Screw Precautions

A grimace curled Minho's lips crookedly downwards as he peeled a slice of pizza off the small bathroom mirror, guttural noise of revulsion leaving his throat at the greasy residue left behind. How does one even get pizza to stick to any vertical surface, especially overnight? The guys that were presumably at Minho's dorm last night were no Einsteins- and that was an understatement- so Minho was assuming that it was a fluke. A disgusting, if somewhat impressive, fluke.

He doused the mirror in Meadow Fresh Comet, before setting about at scrubbing any pizza grease and lord knows what else that had landed on the glass with ferocity he usually only reserved for Liszt or Rachmaninoff.

Where was the culprit, the lowlife who staged this entire get together that had managed to, once again, trash his previously impeccable dormitory room? He'd probably wormed his way into yet another all-too-willing girl's bed last night, after he and his good for nothing friends finally left the dorm. Any bets, Minho thought bitterly, he was going to be served pancakes or scrambled eggs in bed, like he'd so often boasted his nightly conquests were like to do. For some reason, that image made Minho so very angry that he had to stop himself for fear of rubbing a hole straight through the glass.

That was never going to happen, of course, but when things were concerning Minho, precautions always had to be taken.   

Lee Taemin was his name. Lee Taemin, the bane of Minho's existence. He was lazy, annoying, loud, charismatic and painfully hot- the latter two seemed to only make Minho dislike him further. Late nights out- or rather, very early morning returns to the dorm- and a lot of drunkenness and rowdiness most weekends were things that Taemin seemed to hold as the staples for a fulfilling life, and thus were the 'principles' by which he lived. Minho valued his sleep, needed it in order to function, succeed, and Taemin had very quickly become the reason for the large bags under his eyes and the sudden memory losses in the middle of new pieces.

Sometimes, Minho would come home late after a recital to find his dorm full of drunk delinquents and secondhand smoke- he didn't know what was worse, the stoned students scattered through the rooms or the trash they'd leave behind. Other nights, he'd be woken abruptly due to incessant thumping of a headboard upon bedroom wall and a cacophony of moans permeating the paper-thin plaster, effectively depriving Minho of yet another full night of sleep.

Minho didn't know what wrong he'd committed in a past life to have been assigned Taemin as his roommate at the beginning of the year, but he'd been frantically trying to reverse the of bad luck ever since. He'd applied for a room change four months into the year, but had been told that, for whatever reason, he was going to have to wait until the end. Mid-year holidays were a brief reprieve, a time for Minho to regain some semblance of sanity, before returning threw him back into the deep end, drowning in unlearnt pieces and Taemin, who seemed to be paying even more unwelcome attention to the young pianist. It was enough to drive anyone crazy (and Jonghyun, Minho's wildly unhelpful best friend, often told him it did).

Finally, the blessed time was drawing near, Minho having received an email informing him of room change in little more than three weeks. Finally, there was a light at the end of the tunnel- and it was glowing, singing promises of happiness as he raced towards it.

When Minho had finished cleaning the bathroom and had taken a half-hour long shower to erase any memories of the 'pizza residue', Taemin was back. He wore a blessed-out, yet still somehow smug, smile on his face as he lounged on the sofa, limbs sprawled haphazardly over the khaki with dubious stains splattered randomly over it.

Minho hated that sofa, hated the colour- delightfully reminiscent of puke- and hated the owner, and the company he'd invite onto the ratty old thing. Taemin had said that, while somehow pushing the furniture through the door in the second week as an aghast Minho looked on, that it was his late grandmother's. That was all very well, but the goings-on that happened on a weekly basis upon the couch were, in Minho's opinion, a desecration of the poor woman's memory. She'd probably cherished that ugly thing, Minho thought, and every cigarette burn inflicted upon it and deposit of bodily fluid (be imaginative, he sure as hell wasn't elaborating) rubbed into the fabric probably made old Mrs Lee turn in her grave.

"Sup?" Taemin drawled lazily as his roommate emerged, hair damp and messily tousled. Taemin's eyes roamed his body speculatively, and for some reason it made Minho feel incredibly vulnerable.

"Stop that," he snapped irritably. "Do you even know what I literally just had to go through for you?"

A bemused eyebrow slowly arched, and Minho blushed lightly despite himself. "For me?" Taemin exclaimed, voice dripping with mockery, "How sweet of you. I'm touched- however, I literally have no idea what you're talking about."

Minho nearly growled. "Then you are incredibly dense, Lee Taemin, because I'm pretty sure I complain to you about almost the exact same thing every time you have those stupid friends of yours over."

"Oh, you mean that clean up you always rant about." He nodded slightly, then snapped his fingers with a glare at Minho. "Hey, that's rude. They're normally incredibly bright, riveting individuals, but unfortunately weed seems to deteriorate their intelligence. Slightly." Taemin snickered, "But on the bright side, they get crazy good ideas when they're high."

"Yeah," Minho's tone screamed sarcasm, "Great ideas. Like sticking pizza to a mirror."

"That can happen?" Taemin looked genuinely amazed. "Hmph, and here you are calling them stupid. That, my friend, is an act of sheer genius."

Not as impressed, Minho shook his head aggressively. "There's nothing intelligent about vandalising, Taemin. I just spent 20 minutes scrubbing pizza residue off my bathroom mirror. My bathroom mirror! Oh, my poor bathroom-"

"It's ours. Not yours, ours." Taemin cut him off and rose from the couch looking suddenly sour. "No need to get your in a twist, Min. A little pizza juice never killed anyone."

"It almost killed me." He paused for a moment, then snapped his fingers, almost as an afterthought, "Don't call me that!"

Taemin snorted, "Drama queen." He began to walk over to said bathroom, stretching as he went with a loud yawn. "I bought you chocolate, Min. It's on the counter." He stopped, throwing a glance at Minho over his shoulder. "Your hair looks good like that- skip the combover next time, leave it natural. It's y." He shot him a cheesy wink, and turned back around- and even though he knew Taemin was just playing with him, he couldn't help the blush that tickled his cheeks as the other left.

"Please," he scoffed at the other, who'd already left the room. "Don't think you can buy my forgiveness back with chocolate and flattery, Lee Taemin. That's the oldest trick in the book- and I'm not that easy." His gaze fell upon the sizeable bar lying in the counter, and his eyes lit up. "Although," he conceded to himself in whispered voice, "It's a damn good place to start."

Jonghyun didn't seem to take the news of the approaching room change nearly as excitedly as Minho was. A fortnight before the relocation was scheduled, Minho roped his friend into lunch at a cheap, nearby diner for celebration.

Jonghyun, however, seemed to enjoy putting a damper on things.

"I don't know- don't you think you'd miss him?" Minho's jaw almost dropped, but his friend looked unfazed, cooly shoving another fry into his mouth.

"Is that even a legitimate question?" Minho hissed, the notion so incredulous he was almost insulted.

Jonghyun shrugged, "Well, I'm just saying... You know, majority of your conversations these days revolve around Taemin this, Taemin that-"

"I only talk about how much I hate him!"

"-and quite frankly, it feels like you don't hate the guy."

Minho groaned, slumping back into his chair dramatically. "Do you not listen to anything I say?"

"Oh, I listen-" Jonghyun took a long sip from his thickshake, wincing at the cold, "-Unfortunately." Minho shot him a reproachful glare, but Jonghyun continued picking at his fries, for the most part undisturbed. "But the tricky thing with you Minho, is you seem to be a compulsive liar."

The man in question gaped. "A compulsive liar?" he spluttered, almost choking on the air and taking a hasty gulp of chocolate thickshake to wash it down. "How am I a compulsive liar? When was the last time I lied to you?" Jonghyun opened his mouth to speak, but Minho waved him off. "Exactly, you can't name it. Because it didn't happen. If anybody is a compulsive liar, it'd be-"

"Taemin, I know." Jonghyun sighed, and Minho eyed him suspiciously.

"Don't think that you just proved a point there, Jonghyun," he warned him, "I'm just criticising that dirtbag, lowlife excuse of a human being."

"Mhm," Jomghyun hummed, unimpressed. "Well, there you go again, I guess."

"That wasn't a lie."

"Wasn't it?"

Minho stood up, jaw clenched as he glared down at Jonghyun with the most intimidating scowl he could muster. It didn't really have the desired effect; Jonghyun cocked an eyebrow, challenging Minho, and to be honest it only served to add fuel to the fire. "I came here for a nice lunch, and right now you're ruining it with your... Your wildly unfounded accusations. I'm leaving," he told him angrily, "And I'll probably return to Taemin banging some random girl for at least four hours. I hope you'll think of that, when you realise you're wrong, and take pity on me, your poor, traumatised best friend, knowing that you wronged me."

Jonghyun snorted, "Right, girl."

"And," Minho continued, ignoring him, "I hope the guilt will eat away at you all night long, just like those godawful noises will eat away at my soul tonight."

Jonghyun snorted again, "Right, guilt."

Minho scoffed, turning around and taking his haughty leave- although not fast enough to miss Jonghyun's words as he left.

"Don't come crying to me when you realise I'm right!"

Minho wasn't supposed to be home until after six, and he'd informed Taemin (unhappily, as whenever Minho told Taemin he was going to be out he would return to either Taemin getting it on with some girl loudly in his room, or a gathering that looked one minute away from becoming an alcohol-and-cannabis fuelled ) by note on his way out that morning. He was pleasantly surprised to find the dorm quiet, with no smoke or raucous laughter assaulting him as he tiptoed down the hall. The slightest smile graced his lips when he found the small kitchen in peace as well, and set his stuff down on the bench, proceeding to practically skip to his room.  

Until there was breathless cry of his name from the slightly ajar door opposite his own; Minho rolled his eyes for getting his hopes up. The idiot was probably drunk again, had fallen over and somehow wedged himself underneath the ratty sofa in the corner- unfortunately, Minho had seen it all before. It wasn't exactly uncommon.

"Min... Minho!" Came another call, this time more urgent, and said man grudgingly turned back to Taemin's room cursing his inability to be mean, a quality that Jonghyun had told him over and over that he didn't posses, to no avail. Why else would he go help out his drunkard of a roommate? If helping that insufferable brat wasn't saintly, Minho didn't know what was.

Minho heaved a long-suffering sigh, then placed his palm flat on the door, giving it a despondent push and watching as it swung open. "Taemin, I swear, this is the final time I help your inebriated..."

He trailed off, finally properly seeing the sight before him. Taemin, sweaty and flushed and shirtless in all of his sculpted beauty, panting and staring confusedly at Minho with hooded eyes. Oh, and his hand was shoved down the front of his boxers, and Minho would have to be blind to not notice the shadow of a very prominent bulge there.

Oh. Oh. Minho blinked, throat suddenly constricting for reasons unknown- and he couldn't look away, no matter how much his cheeks burnt. Taemin, too, was frozen in place, hand still resting in the most awkward of places, realisation beginning to dawn upon him. Minho watched as his eyes widened, cheeks flushing red enough to rival his own violent red blush and mouth opening, perhaps to explain.

Minho didn't feel particularly inclined to listen though- in fact, it was right about then that his 'fight or flight' reflex kicked into action. He stumbled backwards, hastily up gluing his tongue from the roof of his mouth in order to cut Taemin off with a rather timely, entirely stately interjection:

"Well. I'm... out. Um. Yes. Yes. Adios."

With that, Minho shuffled out, breaking into a run down the corridor and out the door, still stuttering out unintelligible curses and random words as he went. When he reached the car park outside their dorm building, he slowed down to a brisk walk, panting and intent on getting himself as far away from that god-forsaken dorm room as possible.

Adios? Where the hell did that come from? I don't even speak Spanish.

Minho cursed himself as he walked unseeingly down streets, because if it were possible to make that situation even more awkward, he'd succeeded ridiculously with his parting words. If that stammering could even be called words- he'd sounded like a broken printer. A lot of choked noises and paused groans, stuttered out in a staccato rhythm that'd effectively reduced Minho to a state possibly more pathetic than the one Taemin had found himself in.

Which was most definitely saying something, because Taemin had fooled around with girls on a pretty steady thrice-weekly basis for as long as Minho had known him, yet had been fantasising about Minho- drab, uptight pianist Minho- while touching himself. Even for a guy like Taemin, that was embarrassing.

Minho wasn't quite sure where he was going; he could've easily have been walking in circles, and it probably wouldn't occur to him for an hour. Thankfully, the cold got through; he'd left his coat behind in his haste, and was now infinitely regretting it, icy wind seeping into his clothes and seemingly biting at him from the inside. He stopped, crossed him arms- wedging his hands underneath his armpits for optimum warmth, a tip he'd learnt through many a winter recital backstage with numb fingers minutes before performance and a need for a quick solution- and started to bounce on the balls of his feet, scouring the vicinity for somewhere, anywhere, to escape the cold, preferably one that he'd be able to pay for with the stray coins in his back pocket.

Ironically, the only suitable place was a small, shifty looking dive bar tucked into the corner- a hangout befitting playboy ultimate, Taemin, but not music nerd extraordinaire, Minho.