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No matter how hectic things get, no matter how many things they’ve got to do, the whirlwind of release week never deters Minho from breaking into the dimple dorm to pester Chan, and never will. Not even when they wake to Chan’s pillow awash with blue, some locks of his newly silver hair shaded along with it.
Chan inspects himself with his phone's front camera, lips pursed into a line. “Think they’ll notice?”
“They’ll think it’s on theme,” Minho says. The staff will come wake them in half an hour, so he must make himself scarce. Or he could stay on the pretence it was strict hyung business that couldn’t wait, and bribe Jeongin with whatever breakfast he wants so he’ll leave them alone.
Rarely does the sun coming through the blinds make Minho feel truly refreshed, but the rays falling upon Chan and his naked back as he sits up in bed make Minho want to change his mind. Especially as Chan leans out to pick up last night’s tossed clothes from the floor, humming something as pretty as he is.
Minho doesn’t get to see Chan that night, explaining to him over text that he needs to speak to the stylists. Minho responds with a voice message of him blowing a raspberry and returns home to cook dinner with Jisung. Kicks his feet a little when Chan sends a goodnight sticker and goes to sleep smiling at the ceiling.
Only in the morning does he realise the reason behind Chan’s cloak and dagger.
Chan’s in a fucking compression shirt. Silver hair, feathery fringe and red highlights to match the sleeves shaped by his damn biceps.
Minho briefly wonders if they’ll both turn purple if he spends the night. But there are more pressing concerns at the moment, like how Chan may actually want him dead; the way he grins at him when he crosses his arms or goes to scratch at the skin below his shirt.
Some nonsensical voice at the back of Minho’s head tells him that he of all people shouldn’t be so affected by this display. It’ll be a cold day in hell before he actually listens to it, but he still tries. He shouldn’t be so surprised either when he fails, what with the smirk Chan wears when he faces Minho during their performance, every instance of witnessing the top ride up his abs and Seungmin sticking the tail of the mic into Chan’s behind.
Yet the thing that truly does it; what makes Minho believe he may start frothing at the mouth, is seeing Chan knead his tits in view of the camera.
Minho is aware he’s not known for his tranquillity or his subtlety. It’s the worst possible time to prove everybody right about that. So the minute everything wraps and they’re ushered offstage, he grabs Chan by the shoulders and whisks them into an empty corridor and into its cleaning closet.
“Lee Know-yah! We’re on schedule!” Chan chastises him in mock-leader mode as Minho pins him against the wall and unzips his shirt to the hem. “We’ve got to get a move on!”
“It’s only lunch. And I’m starving.”
Minho unwraps Chan and marvels, firstly, because Chan’s tits are a work of art. Then he’s kissing him feverishly because above all, he loves Chan.
“They’re gonna wonder where we are,” Chan rasps when Minho moves down his neck and attacks his collarbone. “They’re gonna wonder why I’m all blue again.”
Minho nips at his skin freely, peeling the shirt further to grasp his shoulders. “Tell them it’s karma.”
“Oh my gosh, Min!” Chan manages to giggle before he goes to pieces from Minho squeezing his exposed pecs together and shoving his face into them. Maybe it’s how hard he’s getting or the fact he can faintly hear people milling down the corridor outside, but Chan tastes especially scrumptious like this. He’s licked all sorts off of those pecs, stuck himself in between there and worshipped them to no end.
This time he may just stain them blue.
“You fucking tease, fucking menace, fucking—” Minho splutters, ravishing Chan’s sternum with his mouth. Swiftly he moves his hand to shield Chan’s head from hitting the wall as he tips back, thrusting his chest up with each ragged breath.
“It sounds an awful lot like you wanna fuck me,” Chan snarks.
“I fucking will,” Minho grabs Chan’s tits with thumbs on either side and flicks each nipple. “They’re not gonna fix you up in time.”
“You wouldn’t— ahh — you wouldn’t do that to hyung—”
He’s right, he wouldn’t. At least not for now. Minho softens his ministrations, coming back up to kiss Chan a little deeper, hands still moulded to the flushed mounds of Chan’s chest. His necklace dangles between Minho’s wrists and spurs in him a second wind. Now he’s got to see what it looks like bouncing in the divot of Chan’s tits.
“I’m gonna jerk you off, you want that?”
“Hurry,” Chan moans, red as the rest of him. “I’m so close.”
Minho jumps right to it, teeth grinding as he wrenches Chan’s gigantic belt buckle open — oh, he definitely prefers the taekwondo sash — and finds his hand wet.
Minho looks up at Chan delightedly.
“Hyung?” he sings, head to the side.
Chan, suddenly shaking like a leaf, hides his face in his hands. “Shit!”
“When did you even…” Minho begins, but warmth overtakes him by a flood. Gently, he prises Chan’s hands away and kisses him in hopes of easing his embarrassment, drinking in his sighs as they turn into giggles again. Gropes his left tit for good measure before tenderly zipping him up.
Later, riled and ecstatic at Mucore, Chan swings Minho around his shoulder and tells him he loves him on national TV. He’ll make him say it again before the night is over, Minho's determined, when they're back under the same covers.