cw for this chapter: referenced cheating, toxic past relationships

Pigs could fly tomorrow and somehow, the event would still surprise Kibum less than this.

“What the are you doing here at 9 in the morning?”

“Good morning,” Taemin says, as chipper as ever. He’s slumped over the kitchen island, his elbows propped up on the granite countertop. A box of half-eaten corn flakes occupies one of his hands. The other hand moves to grab fistfulls of cereal that Taemin promptly shovels into his gaping mouth, shards of processed dried corn falling from his fingertips as he does.

If Minho could see the atrocity Taemin is making of their newly mopped tile floor, he would probably throw a fit.

“Don’t make me change the lock,” Kibum innocuously warns, his voice still raspy from sleep. At least twice a week, he makes this threat, but he’s never followed through with it, likely because he can’t be bothered to learn how screwdrivers and locks work.

“You would never,” Taemin gasps through a mouthful of cereal, affronted. “And you can’t get rid of me that easily. I’d learn how to pick the lock.”

“Like that worked so well for you last time,” Kibum snorts. “I haven’t forgotten, you know.”

“When will you shut up about that? I was drunk,” Taemin whines defensively, slamming the box onto the counter. The cereal inside rattles from the impact. “I know the difference between a paperclip and a safety pin.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Kibum dismisses, pressing down on his eyelids in a feeble attempt to de-puff them. “Should I even ask you why you’re here?”

“I’m eating breakfast,” Taemin says, waving the box in the air.

“And you couldn’t do that at your own apartment because...?”

Taemin just shrugs. “It’s easier to stay here and eat, so I was like, why not? It’s like the hierarchy of needs; I have to fulfill the needs at the bottom before I can do anything at home.” Then, he pouts, his bottom lip protruding. “You know that, right? You wouldn’t kick me out just to make me suffer.”

Kibum rolls his eyes. “I think you need to get a grip.”

“Plus, all I had at my house was some moldy bread,” Taemin continues, his eyes downcast like a kicked puppy while the whine in his voice escalates. “You wouldn’t want me to eat that and die, would you? Would you?!”

“I wonder why,” Kibum deadpans. “I really wonder… How could that bread have gone moldy so fast? Wait!” Mouth agape, he holds his pointer finger up to the sky. “Is it because maybe. Just hear me out, but maybe, you’re never home to eat it in the first place?”

Taemin offers no response, instead aligning his lips with the flap of the box. He tilts his head back, a cascade of cereal pouring into his mouth.

“And you chose to eat corn flakes?” Kibum asks. “Out of everything?”

Taemin halts his movements. “Is this your way of offering me food?” He skeptically asks, each word punctuated by the crunch of dry cereal.

“I’m just saying,” Kibum tells him, reaching for the fruit bowl—filled with only two bananas, overripe and unsalvageable—sitting in the middle of the counter. It’s a pathetic attempt at keeping fresh produce in the apartment, especially when they rarely eat it, he knows. But hey, at least it’s an attempt. “Look, we have bananas.”

“Are you trying to kill me?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” But Kibum gingerly places the banana into the bowl anyway, the smell of fermented fruit on his hands tickling his nostrils, and ambles towards the fridge. “And we have bagels too,” he says, exerting his best effort on the fridge handle. The fridge jerks forward, the sheer force of it jolting him awake.

The fridge is relatively stocked, shelved with all of the healthy and off-brand nonsense that Minho’s a fan of (or pretends to be; he and Minho have seen more takeout boxes than ceramic plates in the past couple of months), along with Kibum’s occasional apple or two. But what he’s looking for has been sitting prettily on one of the fridge door compartments since the weekend: a six pack of blueberry bagels.

To his dismay, there aren’t even any bagels left; the only thing that remains is the empty bag with a mouthwatering picture of a toasted bagel printed on it, reminding him of what could’ve been.

“The happened to my last bagel?” Kibum growls, snatching the bag out of the fridge and crumpling it in one swift swoop.

“Minho and I split it earlier.” Taemin has the audacity to look at least a little guilty.

“You guys couldn’t even be bothered to throw out the damn wrapper,” he scowls, the plastic bag acting as a stress ball’s wimpier cousin in his hands. “Those were my favorite too, you er.”

“You almost offered!” Taemin squeals.

“When I thought there was more than one?” Kibum screeches. “And give me that.” He swipes the box of corn flakes from Taemin’s insatiable grip. “Where is Minho, by the way?”

Taemin shrugs, plucking the banana from earlier out of the bowl. He peels it without concern for the color or smell, all of his prior complaints flying out the window. “He went to work like an hour ago,” Taemin informs him, his words muffled by the sticky banana in his mouth.

“And you’re still here?” Kibum sighs, tossing the bag in the direction of the trash can. He misses and groans even louder to try and curb his frustrations.

“I stayed over last night.”

“You two are good now?” Kibum asks skeptically, sticking his hand into the near empty box of corn flakes. The shirt that Taemin is dressed in answers the question before words can. It’s one that Kibum would recognize anywhere: baby blue, embroidered block letters, and oversized to the point that it hangs at Taemin’s thighs. But most of all, it’s Minho’s favorite sleep shirt.

“We were always fine,” Taemin answers flippantly. “I had a lapse in my emotions the other day. Just pretend you never saw me like that.”

“If you say so…” Kibum trails off, rolling his eyes.

“You know, I always feel like I can never convince you, no matter what I say,” Taemin asserts. “We’re fine. We talked about it, and he knows that I can’t afford to be in a relationship right now and he’s okay with that. We’re just fuc—”

“Okay!” Kibum interrupts, his voice booming through the kitchen. “No more conversations about ing at the table.”

“You were the one who asked?”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Kibum refutes, narrowing his eyes menacingly. “I never asked if you two each other off in your free time.”

Taemin fixes him with an unamused stare, drilling holes into Kibum’s face. “You just made it so much worse for yourself than I ever did.”

“I have an overwhelming urge to dump this entire box of cereal on you, Lee Taemin.” Kibum narrows his eyes even further, clenching the box so tight that it crunches corn flakes as it caves inward and the tips of his fingers turn white.

Taemin sticks out his tongue. “Don’t you have work in an hour?”

"I know what you're trying to do, and it's not working," Kibum says, snaking a hand into the box, his fingers grazing the sharp edges of cereal. "I will throw this box at you."

"You wouldn't dare," Taemin challenges with a smirk.

Kibum's hands fumble with the pieces, his fingers unintentionally smashing the cereal into a mixture of coarse bits and loose powder. To avoid adding to the mess of crumbs on the ground, he settles on seizing a single piece and holding it in between his fingers; Taemin a testing eyebrow at him.

He chucks it at Taemin, aiming for nowhere in particular. But somehow, Taemin extends his neck, with his mouth stretched wide open. The corn flake lands directly inside his mouth, and Taemin chews on it for much longer than a single corn flake should be chewed on.

Then he swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing with the gulp, and sticks out his clean tongue in victory.

"When will we get out of here?" Kibum whines, clambering into one of the stiff plastic break room chairs, his arms laden with stacks of paperwork. "I don’t want to do this anymore."

"Oh, so you heard about Haerin and Jaewoo," Wooyoung says, settling down beside him and peering at the heaps of paper in front of Kibum. "Don't worry, I understand."

Kibum wrinkles his nose in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"They were ing in Studio B earlier," Wooyoung supplies as an answer, his face indifferent even though he says the words with disgust. "In front of the mirrors, no less."

Kibum could have gone his whole life without knowing that specific piece of information. "The mirrors?"

"Yeah," Wooyoung confirms with a small nod. A delayed grimace appears across his face; Kibum supposes that’s what first-hand encounters and flashbulb memories will do to a person.

“Did you really have to tell me that?” Kibum groans, the papers in front of him becoming more dreadful by the second. “Was that really necessary for me to know?”

“Is that not what you were talking about…?”

“It really wasn’t,” Kibum shakes his head, reverting his attention to the papers. Alphabetical order. He’s supposed to sort each registration form in alphabetical order by last name. He doesn’t think he can even recite the alphabet at this point, much less in order.

“Well if I had to see it, the least you could do is hear me talk about it,” Wooyoung says, laying down his semi-filled water bottle on its side. He spins it, enraptured by the way it pinwheels across the table—until it sends a portion of Kibum’s half-assed alphabetized stack into the air, sheets of paper creating the likes of a heaven-sent downpour.

“That’s not how this works,” Kibum sighs, his shoulders sagging as he lugs himself off the chair, trudging across the room to gather the papers back into a haphazard stack.

"This is how this works, actually," Wooyoung tells him, sitting comfortably as he watches Kibum struggle with the sheets, not bothering to assist him even though it had technically been his fault. "Don't you remember when you told me about T—"

"Shut up, please," Kibum pleads, scrambling back into his chair. "That was my mistake."

"It’s a taste of your own medicine."

Kibum looks grimly at Wooyoung, who's ardently unaware of his stare. After he returns his gaze to the papers, he lets out the World's Longest Sigh and drifts back to ordering them, mentally reciting the alphabet song as he does. "Isn't this supposed to be your job?"

Wooyoung turns the cap on his bottle, taking a lengthy sip. "Yeah."

"So why am I the one doing it?"

"Because I already suffered through my share of emotional distress today."

"And how long are you going to be using that excuse?"

"For at least the next twenty-four hours," Wooyoung answers with an amused smirk. “But look, if you’re opening your own studio, it’s actually good practice to do more paperwork, right?”

“What?”

“You didn’t think that you would just be frolicking around all day once you opened your studio, did you?” Wooyoung asks, concern flourishing over his features.

Kibum rolls his eyes, his subconscious somehow deciding that W comes before V, and once again, the papers have been jumbled into disorder. Of course he hadn’t been ignorant to the fact that he had to fill out heaps of forms and papers if he opened—no—When he opened his studio.

(Taemin had forcefed him tips on how to incorporate more optimism in the form of a bull self-help book years ago. The back of the cover had a picture of the author, a young man around Kibum’s age, who was enlightened by his trip to the top of the Alps.

That was when Kibum had decided that a parallel universe did exist, because he sure as hell wasn’t going to be climbing a mountain or collecting enough insight to write a two-hundred page book at his age. Not in one year either, or ten years. Or ever.

Regardless of how awful the actual advice had been, the mountain story sure gave the author some ethos, because Kibum’s still following the advice to this day.)

But of course he hadn’t been ignorant to the fact that he had mounds and mounds of papers to sort and lines to sign when he opened his studio. There’s a difference, however, between doing something that puts him one step closer to his life-long dream, and doing something because his boss has loaded Kibum’s metaphorical plate and literal arms with more and more papers, obligations, and a string of excuses.

Good practice though? Something about that sounds awfully similar to the reason why he had made out with Jinki in front of a dumpster, and then, in front of his apartment door. Like successfully riding a bicycle for the first time, he doesn’t just forget how to kiss someone. Once had been enough—for practice. The second time? Excusable, if he hadn’t let it last for as long as it did.

But dwelling on the topic will become his enemy, so he doesn’t let the thought stew in his head for any longer.

"Of course not," Kibum huffs. “But Sihyun keeps giving me your work to do, which by the way, is still your work, and I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“Yeah well,” Wooyoung replies, inconsiderate of Kibum’s suffering and despair. “We’ll be out of here soon enough.”

“If I can even find a studio space at this point,” Kibum groans, thwacking a manila folder on the table. “Did you know that people would rather lease to Mom and Pop’s tenth bakery than to someone opening a dance studio?”

“A scone does sound kind of good right now,” Wooyoung nods in contemplation.

“Then you can stay here and endure all of the mirror ing by yourself,” says Kibum, forcefully aligning a stack of papers with a smack.

Lee Jinki: Hey

Lee Jinki: Do you wanna have lunch with me today?

Lee Jinki: And Joon and Yonghwa

Lee Jinki: Their idea

Lee Jinki: It’s nothing big though so don’t feel pressured to say yes

Me: will they hire me if i say yes?

Lee Jinki: What are some of your strengths and weaknesses?

Me: weaknesses?

Me: i have none actually

Me: strengths

Me: i can fit my fist in my mouth

Lee Jinki: Uh

Lee Jinki: That’s good to know

Lee Jinki: And I just heard back from HR

Lee Jinki: You start next Monday!

Me: that’s great!

Me: i can finally tell my boss to off <3

Lee Jinki: Maybe don’t do that

Lee Jinki: HR said they’ll fire you

Me: i thought rich people didn’t get fired

Me: just got put on leave of absences

Lee Jinki: Well are you rich?

Me: haha you’re so y

Me: i’ll see you at noon <333

…

A silhouette sharpens as it approaches Kibum—who’s loitering outside of Jinki’s appointed restaurant—and as the figure comes closer, it becomes increasingly more apparent that it’s Jinki, dressed in a gray suit, a pressed white shirt underneath the blazer.

Kibum, on the other hand, is thankful that Jinki isn’t wearing a tie along with the rest of the suit, although the difference in formality between tie and no tie would be next to nothing. Still, Kibum’s outfit is only borderline business casual, if business casual were defined solely by the presence of a collared button up.

There’s always a few seconds of delay—as Kibum watches the figure approach him—when he fights his internal battle. It’s paired with an unusual rolling in his stomach as he contemplates staying put or meeting Jinki somewhere in the middle. The decision is made for him when Jinki magically appears before him.

“Hey,” Jinki greets him, a modest smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Hello,” Kibum replies with his lips pursed, the volume of his voice much softer than he had intended.

“Joon and Yonghwa said they’ll be here soon,” Jinki chuckles, fishing for his phone out of his pocket. He unlocks it and scrolls through a series of text messages. “Probably a couple minutes, actually. Do you want to wait here or wait inside?”

“Here’s fine,” Kibum shrugs, but regret floods him the second the words leave his lips. Standing outside implies actually standing outside, whereas inside has cushioned chairs and air conditioning awaiting him.

“Sure,” Jinki nods before he can backtrack on his decision, pocketing his phone. Meanwhile, the narrow smile stays plastered to his face.

A couple minutes, as Jinki had insisted, turns into ten minutes of dawdling in front of revolving doors, people bustling in and out during the rush of lunch hour, and no sign of Joon or Yonghwa anywhere.

“Why didn’t they just come with you?” Kibum asks once their wait time hits its eleventh minute.

“They were busy,” Jinki answers, impatiently tapping his foot on the sidewalk. “Told me not to keep you waiting.”

“I see...” Kibum drags out his words, not entirely convinced by Jinki’s explanation. “Are you sure they’re not...?”

“I can guarantee that they’re not,” Jinki sighs, expectantly clicking on the power button of his phone, dimming and brightening the screen every half second. “Please stop putting that image in my mind.”

“As you wish,” Kibum says as he takes in Jinki’s uninviting demeanor: his shoulders hunched and lips pressed into a thin line.

When Jinki’s phone finally buzzes, it’s a text notification that lights up the screen. Jinki’s face brightens with expectation, but it’s quickly replaced by a frown, his face falling back to his previous expression.

“They ditched us,” Jinki mutters, as if talking himself out of disbelief, and clears his throat. “I can’t believe they dragged you all the way out here only for them to cancel on us.”

Kibum just lets out a breathy chuckle, turning around to eye the restaurant behind him. “It’s still a good time to follow through on your promise though,” he suggests.

Jinki draws his eyebrows together. “What promise?”

“You promised to take me somewhere nicer next time,” Kibum pouts. “McDonald’s, remember…?”

Jinki’s eyes widen when realization dawns upon him. “Right…”

Kibum snickers, gently guiding Jinki towards the entrance, entangling their fingers in the process. They make their way inside the restaurant, where inside lighting is subdued to a warm glow and an umber carpet covers the floor. Fortunately—despite being underdressed—he doesn’t feel too out of place as a waitress leads them to a small, rectangular table surrounded by taupe tufted chairs, a fawn tablecloth draped over the surface.

The waitress scurries off with the promise to bring back water, an amiable smile on her face, but Kibum doesn’t touch the menu afterward. Rather, he looks to Jinki, whose despondency is thinly-veiled behind his eyes, unfocused and glazing over even as he clearly attempts to read the menu.

Jinki isn’t b with his usual mirth, Kibum can see that much, but that doesn’t stop him from at least trying to make conversation.

“This is nice,” Kibum remarks, tracing the edge of the napkin and its silverware rolled inside.

“It is,” Jinki agrees, placing the menu down on the table. “We frequent this place a lot for wor—”

Jinki’s sentence is disrupted by the cacophony of glass shattering, clanging of aluminum, and a shrill scream. Kibum whips his head around, only to find that the poor bartender is close to falling in a split position, cradling a couple liquor bottles in her arms that would have been threatening to fall otherwise. One of the bar shelves has been displaced into a teetering diagonal, and she’s unable to keep everything intact with only two arms—another bottle is soon free falling from the mahogany shelf.

A swarm of waitstaff rush to her assistance, though they have to first tiptoe over fragments of broken glass and the liquid that’s trickling out of cracked bottles to reach her.

“Maybe I spoke too soon,” Kibum mutters as he skims the menu, wincing at the sound of yet another bottle shattering.

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