“Kim Kibum.”

Life is good.

“Can you move your big head? You’re blocking the screen.”

Life is really good.

“Please, I’m begging you.”

Life is amazing. He has everything he could possibly ever want: a decent-sized apartment, located in a nicer part of town, a job that he doesn’t despise. And now, three-hundred dollars added to his bank balance. Life is so amazing, he actually watches the movie Minho insisted on without dishing out any verbal complaints, even though it’s less than stellar.

The plot revolves around a prom queen, who’s currently in the midst of a high speed chase, donning a satin gown and Swarovski heels. She anxiously squirms in the passenger seat of a black and battered sedan, swiveling constantly between the driver’s side and the view out of the rear window and yelling explicatives at the driver so that he will speed the up.

The driver abides by her commands, thumping down on the accelerator in fear of both law enforcement and the shrewish prom queen. However, as they reach unprecedented speeds, they ram into a semi-truck in front of them. Cue the low budget CGI explosion that should have had a more than adverse effect on the passengers, but by some means, they emerge from the smoke glowing green.

“Kibum, I’m serious,” Minho groans, pressing pause right when the prom queen discovers that she’s been transformed into an immortal being. He chucks the remote at Kibum’s head, but it narrowly misses, flying past his ear and landing beside his calf. “I really don’t understand why you feel the need to sit on the ground when you can sit on the couch, but if you’re going to stay here, can you just move your head to the side? I’m about to get on my knees at this point.”

He really doesn’t understand why Minho’s so insistent; with how atrocious this movie is, Kibum doesn’t know why Minho really needs a clear view of the screen.

“Ew,” Kibum grimaces, his nose crinkling. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t want you to be on your knees for me.”

“Of course that’s the thing you choose to hear.” Kibum doesn’t miss Minho’s pointed usage of the word choose, and he squints intently at Minho. Minho makes a sound of frustration, narrowing his eyes in retaliation, but makes no move to retrieve the remote. They stay in their respective places, the silence between them stale with no buzz of movie dialogue in the background to diffuse it.

“Actually, do you have plans today?” Minho asks, his voice faltering.

“No. Why?” Kibum arches an eyebrow at Minho, who shrugs.

“Taemin and Jonghyun might come over later, so I was wondering if you could—” Minho mutters, his eyes downcast while he picks at a loose thread on his jeans.

“So you hate me,” Kibum counters with a frown, one second away from throwing the remote back at Minho.

“That’s not at all what I said.”

“No?” Kibum knits his eyebrows together. “Then, say it. I love you, Kibum.”

“Okay,” Minho acquiesces easily, like he doesn’t even need to ponder the thought. “Should I get on my knees this time, then?” He leans forward, fluttering his eyelashes seductively.

The sheer unexpectedness of Minho’s response has Kibum freezing in place, his eyes wide and bulging out of their sockets. “You are a sick human, Choi Minho. A sick, sick human.”

At this, Minho drops his suggestive get-up, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, exasperated. “Can’t you just..”

“Can’t I just..?”

“Can’t you just..” Minho tapers off, swinging his arms like an air traffic controller who gets paid in tips.

“Just spit it out.”

“Can’t you get your sugar daddy to do something with you today?” Minho splutters, hiding his burning face in his hands once the words reach his own ears.

“You act like I don’t have other friends.”

“Because you don’t,” Minho states. There’s a reason why the words roll off of Minho’s tongue so easily. The reason… Kibum would preferably not admit why.

“Oh, you actually want me out,” Kibum says, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. On the previous rare occasions that Minho insisted Kibum leave the apartment, it usually resulted in either Kibum stalking off to his bedroom or pity. Better known as, tagging along with Minho. It didn’t happen enough to be considered a habit, but it was still something.

“That’s not what I meant, but I mean, you two seemed to get along last Friday, so..” He trails off suggestively.

Strange. This isn’t a sight that he’s used to seeing when envisioning Minho, who on most days, is a diligent and composed individual. Current Minho, though, is fumbling with his hands, intertwining his fingers and cracking each knuckle, even if there’s no satisfying pop that comes from it.

Kibum might have mentioned two things about last Friday with Jinki at most. There was no reason to disclose that much; Minho hadn’t asked when he came home that night, and Kibum had only retold a simplified version at Taemin’s insistence.

He knows that the lack of questions on Minho’s part was because of his wariness towards Jinki and the sugar-daddy concept as a whole. If he were to list every minor grievance Minho had against Jinki, it would be the length of Minho’s grievances against Kibum and then some.

So it’s strange. Very strange.

“No. That’s exactly what you meant.”

“Okay,” Minho resigns, reclining back against the couch. “So it is. And what about it?”

He fixes a stern gaze at Minho before collapsing his chest with a melodramatic sigh. “We really used to be the best of friends, Choi Minho.”

“That’s not even tr—”

“And then!” Kibum raises his voice to a near-shout. “Taemin came along, and now you’re kicking me out of my own house. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Do you even listen to me? I said Taemin and Jonghyun were coming.” Kibum knows his glare is relentless, but Minho continues with his inquiry, tilting his head skeptically. “What are you implying?”

“You didn’t tell me that you and Taemin were..” He wiggles his eyebrows in an evocative dance, ignoring the first half of what Minho said. “You know.”

One wrong word from Kibum and Minho will launch a throw pillow right at Kibum’s face. From Kibum’s peripherals, he can already see Minho inching his arm out to the side, fingers curling around the corner of the pillow with a threatening grip, on guard until Kibum exposes a vulnerable spot. Kibum can’t blame him; the pillow is a good choice—the one with reversible sequins that he got as a gag gift would probably deal satisfying damage. It’s the perfect projectile, waiting in the wings for its time to shine, given enough force and the perfect angle.

Kibum squints, the cause behind Minho’s defensiveness piecing itself together bit by bit. He has always had an inkling in regards to Minho’s relationship status, especially considering the way he acted whenever Taemin was around, but his suspicions only grow as Minho continues to duck and evade.

“Do you have anything else to say?” Minho pipes up with a triumphant smirk, the pillow resting in his hands.

“Yes, actually. I do,” Kibum says, watching the smile gradually slide off Minho’s face as he speaks. “So you and Taemin—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Instead, he’s whacked down by the scratchy pillow, the impact causing his back to flatten on the ground—an especially uncomfortable feeling given that the floor is made of concrete and poorly-padded by a scruffy rug. Kibum groans from the discomfort, the only thing in his line of sight now being the popcorn ceiling. Accepting his new position on the floor, he resorts to counting the individual granules etched into the ceiling and splays his body out on the rug. Then, with his arms and legs outstretched, he begins to sweep his limbs back and forth, the motion reminiscent of when he used to make snow angels in elementary school.

After a solid minute, a tingling sensation starts to develop on his forearms, his skin red and bordering on raw from the friction. He peels his back off of the ground and sits on his calves, peering down at the faint etchings of his body on the rug.

Kibum had gotten this rug when he and Minho first moved in, choosing the one that had been the most pleasing visually. Granted, the pickings at the thrift store were slim; the choices were between a rug that looked like the love child between a lampshade and a Christmas sweater, and this muted green rug, probably fluffy when the original owners had purchased it. But it had definitely seen better days, now discolored and scratchy after years of use.

With a disappointed frown, he rubs his palm against the green and yellow fibers—matted and dull—and smooths down any lingering imprints of his body.

Something in his head clicks.

“You know what,” Kibum says to Minho, who has been observing Kibum with a judgmental glint the entire time. “I actually will get out of your hair for the day.”

“Really,” Minho says, unimpressed.

“Really,” Kibum confirms with a nod, shooting a contrived beam at Minho. “Are you happy now?”

“I guess,” Minho shrugs, feigning disinterest, as if he hadn’t practically been begging for Kibum to leave just moments ago.

“How enthusiastic.”

“Yay! You’re leaving and I won’t have to deal with you for a couple of hours,” Minho squeals, pumping his fist into the air. The cheer in his tone is starkly inconsistent with the dead look in his eyes. “Does that make you feel better?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“But, just so you know, you kind of have good ideas sometimes,” Kibum points out, picking away at random strings and threads on the carpet.

Bemused, Minho furrows his brows. “Which one are you talking about?”

“The one where I ask my sugar daddy to buy me things,” Kibum replies matter-of-factly, scooping up the fibers he had ripped off and redistributing them evenly to camouflage the sparse patches.

“I—Okay,” Minho stutters out.

“Anyway,” Kibum steadies himself upright, groaning with exaggerated pain as he plants his legs onto the floor. “Have fun with Taemin,” he winks, scurrying off to his room before he can hear Minho retaliate. “And don’t on the couch!”

Me: hello.

Me: would you like to spend some time (and money) on yours truly

Lee Jinki: Depends

Lee Jinki: What are we buying?

Me: a museum

Lee Jinki: I’m intrigued

Lee Jinki: Elaborate…?

Me: you heard me

Me: there’s a museum down the street from where i live

Me: i have made it my life’s mission to take it down

Lee Jinki: What did the museum do to you

Me: when i was 9 years old i got left inside of one overnight

Me: still haunts me to this day

Lee Jinki: Oh

Lee Jinki: That’s

Lee Jinki: I’m sorry to hear that…?

Me: yeah i even had to meet owen wilson

Me: shivers down my spine thinking about that

Me: what a man

Lee Jinki: ...

Lee Jinki: You’re ing awful

Lee Jinki: I hate you

Me: yes i was in fact an extra in night at the museum

Me: the second installment

Me: and no you don’t

Me: all we have in the world is each other

Me: so let’s go all out daddy

Me: hey Jinki

Me: Jinkle <3333

Lee Jinki: You’re next on my hitlist

Lee Jinki: But fine

Lee Jinki: Be ready in 25

“Hey, Kibum? Why the are we here?”

Kibum looks up from where he’s squatting as his palm brushes over a wool rug probably worth more than his and Minho’s combined monthly salary. Under him is a thick stack of carpets, creating a pseudo-platform that lifts him four or five inches off of the ground.

He points down, a fawn colored rug lying under the soles of his shoes. “It’s a rug store,” he says slowly. “What else would you do in a rug store?”

“I didn’t even know they had stores dedicated to rugs,” is Jinki’s mumbled admission as he shuffles over to join Kibum on the stack.

“Did you think that they just appeared out of thin air?” Kibum asks as his hand continues to pet the rug, soft and velvety to the touch.

Jinki frowns, his hand creeping towards Kibum’s, tentative fingertips brushing over the fibers. “It’s like one of those things that you don’t think about. Nobody ever thinks, oh, where do people buy rugs. They just… exist,” he says, eyes captivated by the illusion of the rug changing colors as the fibers flatten in opposing directions. “Why do you need a rug?”

Need was a stretch. This was more of a spur of the moment decision on Kibum’s part, so he doesn’t need a new rug, per say. But it definitely wouldn’t hurt.

To be quite honest, Kibum had been satisfied with the terms of their agreement. He couldn’t really say anything else on the matter; he had an extra couple hundred dollars in his bank account to spare, with only the promise of more to come. But Jinki had insisted earlier that week that he would buy anything—within reason—for Kibum, as well as pay for the time he spent at their usual work outings. To fully adopt his sugar daddy persona. Or to show his gratitude. Same difference.

Should Kibum just have let it slide, thank Jinki for his generosity, but kindly decline? Yes.

Does he do what he should all of the time? Definitely not.

If there’s one thing that he can do without feeling immense shame in regards to his purchasing habits, it’s buying the things that aren’t necessary for survival, but are necessary to boosting his happiness and standard of living. The greenish mat-like rug sitting in his living room hadn’t been increasing his standard of living. Probably the opposite, if anything.

“Because,” he replies, rising onto his feet and hopping off the meager platform. “I heard that carpets were good for flying. That’s my first reason.”

Jinki scratches the back of his neck. “Okay Aladdin. How’s that going for you?”

“Pretty good, actually,” Kibum remarks with a contemplative nod. “I recently won a Nobel Prize for discovering the concept of flight.”

“Birds are ting on your future grave as we speak,” Jinki scoffs. “The Wright brothers too. Their ghosts haunt you every night while you sleep.”

“Excuse me. They actually thanked me during the award ceremony,” Kibum corrects him and boops the tip of Jinki’s nose, causing him to flinch back violently.

“Who? The Wright brothers?”

“No, the birds,” Kibum admits with a defeated sigh. “The Wright brothers actually filed a lawsuit against me for stealing the driving force behind their invention. It was called an airplane, or something? I don’t know. I hadn’t heard of it before then.”

Jinki nods pensively, weaving through the display of rugs behind Kibum. “And the second reason?”

“I gotta have my carpet match the drapes.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Well, what color is the carpet right now?”

Kibum turns to Jinki, mouth grotesquely hinged open. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re ing disgusting?”

Another beat of silence. Jinki innocently his head to the side.

“No? Well, you’re ing disgusting.”

They venture further into the store, devoid of any customers except for an elderly couple on the side who are animatedly conversing with an overzealous sales associate—something about paying for their rug in monthly installments.

An archway opening steers them into a gallery walk of rugs, each hanging from a rod on the ceiling. It’s as if they’re wandering through a heaping number of neutral-toned shower curtains, except there are hefty price tags taped on the backs of each.

“I’m actually kind of glad you asked me to come with you today,” Jinki says as they walk, lagging a single step behind Kibum.

Kibum hums, trailing his hands along dangling edges, observantly flipping through the displays, though he viscerally cringes whenever the price tag comes into view. The amount of zeros serves as a pleasant reminder as to why he had bought his old rug at the thrift store many moons ago, along with why he never cared to replace it even though the living room has been in dire need of change ever since he had brought it home.

“Joon kept asking me about you after last Friday,” Jinki continues, looking at each rug after Kibum pushes it aside with a hesitant hand, the sound of the rings scraping against the metal rod unpleasant to his ears. “I know you said that it seemed like he was convinced, but I don’t know if that’s actually true because he wouldn’t leave me alone over the weekend. Either way, it made me realize that I didn’t really plan this through.”

“Oh, so now you realize, but only after Joon said something. What happened to your trust in me?” Kibum chuckles, observing another set of rugs with careful eyes. The one currently in his hands has elaborate patterns of off-white and cerulean swirls. Pretty, if he had been looking at a teacup.

“Who said I ever trusted you?”

Kibum gasps scandalously. “No trust in your very own sugar baby boyfriend?”

Jinki casts him a sidelong glance. “Anyway...”

“I feel like I should be offended by that,” Kibum grumbles, but doesn’t push it further. “What’d he ask though?”

“Like about our first date and..” Jinki trails off, thumbing the blue and white material. “I just said we went to an art museum. That’s kind of similar to this, right?”

Kibum pauses, his hands lingering on the corner of a rug. He glances around, turning his head from side to side to check if he’s missing anything. What meets his eyes is still just a rug store, complete with fluorescent lights, laminate floors, and lingering asbestos in the air ducts.

“This is your version of an art museum?” He asks incredulously.

“You get my point,” Jinki mumbles shyly.

“No I don’t,” Kibum says with an accompanying shake of his head. “Explain.”

“Because,” Jinki mutters, equating something to something else with animated gestures of his hands in the air. “Rugs, art. Kind of?” He says, uncertain.

“Sure.”

“Leedmade and everything. Probably, I think?”

Definitely, with that price tag.

“Sure,” Kibum says again with a nod. “Is that all?”

“And you, you’re a—”

“And I’m going to stop you right there,” Kibum loudly interrupts before Jinki can get in another word.

“And you’re ar—” Jinki starts up again after a prolonged silence.

“Don’t do this.” Kibum turns to Jinki and fixes him with a stern stare—a warning. “You’re stronger than this.”

Jinki gulps. “You’re art baby,” he rushes out in one breath, topping it off with a wink—one that really comes out more of a regular blink—splotches of red coloring his face as he concludes.

Kibum’s shoulders fall in resignation.

“Hey, but it’s true,” Jinki pipes up. “You dance and everything. That’s an art in and of itself.”

A smile begins to form on Kibum’s lips, but he lets out a lighthearted scoff