“If I’d known it would take this long, I would’ve never agreed to this,” Minho groans.

“Shut up, I’m trying to concentrate here,” Key snaps, though it probably would have held much more edge and menace had it been under other circumstances. Minho merely rolls his eyes behind Key’s back but shuts up nonetheless and tells himself it’s only because he’s a good friend (and definitely not because he might be a little scared of the fit Key would throw if he did talk back).

Key inhales, deep in his lungs (he read somewhere that it helps calm nerves down (not that he’s scared)), then exhales slowly. He repeats this a couple of times and he can practically hear that one vein on Minho’s temple expand with his growing irritation. He doesn’t really care. Minho is going to be his little slave for as long as Key pleases and they both know it.

With one last intake of air, Key squares his shoulders and steps onto the transparent platform, trying with all his might not to look down. He takes a few tiny steps before turning around and asking if it’s a good enough angle.

“Well, you’ll need to sit down if you want to know,” is the reply Key gets and he’s not happy with it. Nevertheless, he sits down with the most disgruntled face he can muster and stares unwaveringly at Minho.

“I seriously hope you’re not posing right now.” Key can’t tell if he’s joking or not (Minho has always been hard to read).

“The angle, Minho.”

Minho frowns for a second. “Uh, try scooting a little backwards.”

Key swallows lightly and places his hands on the see-through barrier to push himself back, desperately keeping his eyes on the ceiling. “There, you happy?”

“A little more.” Minho tries to hide behind the phone in his hands.

Key narrows his eyes at him, venom clear in his gaze. “Shut the up, Choi,” he shoots back, adjusting his position a little and trying a brave face for the camera.

“You look constipated,” his oh-so-helpful photographer deadpans.

“Do you think I want to be here?” Key snaps, incredulous.

“Why are you even doing this in the first place?” Minho counters and his frown deepens.

Key huffs. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

He contemplates for a moment before giving in, looking away. “It’s for my lil’ freaks, okay?”

“Your what?” (Key thought Minho’s stupid eyebrows couldn’t get closer. He was wrong.)

“My fans, Minho, God.” He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly.

“Oh.” Yeah, oh, dickhead. “Well, they better appreciate the time and effort I put into this then,” Minho mutters.

Key’s eyes do another three-sixty. “Just hurry the up,” and with that, he puts on what he hopes is a more convincing smile. He reckons it must be because Minho finally, finally shuts his obnoxious mouth and actually snaps the shot.

“Okay, got it.”

Key sighs (as if the whole ordeal burdens him more than anyone) and does the one thing he’s been trying so hard to avoid.

He looks down.

For a moment, the platform beneath him disappears and there’s nothing between him and the bazillion-meter fall to the ground. Then his body reacts on instinct and in the blink of an eye, he’s off the floor and clinging to the nearest person (who just so happens to be Minho) so tightly he might suffocate.

“Why, hello there.” There’s so much smugness in Minho’s voice, Key can practically feel it drip from his mouth and right down on him.

“Shut up, Choi.”

(But Minho doesn’t shut up for three entire days after Key posts the picture. But it’s not Key’s fault Minho is unworthy of the credit; er should know when to keep his mouth shut.)

A/N: Sorry for any grammatical errors, I will proofread this sooner or later.