournament of middle school was close, and this year he was the captain of his school’s team. He needed to practice. “I guess I will go to use the machines. Maybe add some speed to them.”
Minseok took a moment to look at his little brother. Minho was tightening his grip around his blue racquet, the worry visible on his young features.
“You really want to win against that brat, don’t you?” Minseok asked, catching Minho’s attention to return it back to the present.
“I have to defeat him. He’s a disgrace to sportsmanship,” the younger boy stated.
Minseok sighed, closing the door behind him to then walk into the court. Surrounding Minho’s shoulders with an arm, he ruffled his hair thoroughly.
“Minseok!”
“Minho!” Minseok exclaimed, laughing at the ruffled expression on his brother’s face. “Don’t overwork the brats under your care. Tennis is supposed to be fun after all, isn’t it?”
“It would be even more fun if we got to actually beat that guy’s ass along with his team once and for all.”
“One thing at the time, Minho. Remember what dad always tells you,” the eldest frowned.
Minho scowled.
“During the three years I have been playing tennis, my school has always been the champion of our zone. But then when it’s the Prefectural Tournament and then the Nationals, we lose have lost every game held against him and his team. This year will be different though. I will finally have a say in the order of the matches, and after I defeat him, the rest of his team will crumble.”
Minseok was used to listening to Minho talking like this ever since that day almost three years ago. Usually, his brother was a silent and prudent young boy. But when it came to that Kim Kibum boy, it was like Minho became an entirely different person. At some point, Minseok understood where the anger of his younger brother came from; the Kim boy was insufferable, terribly arrogant and always picking on people.
“You know there are stronger opponents out there, don’t you, Minho?” Minseok asked, the frown easing some.
Minho sighed, shoulders slumping as he nodded.
“You are one of them,” his little brother muttered, making Minseok chuckle.
“I’m not anymore, but I’m glad you think so highly of your hyung. What I meant to say is that you have yet to see the world. Next year you will be attending Seoul High School. You know who you are going to meet there?” Minseok inquired, hands on Minho’s shoulders to shake him around a bit. “Jung Yunho and Kim Jaejoong have been unbeatable since they entered high school. They will be quite a challenge for you along with the team they are shaping. And after that? There’s still the entire world, Minho. Don’t be so fixated on that brat. He will probably not stand a chance against Yunho-hyung if they are pitted together at some point. Enjoy your time, enjoy your tennis.”
“I will,” Minho said, but his senses were set on his racket. “First though, I have some pending things I need to solve at once.”
Minho pretended not to see Minseok pinching the bridge of his nose, eyebrows knitted together.
* * * * * * *
“So I can tell you have been training pretty hard in the past three years,” Kibum says as they walk.
The grass under their feet is damp and soft. Droplets of water fall over them, but they are so light Minho knows Kibum doesn’t mind. The smaller man is burrowed in an oversized black jumper and tight grey jeans, his hot pink hair ruffled by the wind and curling up around his ears. He’s not wearing the usual dark kohl to sharpen his eyes. Kibum looks softer like this, Minho thinks, but he knows better than saying it out loud.
“I had to do something. Three years are a long time,” Minho shrugs, hands in his pockets.
He looks over at Kibum, noticing the smile toying with the corner of his lips. The sight sends a flutter to his heart which he ignores promptly.
“You have changed,” Minho comments, chocolate eyes turning to the front.
“Is that an insult?” Kibum quirks an eyebrow.
Minho snickers.
“Who knows?”
This earns him Kibum’s infamous roll of eyes. While that might have riled him up in no time at fifteen, right now it’s a welcomed gesture. Their arms brush together as they keep walking. England’s classic mist rises from the ground to cover everything in white and grey. Nightfall is getting near, but they keep walking across the fields of the hotel’s gardens without a care for time.
“If you lose tomorrow, I will not forgive you,” Kibum says suddenly. Serenity is gone from his expression. Minho is familiar with this particular glare, all defined angles.
“Wow. Tomorrow I’m facing Wimbledon’s sub-champion. What a way to cheer me up,” Minho teases. “You know me so well.”
“Who said anything about cheering you up?” Kibum bites back, and he cannot hide his amusement. He pushes Minho away a heartbeat later. “You are all mine to destroy. I hope you are aware of this.”
Minho laughs, heartily and loud. He nods at last and reaches to pinch Kibum’s cheek, getting a swat in return.
“I’m aware.”
* * * * * * *
“I hope your brother is doing well,” Kibum said, the mocking tone impossible to ignore.
Minho fought to not grind his teeth together, but he did tighten his grip on Kibum’s hand as they shook hands over the net.
“I remember telling you it was too early for you to even try playing with me,” Kibum tilted his head, not showing any discomfort at Minho’s action. “Guess I will have to help you learn what that means.”
With this said, Kibum turned around to take a position at the baseline. Minho followed suit, racket in hand and a ball bouncing on the floor before him as he took a deep breath and exhaled. He was ready to fight and finally erase the annoying smirk from the -still- smaller boy's lips.
[ “Where is your head?” his father would ask. “And where is it supposed to be?” ]
Minho took a deep breath and the match began.
*
*
The summer sun was leaving the sky for the day after a warm day. The breeze of the late afternoon carried a natural salty smell that refreshed damp, hot skin.
Kibum took one last look at Minho before he tossed the ball so high up in the air there was a collective exclaim of admiration at the unusual throw for such a small boy.
Minho knew better than being fooled by Kibum’s physique by now. There was no point in denying the kid’s outstanding technique and the innate talent running in his blood. He was ahead from normal middle-schoolers, Minho knew, and he was also aware if you wanted to win against him, you needed more than power and speed.
By the time the sliced serve hit the ground, Minho had already seen the way Kibum’s racquet had cut the air before hitting the ball. He ran to the corner of the doubles line, ready to get in position to return the ball. Kibum's shot bounced backwards like Minho expected it to do. Before the shot diverted out of reach, Minho hit it adding a top-spin effect to return it.
He couldn't hide the joy that filled his heart after seeing Kibum's shocked expression once Minho's return didn't hit the net. The murmurs around them grew and the cheers from both teams became louder and louder.
*
*
Summer nights were Minho’s favorite. Minho’s skin tingled with the caress of the chilly evening breeze. The smell of his mother’s plants and flowers were a pleasant comfort just like the noises the evasive crickets made.
The inner door opened and Minseok walked out, taking a seat next to him on the verandah.
“I bet it was satisfying to see him all shocked when you started your counterattack and caught up with him,” Minseok said, looking at him.
Droplets of water were running down Minho’s temples and neck, quickly cooling down. The youngest Choi chortled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“I still lost, you know?” Stubbornly, Minho maintained his eyes on the ball bouncing on top of his racquet.
“Yeah, but you got a few games from him. Not many have accomplished that. The question is, why did you start to fail in your game so suddenly?” Minseok asked, lightly nudging Minho’s arm with his elbow.
Minho didn’t want to say out loud that Kibum was better, that his technique was flawless and deadly; that Kibum was far more of a player than Minho could ever aspire to be. It was one thing to be aware of this fact inwardly and another to talk about it. He kept silent instead.
“He is winning because you let him get to you, Minho,” Minseok said. “Just remember next time you play him what dad asks us when we are doing stupid shit and end up fumbling around like newbies.”
After patting his brother’s head, Minseok returned to the living room.
Minho stayed out another hour. The balls he hit against the wall after that conversation made a heavy sound. In another time, this had brought him some comfort and peace of mind, but that night none of it helped him feel better. All he was able to see in his dreams were those familiar feline-like eyes staring down at him with the blurred emotion that always drove Minho up the wall.
“Better luck next life.”
* * * * * * *
When the experienced Swedish Wimbledon sub-champion gets another point and the game with it, Minho can feel his muscles starting to protest. He can also hear the way blood is pumping through his veins like war-drums, the sound resounding in every fiber of his being. He has lost the first set and is already losing the second one five games to love.
He could lose this match.
As they walk towards their respective bench for a break, Minho falls down heavily on his. The cold towel around his neck is a pleasant relief as he drinks water. There is no sun today and while the breeze is heavy with humidity, it’s still cool enough against his skin.
Looking up, he distinguishes Kibum’s bright pink hair easily. The tennis player looks so serious Minho wants to laugh. He’s leaning against the wall inside the tunnel, and Minho doesn’t really take notice of the entirety of his expression.
He remembers high schooler Kibum for a moment, the scandalous blue hair and the dark waterproof kohl he started using from then on. He also remembers undefeated Captain Jung Yunho and his match against freshman Kim Kibum. He remembers Kibum soaked in sweat just like he himself is right now. Was the exhaustion he felt then the same as the one he's experiencing right now? Kibum was resplendent that day, he remembers too. Kibum was beautiful even after he had been beaten.
“This is going to get good now,” he can hear Jaejoong’s honey voice saying beside him.
“This is going to get good now indeed,” he repeats, chuckling as he tilts his head back.
His heart is fire.
* * * * * * *
“It doesn’t seem like this is the first time that freshman has been pushed this far. Am I the only one who finds that strange?” Jonghyun commented. “Wasn’t he supposed to be an undefeated champion to this day?”
Minho was unable to look away from the court. Kibum didn’t look upset. He looked as if he was enjoying himself immensely, but he hadn't lost a single ounce of determination. Fifteen minutos into the game and Kibum had already lost the first set six games to love. In spite of all his efforts, even now captain Yunho didn’t seem fazed by his opponent’s skills. Minho thought Kibum ought to have shown anger or irritation already, but it was as if he was welcoming the whole experience with open arms. Envy and jealousy stirred inside his chest like a burn, but he didn't linger on the reason; Did not dare to.
During the second set, Yunho was ahead 4 games to love. Minho was sure there was no way Kibum would be able to stand on his own feet for a third and fourth set even if he somehow managed to win this one. But how could he even achieve such thing with the deadly combination of Jung Yunho’s speed, stamina, power and technique? It was the first time too Minho had seen anyone like him.
“This is going to get good now,” Jaejoong’s melodious voice commented.
Minho frowned.
“That first year seems like an interesting addition to our club,” Changmin said. “You think his mental capacity could ever pair up with that of the captain?”
“Guess you will get your answer soon enough,” Junsu singsonged, both arms behind his head as he smiled softly.
“But he is already exhausted-” Minho interrupted, his frown more visible as he turned to look at Changmin.
The taller young man pointed back at the match with a tilt of his head.
Kibum was moving with all his might put into the focus to hit a smash after Yunho’s calculated lob.
“He's being reckless with the use of his energy. He could pass out at any minute,” Minho said, fingers curling more around the fence.
“That won’t happen.” Jinki said as he took place beside Jonghyun, his doubles partner.
“When you have a determination that strong, the body won’t fail you until you are finished with what you want to do,” Changmin added.
“Is their desire to win that strong?” Minho asked, looking over at the elders.
Jaejoong stopped looking at the match to turn his attention to Minho. The funny look he gave the younger confused him, especially when he cracked that enigmatic lopsided-grin that reminded him so much of Kibum’s own special smiles.
“No, I don’t believe that’s how it is." Jaejoong responded. “Their mental strength comes from different places perhaps, but the striving to the greatest heights they can reach? Well, they are curious by nature. Victory is not something their minds process like most people's minds do.”
Junsu pointed upwards, lips curled into a wide smile. “The extent of their imagination is what drives them to the top.”
Minho turned back to watch Kibum returning the powerful top-spin of the captain with a wicked backhand. Yunho received the slice with a skillful volley and Kibum dashed to the net in time to hit the ball just before it bounced out of reach. With this play, he finally got the point for his first game. Yunho seemed like a powerful warrior standing there, but Kibum didn't look intimidated in the slightest. Even then, Minho saw he was like a feline waiting to pounce on his prey with sharp claws and vicious fangs.
“4 to 1! Change of court!”
* * * * * * *
“Why did you leave so suddenly?” Minho asks, feigning nonchalance as he reaches for Kibum’s slice of pizza from his plate.
Kibum listened to the question, Minho knows, but he still takes his time to give him an answer. In the meanwhile, the shorter young man scrunches up his nose, trying to get back his slice until Minho munches on it.
“You are disgusting.” The pink-haired man says, sticking his tongue out to the taller one. Then he takes a deep breath. “There was nothing left for me in high school after we got the final championship title from the senior year season. I can’t stay at places where there’s nothing else left for me to do, you know that.”
Minho looks at the way the ends of Kibum’s hair curl up at his nape; the way the warm, low light of the restaurant bathes his features delicately, softening the angles as a result. He also notices the way those pretty lips close to take a sip from his beer. Minho doesn’t tell him how much he has missed him.
“I looked at you and your wildness and I couldn’t help but wonder if one day you would take the world at once by force until it yielded under your grasp,” he says instead, the munched slice of pizza in hand. “Do you remember our last match?”
Kibum chortles, but he cannot fool Minho. He is thoughtful, remembering more than he will ever be willing to admit.
“I want to feel that burn telling me if I push harder I will break, that if I stretch those limits around me, I will be able to do anything. I’m here now, so do look at me, Kibum.”
Minho is facing him. The tips of Kibum’s ears are red and the sight is so mesmerizing it makes him feel giddy with happiness, like the lovesick fool he is.
“I will absolutely not let you win this time around,” Minho adds.
Kibum seems startled as he looks back at him, like he can’t believe what he is witnessing. A heartbeat later he regains the control of his actions, and he pushes Minho by the shoulder in retaliation.
“Just watch me,” Kibum threatens.
But what hangs between both of them is a promise; a future.
* * * * * * *
Practices during the freshman year had been near insane. However, practices during the second-year, made Minho feel he was either going to become the strongest man alive or die trying, no in-between.
After running the series of exercises he had been assigned to with the rest of the second-years, he made his way to the main court where everyone else seemed to be gathering like bees to the honey. It was then that he saw Kibum playing simultaneously against Taemin and Jongin, this year's super rookies.
Jongin and Taemin had played before in doubles, and Minho had witnessed their power of destruction. After Jinki and Jonghyun, their current National Golden Pair, the combination between Taemin and Jongin left nothing to wish for.
“This is suicide, Jongin and Taemin combined can’t be tamed,” he heard someone say. “Kibum is going to injure himself.”
Minho agreed with his teammate. The Prefectural Tournament was close, overworking Kibum like this was not advisable.
“That kid is going to win against those two, don’t worry,” Jonghyun said, arms behind his head.
“I agree,” Kyungsoo, their new regular addition commented.
“Yup, same here.” Sehun chirped in, clinging onto Kyungsoo’s small frame. “Kibum-hyung looks like a predator right there. Someone about to be defeated doesn’t look at their opponent the way Kibum-hyung is looking at those two.”
“Your observations are all good,” Jinki remarked as he joined them, arms crossed against his chest.
“Kibum wins because he risks things in order to win. He’s a natural as an offensive player. The only thing he has on his mind is passing the shots to the other side of the net. To get the game going for his body, his feet are quick and his swing is initially soft. When his body is loose enough, he has found a rhythm. That means he can get a comfortable position anywhere in the court and so his hits become dangerous.” Jinki explained, almond-shaped eyes fixed on the match before them. "What's his rhythm's advantage, Minho?"
“That his speed and technique are his best weapons,” Minho said, glancing over at the vice-captain.
“You are half-right. Take a closer look at him. What’s happening with his legs right now?”
Minho saw Jongin swinging a perfectly balanced backhand that added a fast top-spin to the ball. Kibum moved backwards to find the shot mid-air, returning it with a strong forehand. Immediately after, Taemin was right at the net with an ingenious volley. Kibum’s split-step allowed him to dash for the ball, finding it on time and balanced to return it with a laser shot. To the freshmen's awe, the ball darted right between them. Kibum didn't waste time to move back to the baseline to serve after earning the game with that point. Then Minho saw what Jinki talked about.
“He practices in the mornings and then comes here during breaks to play a bit more. He never misses the afternoon practice. By the end of the day, he is exhausted. It shows right now, but what’s what is keeping him in shape against our two good rookies?”
Minho took another look at Kibum as they changed sides once he had taken a game with ace after ace. Taemin and Jongin were breathing hard and they were soaked in sweat just like Kibum himself was. The eldest though didn’t look as exhausted as he must have felt right then. Those dark brown eyes were shining with a fire that sent a shudder through Minho's spine.
“A will of steel,” he whispered.
“I don’t know if there is anything in particular that motivates him to push himself forwards no matter the cost, but it makes of his focus something from another planet. His tenacity and persistence make up for his stamina,” Jonghyun said, grinning widely.
“Our former captain covered the five points of any good tennis player in an outstanding way; he had the power, the speed, the technique and the stamina. But all that came into harmony because of the strongest factor in this sport: the mental strength. Kibum doesn’t have the same stamina or power as he does, but do you remember their match the last time they played?” Jinki looked back at Minho.
“I don’t think that kid only thinks about victory,” Jonghyun said as Kibum got another game from the Taemin-Jongin duet.
Minho recalled the blazing fire in his rival’s eyes every time he played, the cocky smile and the firm resolve put into every shot. Kibum didn’t aim for winning points with any shot. They became winning shorts because Minho couldn’t reach them, because he wasn’t fast enough, because he wasn’t concentrating only on the ball. When he managed to return them, Kibum was there, as if he had been expecting this development all along.
From then on, it was like his gaze gravitated permanently around Kibum's whereabouts.
Minho gasped as a realization hit him square in the face.
* * * * * * *
They can be equals now, Minho realizes when Kibum takes a seat on the grass of the hotel garden. The elder has his phone in hand and he pours his attention in the endless list of messages awaiting for his answer.
Both of them have made it through each round. The semi finals are the day after tomorrow, and here they are, relaxing in each other’s company like the friends they have never been.
“How is Taemin?” Minho asks, throwing a rock to the lake before them. The rock bounces three times to then end submerged into the water.
“He will be here for the finals,” Kibum answers without looking away from his phone as he types. “His injury has healed finally, so he will be joining us in the circuit next year.”
“Those are great news.” And Minho is sincere.
Kibum and he are 21 years old. Taemin should have debuted a year ago, at sweet 18. One wrong move had almost ended with all his dreams instead, but willpower wasn’t something the younger man lacked . Taemin had proved himself, rising up victorious in the end.
“Maybe not that great for you,” Kibum smiles, finally looking back at Minho. “He’s determined to beat your ass. Whatever did you do to him during the last Sub-17 Cup?”
Minho is glad he decided to wear a cap today. That and the sun setting ahead camouflage the impeding blush taking over his cheeks.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Except he does.
* * * * * * *
Minho was frustrated. All the time he spent into training, into strengthening his body to be faster and more powerful, it all seemed pointless by now. He had lost to the power nobody had ever witnessed in Jinki-hyung’s playing style. There was also the point that even though Kibum wasn’t as physically strong and resistant as Minho was, the elder one still trashed Minho around every time they played.
Minho’s hand curled tightly around the handle of his racket, ready to throw it to the ground. He stopped at the last second with a shaking hand and a racing heart.
“I can’t quit,” he said, eyes scrunched.
The sound of rustled leaves reached his ears. He turned around while trying to wipe away the tears in the corners of his eyes. Soon, Taemin’s heart-shaped face came into view. He was carrying his white racket, pitch black hair moving with the chilling breeze of the end of November.
“Taemin? What are you doing in here?” the elder asked, frowning.
Minho wasn’t sure about Taemin’s personality. From what he had seen at school, the boy wasn’t an extrovert. It seemed Taemin only allowed himself to smile and be playful around Kibum and the other freshmen that tagged along with him when the elder wasn’t near. Minho had also noticed that sometimes Taemin looked at him like one would look at a future rival: light brown eyes seemed to measure him up sometimes. Minho had waited patiently for the kid to come around to ask him for a match, but that hadn’t happened yet.
Right then Taemin’s features seemed placid, but there was something about him that made Minho feel wary.
“Hi hyung,” the younger greeted him with a smile. “I’m waiting for Kibum-hyung. We have a match each week at the same hour and time.”
Minho’s heart stuttered inside his ribcage. He knew Taemin must have taken notice of the shift of his expression.
“Wanna come and tag along?” Taemin asked, head cocking a bit to the side in feigned innocence. As if he didn't know Kibum abhorred Minho as much as Minho abhorred him.
“No, thanks, I have to get home now. But thank you. Enjoy your match with him,” the elder said after clearing his throat. Then he took his tennis bag and went away. Pretended to do so.
Contrary to what his common sense dictated, Minho stayed back. He hid between the trees where he had the perfect view to watch the match that happened right after.
The sun-kissed young boy didn’t want to linger onto why he was becoming more and more enraptured by Kibum’s playing style. He ignored the uneasiness being there caused him.
It was this choice what changed everything for him from then on.
*
*
When Minho received his invitation to the Sub-17 Tennis World Cup training camp, he had been elated. Trainings there were always tough and more than half of the boys and girls invited dropped out after a few weeks, but those that stayed made everything worthy.
That year, Lee Taemin had also been invited. The confrontation Minho had expected after two years happened then.
“I will not lose to you a second time, do you understand, hyung?” Taemin said, the head of his racquet pointing at Minho’s chest from across the net.
Taemin’s caramel eyes weren’t bright with naivety like always. Something dark had curled up inside and it demanded respect.
Kibum was there too, hair blond and with an extravagant fashionable pair of sunglasses covering his eyes. He was frowning, oblivious to the reason why Taemin seemed more determined and fired up than ever.
Minho knew and wished he didn’t.
* * * * * * *
The silence of the spectators feels almost eerie in its gravity. Minho’s hands are curled into tight fists as chocolate orbs remain glued to the front. The sound of the neon tennis ball being hit back and forth echoes in the grass court. With it, the adrenaline inside Minho’s veins pumps louder and louder.
Kibum returns to the center of the baseline to receives a strong top-spin aiming for the line. He doesn't miss it and instead sends it back while letting out an exclamation. Minho is terrified when he sees him almost slipping on the grass. The accident barely registers Kibum's mind; he doesn’t lose his focus nor his balance. Instead, he springs to the side like a cat, eyes fixed on the ball as he moves backwards to hit a powerful smash.
Minho’s heart is frantic. He watches the breathtaking spin of the ball as it falls, deciding, on the opposite corner of the court, and it is over.
The uproar is so loud Minho’s ears buzz with it. He’s trembling with excitement as he sees Kibum clenching his fist before he flops down on the grass. His hot pink hair is no more now it has adopted a sakura shade. Kibum’s impeccable white outfit will be stained by the green and the soil under his body, but Minho knows he won’t care.
Kibum’s chest heaves up and down harshly; his arms shield his face, and it’s such an intimate picture Minho’s heart beats louder, stronger. Then the pink-haired beauty raises an arm, hand still curled into a fist, and the court is filled with another explosion of cheers and claps, every single spectator standing on their feet.
He just made it to the semifinals of Wimbledon for the first time.